You Could Have Told Me

by Karin-Sama3

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

42. Trust Issues

Author's Note: Hello again. Miss me? I missed you. I've got a chapter for you, extra long and everything, but I wanted to explain myself first. I know it's going to seem like I'm stringing you along on purpose, but I promise, I am not. If I were to skip the things that happen in this chapter and a little bit of what will happen in the next one, then I assure you when Lance and Keith get together you will get the sensation that it was forced and wrong and weird. It will not be as satisfying if I rush it. And since I haven't cut any corners on this thing yet and I don't plan to now and I want everything to feel so right and perfect when we get there, I'm just asking you to trust me on this. If I rushed it or skipped it, you wouldn't like it as much. Hang in there.

Chapter Forty-Two: Trust Issues

Before Lance could be discharged, there was a lengthy list of things that needed to happen. He forced himself to eat the hospital's breakfast and lunch. He had to prove that his digestive system was functioning like it was supposed to. He allowed Dr. Coran to check his incision sites again, take him for another walk, and go over the instructions for after he left – which felt more like a miniature exam than a conversation as Coran mostly quizzed Lance on what he could and couldn't do once he was no longer under the hospital's care. Lance answered all his questions capably. He could shower but not bathe. He could eat whatever sounded good, but he should avoid spicy foods and focus on meals with high fiber content. And he was to return to the hospital immediately if he noticed any bleeding, dizziness, nausea, weakness, fever, on and on with the symptoms Lance should monitor himself for once he was on his own. Dr. Coran made Lance repeat the list more than once, as if emphasizing to him that he wasn't kidding. As if Lance didn't understand how serious the complications could be.

There was quite a bit of discussion about his temperature, which had come into the normal range after his bout of hypothermia and blood loss but was definitely on the lowest end of normal. It seemed someone came at him with a thermometer every thirty minutes. A thermometer and a heated blanket, but neither made much difference. Lance couldn't get warm, but it wasn't enough of a concern to prevent him from leaving.

In fact, the biggest challenge to getting out of the hospital turned out to be speaking to Dr. Gregory Bolton. He arrived at Lance's room in the early afternoon, his presence completely unassuming. There was nothing striking about him, except maybe the blue Converse shoes he wore with his slacks and checked collared shirt. He carried a long, navy coat over his arm, as though he were just popping in to check on Lance on his way home. Or maybe he'd come over here as a special favor to Angelique. Perhaps he didn't normally leave his office for sessions. Lance was relieved that it was Dr. Delacroix's "shift" to be in the room with him when Dr. Bolton came, as she took it upon herself to greet him.

From the way she shook his hand, Lance could tell that Dr. Bolton was one of the few colleagues she trusted. That she'd known him a long time, and she seemed eager to pull him over to where Lance was sitting on the hospital bed, cross-legged and apprehensive, with about three blankets on him. Dr. Bolton introduced himself exactly the way Lance thought a therapist would talk. He wasn't sure if he liked that because he'd expected it or he hated it because . . . no, he couldn't hate it. He had to give this a fair chance. Like taking an antibiotic. Something that worked invisibly, that had to be started on faith.

"Hello, Lance," Dr. Bolton greeted him, reaching down to shake hands with Lance too. "My name is Greg, and I'm a friend of Dr. Delacroix. She's told me a little about you, but I'd like to get to know you better. Would that be all right?"

Lance had no idea why but even a simple yes would not come out of his mouth with this man looking at him. He could only nod, noticing the expressions on both the doctors' faces. Angelique seemed concerned, as though worried that Lance wasn't going to cooperate after all. Though that wasn't what he was doing. He wasn't being difficult on purpose. Greg looked too kind, which was, of course, the whole problem with not being able to talk in the first place.

Dr. Delacroix remained standing, saying something about stepping out for a bit to give them some privacy. Because that's how this scene played. One-on-one with your therapist. Him with his clipboard and Lance lying prone and exposed on his back like a specimen about to be dissected. Except that wasn't going to work; he wouldn't be able to do that. Not alone.

"Doña," her nickname flew out of him as she turned to leave the room, and he couldn't believe what he'd just done. As though he hadn't wasted enough of her time. As if she didn't have anything better to do than sit with him while Dr. Bolton stripped him to his soul. Did he really want her to stay and see that? She paused to consider him over her shoulder, and her face softened as she realized why he'd called to her. What he was asking her to do. She almost looked affectionate.

"Would it help you if I stayed?" She confirmed, accurately reading him. He nodded again, relieved to see that it seemed to please her. She allowed Dr. Bolton to have the reclining seat, taking instead the less comfortable wooden chair that she pulled up close to Lance, offering support by proximity alone. Lance still wasn't sure why he wanted her here, though now there was no denying that he did actually want her to be present. Part of it could be that he didn't want to be left alone with this stranger, but Lance wondered if maybe it was because he just didn't want to keep secrets from Angelique anymore. He'd done it long enough, and she'd done so much for him. Maybe it was time for her to know everything. She seemed to want to.

"Ok," Greg accepted the unconventional arrangement with professional grace. It probably wasn't often that he did therapy sessions in the presence of his client's boss, but since when had Lance ever done anything the conventional way? "Then maybe the first question could be how you two started working together?"

Lance glanced at Angelique, who made a gesture that clearly meant that even though she would stay by his side, she would not answer any of these questions. It was up to him to give his own point of view. He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the afghan draped over his knees, comforting himself with the familiarity of the stitch pattern.

"That's an interesting story, actually," Lance started, and then forced himself to tell it. The whole thing – spilled coffee in her office, Keith's IV in the ambulance, and everything. At one point, hearing Lance's perspective about their situation made Angelique laugh, a fresh, melodic sound that reminded Lance of the wind chimes that hung from her porch. He didn't think he'd ever heard her laugh before. He liked it.

Greg asked more questions about Lance and his relationship with Angelique and Fritz, his family in Cuba, his life in general. None of them were too serious, and Greg maintained a friendly, open tone for the entire duration of the session. Lance found some of his questions easy to answer, especially ones about the ER or his classes, the happier memories of his childhood, but others proved almost impossible to talk about. Lance's heart still had chains on it, gag orders on certain topics.

He could tell Greg about his father's death but not Rachel's. He could talk about Keith from a medical point of view but not from an emotional one. He could gush about Allura, Hunk, and Pidge at length, but he couldn't say a single thing about Spencer, Damien, or Lindsay. It wasn't even that he didn't want to. He didn't mean to keep secrets. He was doing his best to cooperate, but he physically couldn't force any words out. It amazed and frustrated him at the same time. How were some of these things impossible to say?

Greg knew; Lance could see that he did. The way he lifted the corner of his mouth just slightly when Lance answered a question differently because the true response was ineffable for him. But he didn't push. He didn't really seem to have any motive or agenda more than what he'd said when he arrived. All the questions he asked, all the times he let Lance redirect the conversation; it really did seem like he was just getting to know him better. Lance wasn't sure about it, but since their chat was staying within the realms of his comfort zone, he wasn't about to ask any questions.

"I have an assignment for you," Dr. Bolton said lightly as their conversation drew to a close. Lance almost tensed. He knew this had been too easy. "It might be difficult, but I'd like you to try."

"What is it?" Lance wanted to know before he'd commit to anything, not quite ready to trust this man. And he'd had more than enough of difficult lately. Greg smiled like he knew that too.

"Dr. Delacroix tells me you're an exceptional med student," Greg began, and Lance looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap, pleased that she thought so but not wanting to show it. He waited for how that compliment would translate into an assignment. "For the next week, until I see you again, I want you to reverse your role and be an exceptional patient."

Lance glanced up, meeting Dr. Bolton's eyes for the first time. He looked a little younger than Angelique and wore glasses like Clark Kent.

"So what do I mean by that?" Dr. Bolton prompted, and now Lance could tell where he was going with this. "In your opinion, what makes the best patients stand out?"

"They communicate their problems," Lance responded, resisting the urge to grind his teeth around the words. He'd always been so bad at that.

"Exactly," Greg said, nodding. "They communicate their needs and follow treatment plans. Now, if you're to be the patient, then who are your doctors?"

Lance looked immediately to Angelique. Dr. Coran was out on the floor somewhere.

"Good, yes," Greg said, congratulatory. "Dr. Delacroix is certainly ready to support you with your physical needs while you recover, but she's not the only one available to help you. You have a whole team of specialists, and even though they aren't all officially doctors, I know they are all willing to assist when it comes to the needs you have that are more emotional than physical." Dr. Bolton paused, letting his meaning sink into Lance before continuing. Lance was having a hard time adjusting to the words "emotional needs." That wasn't a thing. Couldn't measure it, put it in a notebook. See it in a blood test. And yet. Lance had treated it before. In fact, he treated it as often as he tended physical wounds and illness. He'd treated it when he held that mother's hands after her daughter had been burned. When he knit the girl the cat with the patches on its face so they could match. When he rocked the NICU infants. When he spoke Spanish to Keith while he slept. He did it all the time, though he had never taken a class on it, listened to any lecture.

"I've noticed in our chat today that you have thoughts and emotions that you are not giving yourself permission to voice, maybe not even giving yourself permission to feel. And that's ok," Greg said the last words quickly, with assurance. "We just met, and you've blocked these things off for a reason. I wouldn't expect you to trust me with that at this point. And even though I know you care for your friends; I'm sensing you don't want to add any real or imagined stress to their lives by asking them to help you. But let me ask you something."

Lance didn't know if he wanted to be asked anything right now. They'd just been talking about radios and symposiums, books and Japan. Dr. Bolton had said emotional needs, and Lance didn't even know what those looked like for him. Didn't know what they were because he never really allowed himself to think about them. And how had Dr. Bolton accurately pulled all these deductions from such innocent conversation? Lance would be impressed if he weren't the subject of the observation, but even though he was hesitant, he obediently waited with head bowed for the question.

"If one of your friends called you, let's say Keith," Dr. Bolton suggested, and Lance tried not to glare at him. He'd have to pick Keith, wouldn't he? "If Keith called you right now and asked for your help, what would you say to him?"

That was hardly a fair question. Lance would do anything for Keith, at times to his own detriment. He risked a glance at Angelique as he stroked a finger over the red bracelet still tied securely around his wrist. Had she told Dr. Bolton something about Lance and Keith already? Or was he really just that good? Or maybe Lance was simply transparent.

"I'd drop everything for Keith," Lance finally admitted. He actually didn't mind saying that. It was one of the few things remaining in his life he was absolutely sure about. I'd stop the rotation of the Earth for Keith. I wish he'd ask me. "For whatever he needed." And I'd do the same for Allura. For Hunk or Pidge. Angelique or Fritz. To some extent, for any stranger that showed up at the ER and needed my skills. No hesitation.

"You would," Dr. Bolton said, making it sound faintly like another question. "Even though you're here in the hospital recovering from surgery; you'd still take a phone call from him? Help him? Wouldn't that be, I don't know, a little inconvenient for you? Don't you have enough going on already? What if he called in the middle of the night?"

"He has," Lance revealed, getting upset. What sort of questions were these? Lance felt defensive – like he had to prove something. "He did call me in the middle of the night, and I answered. And if he called me every day, whatever time of day, I'd still answer."

Except Lance didn't always answer. The long list of missed calls flat lined behind his eyes. Unanswered calls. Unanswered texts. Keith spiraling into that dark place of what should have been done. Keith had needed him then. But he'd been . . . lost. Shit, he was messed up. He had to do better.

"Why?" Dr. Bolton called him back with the hardest question he'd asked yet. "Why do you answer? Why do you help even when you're tired and have hard things you're already dealing with? Why allow him to add more problems to your life?"

"It's not like that," Lance insisted, something like challenge in his tone. What were they even talking about here? "He doesn't add problems to my life; he makes me forget that there ever were problems in my life. It's not hard or inconvenient to be there for him. I want him to ask me. I want to help him; he's my friend."

"That's right," Dr. Bolton praised him and confused him at the same time. "So let me explain the assignment."

Lance thought he might be shaking, but he didn't understand why. Because they were talking about Keith? Because his loyalty had been called into question? Was Dr. Delacroix still here? He didn't think he could lift his head to find out, but he suddenly felt alone. He thought they'd already gone over the assignment. He was supposed to be a model patient, so what was going on? He slipped his fingers through the holes in the afghan.

"Lance, are you familiar with the trust fall exercise?" Dr. Bolton asked, which didn't seem like an assignment either, but Lance didn't know what to think anymore.

"That thing where you close your eyes, cross your arms, and just . . . fall?" Lance guessed, off balance. He'd seen that done before. Pidge had shown him a video? Right? He'd never tried it.

"And a team catches you, yes," Dr. Bolton said, very calm.

"I don't think I can-," Lance started to protest. Surely, Dr. Bolton wouldn't ask him to do something like that? Not with two literal holes in his abdominal cavity?

"I'm not asking you to do a trust fall," Dr. Bolton clarified, his voice still light and kind. "But I would like you to try a trust call."

For some reason, when he said that all Lance could hear was Keith in his head – specifically the words "weird therapy shit" and he wanted to bust out laughing. Because what kind of cheesy thing was a trust call supposed to be? A snicker escaped him, but he didn't dare let it build into anything more than that. There were too many wounds in his stomach muscles.

"Good, you're smiling," Dr. Bolton noticed, though Lance suspected he also knew the true reason for Lance's reaction and that it wasn't exactly supportive. "Humor me. Sometime in the next week, I'm guessing you're going to find yourself overwhelmed in some way. It might happen more than once. You've been through a lot, and I don't think it's all hit you yet. Before it happens, I want you to call your friends. The people we've been talking about today. Call them and let them know that at some point this week you will probably dial one of their numbers and might not be able to speak a word after they pick up. You won't know which one of them you'll need most or when you will need them. You might not be able to tell them why for a long time but let them know that it could happen. Maybe in the middle of the night. Then when you find yourself in that position, they will be ready to catch you."

Lance inhaled, realizing that he'd stopped doing that at some point while Dr. Bolton had been talking. He stared hard at the afghan. Couldn't take his eyes off it. This was the assignment? He thought he would prefer basket weaving. Though, if he were being honest, that probably wouldn't have helped him much. But how would this help either?

"Someone will catch you, Lance," Dr. Bolton promised, solemn. "And I'll tell you why. Pay attention now. I think some of these words might sound familiar. They will catch you because it's not hard or inconvenient to be there for you. They want you to ask them. They want to help you. Now – I'd like you to do this every time you need to, but if that's too hard, then just once will work. Just one trust call, and we'll talk about it next time. All right?"

No, it wasn't all right. Lance hid his face in his hands. It didn't work that way. Lance had to be useful. Couldn't ask for help unless he really, really needed it. Like when he was succumbing to hypothermia in a phone booth. Like when he was bleeding to death in a bed. Unless it was a true emergency like that, how could he interrupt someone's life? It wasn't the same, despite how Dr. Bolton had used the same words. And how did he know anyway?

"Lance, will you try it?" Dr. Bolton pressed, obviously needing some sort of verbal confirmation from Lance that he agreed to this. "Just once. If you like, you can do it just to prove me wrong for spite, if that's how you think it will go."

"Lance?" Angelique said his name too, still close to his side, and Lance was grateful that she did because he'd already conditioned himself to say yes to her.

"Sí, Doña," he responded without thinking.

"Then tell him," she commanded. Lance peeled his hands away from his face and forced himself to look over at Dr. Bolton again. Unassuming, quiet, mild-mannered Dr. Gregory Clark Kent Bolton. Who was no longer smiling at him but still looking gentle.

"All right," Lance agreed. Antibiotics had to be swallowed to work. The best patients follow the treatment plan. Besides, it wasn't like what he'd been doing was working. Why not give something else a chance? There were over two hundred missed calls and texts. He could return at least one.

"Great," Dr. Bolton said, standing up to leave. Before he did, he flipped open his wallet, removing his business card and handing it to Lance. "Here's my number too," he offered. "If you can't dial any of the others; use this one."

Lance took the card, but he unconsciously shook his head. He knew he'd never do that. It wouldn't be fair to do that. Dr. Bolton didn't really know him, wasn't responsible for him in any way. Greg refused to remove his fingers from the card, though Lance was also holding onto it, causing Lance to look at him again. Did he want Lance to take it or not?

"You help strangers every day," Dr. Bolton reminded him. "They come to the ER. They don't know you. You don't know them. It doesn't stop them from asking for your help. It doesn't stop you from helping them. Why?"

"It's my job," Lance answered, his voice dull, tired. He didn't know that talking could make someone so tired. "It's what I do."

"And this is what I do," Greg said, resolutely. He released the card to Lance and stood straight, ready to go. "Let's talk again next week. Or any time before that." Then he draped his navy coat over his arm and disappeared down the hall in the direction of the elevators, leaving Lance with the card in his hand and Angelique watching him closely. He took a long, careful breath. Angelique brought him his phone.

"Go ahead and enter him into your contacts," she recommended, as though Lance would be calling him up for regular chats. "You'll probably be working together for several weeks, and he means it when he says you can call him."

"You sound like you've done it," Lance heard himself mutter, then realized what he'd just said. How rude it had been, how snide. He took the phone to hide it, ready to do what she'd told him to smooth everything over.

"I have," Angelique practically whispered, which made Lance pause. He hadn't expected her to answer. Hadn't expected her to reveal anything like that.

"What?" Lance asked, unsure if he wanted the details at the same time he desperately wanted the details. She surely had never needed a therapist. She was the strongest person he knew. He couldn't imagine her dwelling in doubt or fear, sitting in a small ball on a couch somewhere crying while Greg asked her infuriating questions about herself. There was nothing uncertain or sorrowful about her. What could she have needed? "You? Why?"

"Another time," Angelique promised. "But he did help me. And I know he can help you too if you let him."

She let it drop then, seeing Lance's exhaustion from the session. She left the room to pick up a steaming cup of coffee for him in the hospital cafeteria downstairs, hinting without any kind of subtlety that it might be a great time for him to send out the notification to his friends about Dr. Bolton's assignment.

Lance knew he'd never be able to say any of that out loud, not even once, let alone in three separate phone calls. So he pulled up a group text, feeling so stupid about it that he had to push the responsibility of it onto Dr. Delacroix. Lance told them that he was leaving the hospital soon, but there were some conditions to staying in the med program and meeting with Dr. Bolton was one of them. He tossed out the details of the assignment in as few words as possible, emphasizing that he'd have to make at least one call to fulfill his obligation, but he'd be sure to make it quick and certainly wouldn't call at three in the morning. Then he apologized again for dragging them into a group project they hadn't signed up for, took a deep breath, and hit send. There. Halfway finished already.

He hadn't even set the phone down afterward before it started chirping responses to him. An exclamatory "of course!" from Allura.

"We got your back, buddy" from Hunk and "Good for you" from Pidge. Lance even received a response from Shiro, even though Lance hadn't included him in the group text. Who had copied him in? Though unexpected, Lance unconsciously relaxed when he read Shiro's message, remembering the times when he and Shiro had been partners and guardians for Keith. Shiro acknowledged Lance's courage and offered his unconditional support.

Keith didn't respond to the group text. He sent a message directly for only Lance to see.

Don't look at the time, Keith wrote. This isn't something you can schedule. Call the first person you think of; that will be the one you need most.

There was a pause, and Lance thought that was the end of it, but then Keith sent one more text. It was a picture of a half-complete woven basket. Lance could tell that Keith had just snagged an image off the Internet; this wasn't a basket that Keith was making himself. But Lance understood the message. Let's make some baskets. I strongly suggest you participate in the weird therapy shit. And suddenly the assignment didn't make Lance feel dumb anymore. For the second time that day, Lance stopped himself from laughing.

Thanks, Keith, he wrote back, wishing Keith understood how much he meant it. Though he still had every intention of scheduling this phone call to be the least inconvenient for his friends. He almost wished he could just do it now and get it over with, but that hadn't been the purpose of the assignment.

Lance set his phone aside so he could lie back for a little while. He'd been sitting up the entire time Dr. Bolton had been here, and the position was starting to ache. The bed was raised, so he reclined instead of lying flat, and he curled to his least-injured side, nuzzling his face into the afghan, breathing in the scent of his old bedroom, surprisingly comfortable, though he wished someone would bring him another warmed up blanket. He thought of the baskets, how he and Keith now had a strange, inside joke, and he couldn't help but smile.

Angelique noticed the change in him when she returned with the coffee and the blanket he'd hoped for. She didn't say anything about it, but Lance recognized the expression on her face. She looked at Lance the same way she looked at patients who were out of danger, those who had been brought past the critical point. She no longer looked so sharp at him, so worried, no longer watched him with so much intensity. According to her demeanor, he was on the upswing of his recovery.

Not long after the coffee, Lance's nurse came back to start the discharge process. Angelique must have called Fritz because he also arrived with Allura, who had a bag containing fresh clothes for Lance. The light in the room reflected the late afternoon sunshine outside, and the whole atmosphere rested on Lance like a medication all on its own.

The nurse expertly removed the IV Lance had been connected to since he'd arrived on Sunday, and he automatically complimented her on her technique as if she'd been a trainee under his supervision in the plasma center. Like she didn't have twenty years of experience over him. She smiled anyway as she bandaged the tiny puncture wound, running through the protocol of instructions and excusing herself so he could get dressed.

Angelique took Allura out to the hallway for this, but Fritz stayed behind to ask Lance if he wanted any help. Lance really wanted to say no, he could handle it on his own, but he didn't want to hurt himself for modesty's sake. They compromised by having Fritz stay in the room, eyes averted, just in case Lance's balance failed him. Lance dressed slowly, the way he'd assisted his most elderly or frail patients in the ER, allowing for weight and equilibrium adjustments. Allura had thankfully brought him soft pajama pants with a forgiving elastic waist that he could tug low on his hips, avoiding pressure on his lowest incision. She'd also brought a thermal shirt, a hoodie, and his warmest pair of socks, knowing he was going to be cold during the transfer from the hospital to the house. Angelique's house. He couldn't get over it. What did it look like in daylight? When he wasn't blind with pain? What would it look like now that he had been welcomed to live there?

"You good?" Fritz asked from where he stood, half turned. Because he'd heard Lance grunt trying to pull his socks on. His torso didn't want to curl over that much for that long.

"Yeah," Lance answered. "Just wishing I had shorter legs."

"I hear you," Fritz acknowledged sympathetically. "I cracked a couple ribs once. My son was, oh, probably eight or nine at the time. He thought it was pretty funny that I had him help me get my boots on and off for a month. Couldn't quite figure out why I wasn't doing it myself; he thought it was a weird game I'd decided to play with him." As he told the story, Fritz automatically moved over to the bed and picked up Lance's socks, kneeling down to put them on for him. The way he talked made the act of service less awkward for Lance. He'd forgotten that Fritz had a son.

"What's your son's name?" Lance asked, trying to remember anything that Fritz had ever said about him. He figured it was a safer question than asking a police officer how he'd cracked his ribs.

"Aaron," Fritz answered, and Lance could tell he was far away from what he was doing. He might be tying shoelaces with his hands, but he was seeing a little boy in his memory. There was a wistfulness in his tone that suggested that he hadn't seen or spoken to Aaron for a long time.

"Where is he?" Lance wondered, because it had to be far. Is this what his mother looked like when people asked her about Lance? This tender, faraway expression? Words that had years hanging off them?

"New York," Fritz said, like it wasn't as big of a deal to him as Lance knew it was. "Last I heard, he was working at Google, but we don't talk much."

Lance swallowed his next question, knowing he had no business asking why. Knowing he probably didn't need to. He could hear the regret in Fritz. Could feel it in his hands and arms as Fritz gently assisted Lance to his feet to make final adjustments on his clothes. And he let the subject drop as Fritz called the women back into the room. Allura smiled to see Lance up and dressed, looking at least a little bit normal again. She expressed her relief as she sat next to him on the hospital bed that he was on the mend and heading home where Angelique could take care of him. She felt better returning to Columbia knowing that Lance wouldn't be on his own anymore.

"When are you heading back?" Lance asked her, already missing her again, even though he knew very well that she couldn't stay away from her grad program forever. She hesitated in answering, so he nudged her with his shoulder a little.

"Tomorrow," she confessed, and Lance realized that she probably hadn't intended to stay this long. That maybe she'd expected to come for the weekend, verify that he'd been found safe, and then return quickly. The whole emergency surgery hospital stay had messed with her schedule in a huge way. "But you can call me anytime," she insisted quickly. "Day or night; I'll step out of class if I have to. You can call."

"Ok," Lance promised. A toss-away kind of promise. No one was as familiar with Allura's calendar than he was. He knew she'd probably had to warp the space-time continuum to be here right now. And while he was nothing but grateful, he didn't want to stretch her generosity anymore. Besides, everything was so good right now; he couldn't imagine that he'd really need to.

The faithful nurse returned with discharge papers for Lance to sign, printouts with instructions on them, and an orderly pushing a wheelchair. Fritz went ahead to pull the car to the front while Angelique and Allura flanked Lance as escorts, draping the afghan over his shoulders. Dr. Coran paused them on their way to the elevator to tell Lance good-bye and extend the invitation that he could come shadow Coran on the third floor anytime he wanted to.

Then Lance was pushed into the elevator, and out to the emergency room entrance where he had no memory of being brought in. The orderly set aside the footrests of the wheelchair and helped Lance shift to the back seat of what must be Angelique's car, and that's where his liability responsibilities ended. He gave Lance a salute for good luck and headed back inside.

Allura held his hand in the backseat while Lance stared out the window, trying to remember the route from the hospital to the house, as though he'd ever have to drive it himself. Though that posed yet another new thought. How was Lance supposed to get to campus if he was no longer living within walking distance? While his and Angelique's schedules were similar, they were by no means identical. He'd have to figure that out. Later. Fritz left the campus behind quickly, delving deep into the pocket suburbs that assimilated into the city of Chicago. Each one seemed to have its own flavor and appearance. The high-end, gated community of Oak Brook where Allura's parents lived. The squished-tight apartments and student housing around the campus. And then all these little tucked-away places, streets lined with trees, mailboxes, and cracks in the sidewalks.

Angelique's house, Lance remembered, was an older brick structure in the middle of the block with a front porch enclosed with a waist-high stone wall. The windchimes were still there, more visible in the sunset. Leaves had blown into the corners of the steps, and there were piles of them on the front porch as well. All told, just a quiet house on what seemed to be a quiet street. A place where the same old woman might walk her little dog past at the same time every day. Where Girl Scouts would sell cookies door-to-door. Where there could be no sound for hours except the windchimes.

The peace of the place sort of continued on the inside, too, though once through the door, Lance spotted all the bits of chaos he'd missed the first time around. The house looked very much as though it had been Angelique's first with pieces of Fritz tucked haphazardly here and there. Like the gun safe in one corner of the living room that Lance was certain wouldn't remain there permanently. There were even some cardboard boxes still tucked against the walls with labels on them like "files" or "movies." A couple of the boxes were open, like Fritz had been in the perpetual process of unpacking the entire five months of his marriage. But despite being in slight upheaval, the house radiated comfort. Sheet music rested on the piano and unopened mail sat in a short stack on top of it. A half-finished puzzle took up quite a bit of space on the dining room table. The enormous cat, Sam, dominated one half of the couch. Lance loved it all.

"Where to, Lance?" Fritz asked him, hovering close. Lance could walk on his own now, but no one was taking any chances on how far he could go before his strength ran out. "Want to rest in your room upstairs for a while or do you want to chill down here with us?"

"I'll stay with you," Lance decided quickly, remembering from the other night how many stairs he'd be required to navigate to get to the guest room. His room. He'd much rather rest down here where he could listen and watch everything going on. Fritz nodded as if he'd expected this and directed Lance to have a seat on the couch, which actually allowed Lance a perfect vantage point for the entire living room, the front door, staircase, and into the kitchen. The others took their places around him, as though their movements had been rehearsed in advance. Fritz returned to the half-empty box on the living room floor. Allura and Angelique headed to the kitchen to start making dinner. Sam noticed a still body on the sofa with him and came over to curl up carefully on Lance's lap, a purring, warm, weight. Someone turned on some music and the next thing Lance knew he was being shaken gently awake so he could eat a bowl of chicken and dumplings.

He stayed awake long enough after that to make it up the stairs where he took his first shower since getting lost Saturday night. He turned the water up as hot as he dared and knelt on the shower floor, trying to soak up the heat, raise his core temperature up enough that it would stay up. Though the effect disappeared the second he turned off the stream, causing him to shiver through the entire ordeal of getting dry and dressed. Angelique kindly kept the electric blanket on the guest bed for him, turning it up high, and Lance dove underneath it gratefully. Allura brought him a warm drink and some pain medication, and they called everyone before bed to update them on how things were going. For his first official night in his new room, Lance slept undisturbed, almost warm enough with the blanket over him. Allura cuddled up on one side and Sam stretched out on the other, sandwiching him in security in the middle of the new-to-him queen bed. He slept warm and deep and dreamless.

And in the morning, after a leisurely breakfast and more pain medication for Lance, Allura prepared to leave. She packed her small suitcase while Lance sat on the bed with the cat, watching her, listening to her emphasizing repeatedly to Lance that he could call her. That just because she had to leave now didn't mean she wouldn't be back. She definitely would be back. Probably at Christmas. She'd come see him at Christmas, take him to her parents' house for the annual party like always.

"Unless you make other plans," she hinted.

"Like what?" Lance wondered, genuinely curious as to how she thought his life might change in the ten weeks left before Christmas. Where would he possibly be except right here? Allura shrugged.

"Maybe you'll still be in California for Christmas," she acknowledged. "No one would blame you; Chicago will be a snow globe by then." Lance hadn't thought of that. He couldn't stay that long. Except there really wasn't any reason why not. He'd been excused from everything at the University until January. There was nothing stopping him from staying with Hunk and Pidge until New Year's if he wanted to. If they wanted him to. But still, he didn't think he should do that. He was already going to have a hard enough time coming back, leaving them again. The longer he stayed with them, the more impossible that was going to be. Though now that he thought about it, he didn't know if Pidge had actually put a return date on his flight. How long did they mean for him to be there? He'd better find out soon.

"I'll be here for Christmas," Lance eventually declared, having run through it all in his head. "I promised your mother."

"She hasn't forgotten," Allura said, zipping up her bag.

"Allura," Lance asked, yet another thing occurring to him for the first time. He wondered if he'd ever really catch up on all that had happened. "Did you tell them about?" He paused as though he could come up with a quick and accurate name for what was going on, but the room darkened at his weakest attempt, like a cloud had passed over the sun. He let the question hang unfinished, knowing Allura knew what he meant.

"No," she responded quietly, hands and eyes resting on her suitcase. "I didn't tell them anything. They don't even know I'm here, and we are going to keep it that way."

"What?" Lance demanded, jerking his head up fast enough that he regretted it. Sam gave him a grumpy look at the unexpected noise. "Princess?" Her nickname came out somewhere between disappointed and guilty.

Allura sighed, stalling in her answer by sitting lightly on the edge of the bed near her suitcase, reaching out to smooth Sam's fur. "Lance, they'd be so hurt if they knew. Not just that I came to Chicago and didn't tell them, but if they knew what happened to you. That you never thought to reach out to them once for help. They would be devastated."

"But," Lance sputtered. He hadn't spoken to them for months, not since the thank-you note he'd written for the graduation party. How could he have reopened that kind of a silence gap with a plea for help? Besides. "There was nothing they could do."

"Oh, Lance," Allura moaned, frustrated, showing him her tightest smile. Obviously, she disagreed, and Lance thought she was about to tell him exactly how he was wrong about this. But then she shrugged, calming down. "Maybe it's my fault," she speculated, confusing him.

"No," Lance started, but she raised a hand to shush him.

"There were things I didn't tell you, either," Allura confessed. "Did you know my mother wanted to buy us a house?" Lance immediately felt his brow furrow. Melenor what? "Yes," Allura confirmed again, as though to make it very clear. "She wanted to; she even took me to a viewing with the real estate agent. It was an adorable starter home near the campus, but I never told you that."

"Why not?" Lance asked, though he could make a guess.

"Well, part of it was because I couldn't ever see us together the way she had planned and didn't want to encourage her, but mostly I knew you were too proud to ever accept anything like that. The house my mother wanted to buy. The car my father wanted to give you. I knew you could barely handle letting them take us to dinner, and I didn't think I'd ever be able to convince you just how much it would have pleased them. I suppose I could have tried harder, but maybe I was being proud too. Proving that I could make it with my own skills and not their resources and reputation. That probably wasn't fair."

Lance moved his fingers over Sam, studying the variety of color in his coat. The silvers and grays, the tiny bits of white and black. He didn't know what to say about this new information. Apologize? But how could he apologize for rejecting a gift he hadn't even been offered?

"You were protecting us," he finally offered the justification for what Allura had done. The secrets she'd kept. It made sense, though he wasn't sure he agreed with it. Especially the part about being too proud. Even so, he could get behind any sort of plan that wouldn't cause any distress for Allura or her parents. "I won't tell them."

"Thank you, but Lance, they really would like to hear from you. They ask me about you all the time. To be honest, I think they're a little lonely in that big house all by themselves. They've worked so hard to get to the position they are in now – where they can help others. They would be so honored if you needed them, even just a little bit."

Lance scoffed, shaking his head, wondering what a little bit of help would look like from the Lyons. Houses, cars, a new wing of the hospital named after him. What would they have done if they'd known about Spencer? Would they have let him use Allura's old room at their house or relocated him to a different apartment complex? Maybe Allura was right. It wasn't that they couldn't have helped him. He hadn't given them the chance.

"I'll reach out when I get back from California," Lance said, making no promises about asking for help. He still didn't think he could do that; he wasn't even dating their daughter anymore. Though he actually might want to think about Alfor's offer of a car. He'd probably need that to go back to campus in January. Lance hoped he wouldn't go overboard with something vintage or classic. Not for someone who didn't even have a license yet. Maybe he'd let Lance buy it? He'd have to think about it. "And we'll see them together at the Christmas party."

Allura stared at him, as though making sure that this was all she was going to get as far as agreement. Lance tried to put the compromise all over his face. He'd call them. That's all. What more could she want, really, when she'd also made it a point to not allow them to do everything for her either? She seemed to have the exact same thought as she suddenly switched topics, standing up, remembering that she had a plane to catch.

"I have to go soon," she said. Their time almost up. "But tell me the truth; you really will be all right if I leave?"

"I think so," Lance assured. What could go wrong now? He was recovering, going to California. He would never see the destruction of his memories at Stony Island again. "What about you? You're doing ok over there on your own, right?" Because she was alone at Columbia, the same kind of isolation that Lance had experienced. A new state, a new school, an unfamiliar program. The same kind of scenario that had almost killed him. Allura smiled at him tenderly.

"I'm not on my own, Lance," she corrected him. "I have the most wonderful friends in the entire world. Ones I grew up with. Some I just met. One who I think might just be my friend because we have a mutual friend in common, and one very special friend who I know would open his door to me any time of day or night and drop everything to take care of me no matter what I'd done or how long it had been since we last talked."

"I would," Lance told her, figuring out somewhere in there that the last person she mentioned was him. She hugged him.

"I know you would," she said softly near his ear. "Just remember that we'd all do the same for you too."

Fritz knocked on the door, reminding Allura that it was time to go. Though it hadn't been in the original plan for Lance to come, he decided at the last second that he wanted to ride along. If Allura was still in Chicago, then Lance wanted to be with her. Fritz looked like he wasn't sure if he should allow that much movement or activity, but decided it'd be worse for Lance if he were left behind. Once she learned that Lance was leaving the house, Angelique grabbed her coat and purse to tag along too.

For some reason, Lance imagined that they'd be driving Allura to O'Hare, and he was thrown off to discover that she'd bought flights in and out of Midway. O'Hare was undisputedly the larger, nicer airport, but Midway was much closer to campus. Allura hadn't gone to see her parents at all; she'd made this trip specifically for Lance. So Midway actually made more sense, even though it sparked regret in Lance for not staying at the house. He'd been so close to Midway when he'd found that phone booth. Fritz drove right past the park where Lance had been found, headed south on Cicero, and Lance noticed how his gaze went to him using the rear-view mirror. Fortunately, he didn't say anything.

The other surprising thing about Midway was how it just popped up out of nowhere. Cicero was a busy street, full of restaurants and gas stations, dry cleaners and offices. There wasn't even a sign. If you weren't paying close attention, it was easy to drive right past it. This also made it the sort of airport where no one really parked if they didn't have to. Shiro had gone to the trouble the last time Lance had been here with Keith, but Fritz pulled alongside the curb at the departures gate to let Allura out instead.

Lance didn't like that, especially the part where it actually was the most practical of decisions. He struggled out of his seatbelt, ignoring the caution that Angelique gave him as he pulled himself out of the backseat. Allura had rearranged her life and flown out here to be with him. The least he could do was stand up as she left. Embrace her one more time. Say thank you one more time.

She hugged him gently, kissing his cheek as Fritz helpfully pulled her suitcase from the trunk. Lance breathed her in. The cool scent of lavender, the warm sweetness of coffee, the way the apartment smelled back when they'd lived there together. A smell that almost reminded him of home.

"Take care of yourself," she told him, seriously, keeping the smooth palm of her hand on his neck. He bowed his head, smiling sheepishly, realizing just how many people had told him that.

"Be safe," he said to her. Then, somehow, he let her go, lifting his hands from her waist and clinging to the open car door for balance, watching her pull her suitcase and disappear into the airport while Fritz returned to the driver's seat. He stood there much longer than he should have, long enough that both Fritz and Angelique called to him, forcing him to stiffly sit down, pull the door closed, and buckle his seatbelt again. He didn't cry, but he wanted to. Allura was a part of his old life, the one he loved, the one he didn't want to lose.

You'll see her at Christmas, he reminded himself as he rested his head against the window. You'll talk to her on the phone tonight. You're going to California in a little over a week. And somewhere in there, though Lance wasn't sure at all how it was going to happen, but somewhere in there, Keith had said he would visit. Lance had to be patient, had to trust that Keith meant it. Had to be ok with all the new schedules. With opening windows to the past and then closing them again. He told Fritz and Angelique no and thank you when they asked if he wanted or needed anything. Or if he wanted to go anywhere other than the house. He noticed that Fritz took a different way home, a direction that led them far from the park near the expressway.

By the time they made it back to the windchimes, Lance was once again exhausted and ready for another dose of medication. He let Fritz help him up the porch stairs, mostly because he wanted some physical contact, and let Angelique cover him with a blanket on the couch. He didn't want to eat lunch, but skipping meals was not something he could get away with while living under Angelique's scrutiny, so he accepted whatever was handed to him and ate it methodically. It wasn't long before Sam realized Lance was back and came to cuddle next to him on the blanket, large paws draped over Lance's thighs, purring contentedly.

"You know I lived here two months before I ever saw that cat?" Fritz said, almost jealously, as he came downstairs with another empty cardboard box. Lance continued petting Sam, now wondering about the difference. He thought he could guess as to why Sam would be hesitant about Fritz and not Lance. He was about to comment, but Angelique piped in from where she was doing some paperwork at the dining room table.

"You stole his mom and his spot in the bed; how was he not supposed to take that personally?" she said casually, but then turned to look at Sam and Lance together. "But Samwise always knows when someone needs him." Lance tried to read her face as she said that but couldn't quite grasp all the nuance. Her brow creased in thick memory, and she smiled with fond sadness. It was an intimate expression that Lance couldn't maintain; he decided to refocus the conversation to Fritz and the cardboard boxes.

"So you're still unpacking?" Lance asked innocently, hoping to start a conversation about whatever was in the next box that Fritz was tearing into with his pocketknife, curious as to how there were still boxes when Fritz and Angelique's wedding had been over five months ago.

"Not still, more like finally," Fritz answered. "Angie, you have a second to go through this one with me?" As Angelique left her paperwork to join her husband on the floor, Fritz explained what he meant. "It's been busy," he said, digging deep into the box and beginning to lay DVDs out for Angelique to inspect. "I put away the stuff I needed and use all the time, but a lot of what came from my apartment was just thrown into your room. I meant to get to it later, but later kept getting pushed back. Now that you're here and need the space, I need to find a better place for all this."

Lance opened his mouth to apologize for being in the way, for being an inconvenience, but Fritz wouldn't let him say anything.

"I've got to say; it's been nice," he revealed. "I mean, I wouldn't want to repeat last weekend for anything and could have skipped all the suffering, but there have been some silver linings. Seeing my wife so often in the daytime is a definite plus. I've got some time off to actually go through everything and real motivation to get it done, and I think the end game here will turn out great for everyone. See any duplicates yet, Ang?"

Lance was relieved that Fritz had maneuvered through all that so quickly and efficiently and that they were moving on. Fritz actually seemed to be enjoying the sorting process. After five months, it would probably feel rather settling to have all his things properly assimilated into his new home. It would likely bring him and Angelique closer in their relationship to have their physical belongings mingled together in the space. Lance stretched forward a little bit to see if he recognized any of the movie titles, not surprised at all when Angelique laughed at Fritz's question regarding duplicates for movies she might already own.

"I haven't even seen most of these," Angelique confessed, which made Lance wonder what sort of movies she liked. If she ever relaxed long enough to actually watch one. "And it appears this box is mostly MacGyver?"

"Naturally," Fritz said, pulling all the season boxsets out. Lance raised an eyebrow; there were quite a few of them. He remembered MacGyver being referenced a lot, whenever one of his friends had pulled off something cool or been particularly resourceful, but it wasn't on Pidge or Hunk's 'need to watch' list for him, so he'd never seen any of it. In fact, he remembered Pidge sort of scoffing at the science, at how unlikely the scenarios were. "MacGyver is a requirement, right, Lance?"

"I don't know," Lance said, which made Fritz pause. "Sure?"

"You're telling me you've never seen an episode of MacGyver?" Fritz asked, rather challenging. Lance felt like he needed to defend himself, and rather quickly.

"Well, my family didn't have a TV growing up, and um, my roommates are . . .they're physicists so they mostly made fun of it –"

"So you've never seen any of it?" Fritz asked again, staring at Lance firmly.

"No," Lance confessed softly, hoping Fritz wouldn't be offended. But Fritz broke out into a half-terrifying grin, lunging for his wife and kissing her.

"He's never seen MacGyver," Fritz told her, as if she hadn't been sitting there on the floor next to him and heard the whole thing. She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

"Guess you'd better fix it, then," she recommended to her husband, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. Sam's head turned to watch her walk away, but he didn't move from Lance's side. Fritz quickly abandoned the small piles of DVDs, plucking up the first boxset and moving towards the DVD player to start it up. Lance was used to this sort of reaction when he let someone know he hadn't seen something. It seemed for his first year in the states he'd ask a question about a reference and suddenly Pidge would squawk something incredulous, and he'd be manhandled to the couch, squished between Hunk and Pidge, as they shared their take on what constituted American culture. Lance was rather looking forward to what Fritz's version of this would look like. It had been a long time.

The opening sequence started up as Fritz took a seat on the other side of the couch, looking particularly animated. At peace and eager. Angelique brought him a beer even though it was only early afternoon, and she handed Lance a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of toast even though it hadn't really been all that long since lunch, then excused herself. Fritz grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave, snapping her head around at the unexpected touch, but she quickly softened, sighed, and finally gave in, sinking into the pile on the couch. Fritz scooted closer to the middle to make room for her, which forced Sam completely onto Lance's lap. Fritz put his arms around both Angelique and Lance, nuzzling his forehead against his wife's as if thanking her for putting up with him. Sam rumbled against Lance's chest.

"Silver linings everywhere," Fritz droned softly, and Lance looked over at them. The doctor that had intimidated him and the police officer he'd hated when they'd first been introduced. And now they were all sitting together on a couch on a weekday afternoon watching a sitcom from the 80s, comfortable. It almost felt like . . . being with a family.

Lance didn't know much about physics, but he did know more than a little about chemistry, and he also knew that his ability to locate a paperclip was directly proportional to his need to find a paperclip. He understood why Pidge mocked this show. He also understood why Fritz liked it so much. He sipped the hot chocolate and nibbled the toast, and somewhere two or three episodes in, he nodded off without meaning to.

When he woke up, the sun had gone down, and he could hear the wind blowing harsh and cold outside. Someone had taken his plate and mug away. Someone had also shifted him so he lay as stretched out as possible for his height, covered with the heating blanket with Sam tucked up tight against his torso. Lance marveled that he hadn't woken up even though his position had changed and there was now a pillow under his head. But the drugs he was taking were known for causing drowsiness. Lance shifted a little, realizing that he'd like another dose of them.

He heard music, soft jazz, coming from the kitchen. Heard music and detected shadows of swooping movement. He adjusted his position so he could watch what was going on easier. Fritz and Angelique were together, cooking, moving efficiently and gracefully in and out of each other's space. Lance had watched Pidge and Hunk do this often. Hunk would reach over Pidge's head as she would duck under his arm, both reaching for tools or gauges on opposite sides of the table. Fritz and Angelique moved in a similar way, but every time they were close enough to touch each other, they would.

Fritz would run his hand along the back of Angelique's waist as he leaned over her to open a drawer. She'd slide her fingers down his arm before she'd take the saltshaker from him. Sometimes they'd look at each other, but most of the time they didn't. They just unconsciously reached, reconfirming their proximity. They looked very much in love. They also looked like a couple who understands that their time together should be sacred considering that either or both of them could be called away in the next moment. That the next minute was not guaranteed. It was so beautiful that Lance felt tears in his eyes. He wanted that so much.

He could have gone on watching them indefinitely, but it didn't take them long to notice he was awake. Angelique busied herself with getting him set up with more pain meds while Fritz came to his side to help extract him from the couch and walk him over to the table. Lance took his seat carefully, stiff and sore, shivering now that he was out from under the heating blanket and away from Sam. A symptom Angelique noticed immediately, though she just frowned at him. Lance didn't understand it either. Why he couldn't stay warm.

"Are you hungry?" Angelique asked him instead.

"Yeah," Lance said, kind of embarrassed about it. It wasn't like he'd done anything today. It actually felt like all he'd done was eat and sleep.

"Good, because you're about twenty pounds underweight." She said it completely without judgement, like a doctor. She said it like it was just another symptom that required treatment, but her words brought Lance's arm across his chest, finally noticing how prominent his ribs were, his hips. It looked as though you were trying to make yourself disappear, Allura said. He remembered putting on the shirts to go dancing. How they hadn't fit him anymore. How long had it been since he'd paid any attention to that? Looked at himself in the mirror?

Angelique drew his attention with a gentle hand on his arm. "Eat," she instructed, very simply, a notice to him that he was going to be ok. Nothing was permanently wrong. It was possible to recover from all of this. And she would be there with him for it. Model patients follow treatment plans. Lance picked up his fork.

The days that followed were beautiful and yet bittersweet and anxious. Sunlight poured in through the house's many windows, though it teased Lance with its brightness. He could hear how cold it actually was outside, making him wear multiple layers of clothes and keep the afghan around his shoulders all the time. The wind blew almost constantly, beating against the windchimes on the porch so that they seemed to shriek. Fritz took pity on Lance when he noticed how much it bothered him and brought the chimes in "for the winter."

Lance continued to follow the pattern of sleeping and eating, which made him feel rather lazy and awkward in the space sometimes. Like he wasn't contributing enough. He wasn't allowed to cook or wash dishes after meals, forbidden to lift anything more than five pounds, and that definitely included the cat. He was told that he didn't have to dust or vacuum or do anything at all except rest and heal. They'd figure out things like a chore chart or rent or whatever else Lance thought needed addressing after he was better, after he'd returned from California, and no, he absolutely did not need to pay to store his things in the guest room while he was gone, what a suggestion. It was driving him crazy. He finished the puzzle on the table one day. Kept Fritz company as he finished unpacking the boxes on another. Paid strict attention to the schedules and routines of the space, noticing when Fritz and Angelique began to return to work. Not full days at first, and they were never both gone at the same time. Sam continued to follow Lance everywhere, curling up near him or on him whenever Lance sat down, which was practically constantly, and Lance clung to him every time, needing his soft warmth and presence. He wasn't sure why, but he felt lonely.

Throughout the days, everything was manageable as Lance slowly got used to being in the new space. Got used to his slowly improving body, the freedom that both the environment and the treatment was bringing to him. The sun, the movement in the house, the medication, the frequent phone calls to and from his friends kept everything tolerable for Lance. He slept easily on the couch knowing that Angelique was running through notes at the table or that Fritz was cobbling together a shelving unit to keep his tools organized in the basement. Lance would watch them, not wanting to miss anything and yet still feeling like he was missing something terribly, his eyes closing by themselves.

He slept often during the day, but the nights were awful. The shadows of Lance's things, which should have provided him with familiar comfort, actually made him feel trapped. The shape of his computer on the desk, his med bag on the floor. The scent of the blanket, so comforting while in the hospital, made him claustrophobically sick while shut in this room at night. He'd wake in a panic, over and over again, dreaming of Damien and stairs, rain and blood. He'd wake with his pillow soaking wet, his ribs on fire and his head throbbing. He'd wake trembling and cold with Sam blinking at him nearby. The wind screaming outside.

Lance struggled through two nights alone, knowing that this was exactly what Dr. Bolton had told him he'd experience but still resisting what he'd been encouraged to do about it. Not in the middle of the night; he couldn't do that. He stared at the shadows, clung to the blankets, slept in painful, miniature horror stories. And just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, it would be dawn. Fritz or Angelique waking up, footsteps in the hall. But on the third night, when the wind was joined by rain pelting hard against the windows, thunder threatening in the distance, Lance reached a breaking point and fumbled for his phone, hating himself. He wasn't going to do this. He'd told himself that he wasn't. But he needed more than Sam's warmth, more than Angelique's worried face and Fritz's cheerfulness. He was cold to his soul; it was actually hard to breathe. His head was pounding over his eye. Lance didn't think he could sit alone and awake in the bed listening to the storm, knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. Didn't want pity but he didn't want to be alone. And the only other person he knew that might understand any of this had told him not to look at the time. To call the first person he thought of.

The one you need the most.

But can't you wait? Lance chided himself. You don't know where he is. He's probably busy. Or sleeping. You're going to bother him over a nightmare? Over a thunderstorm? A migraine? How would he even help? Call him in the morning when you can just laugh about this. When you can ask him how he's doing. You can still talk to him. Just later. Like a normal person. Don't drive him away by being too needy.

He put the phone down, trying to find a position that didn't hurt, trying to breathe deeply, trying to get warm. The rain. He'd walked miles in it, unknowingly bleeding to death. He had to get up; his head hurt too much. His body still sensitive to changes in barometric pressure despite everything else that was going on.

Lightning stabbed through the window, and Lance almost dropped the medication bottle, almost lost his balance keeping it in his hands. He looked at his phone again, memory as thick in the room as the shadows. Another thunderstorm, years ago, opening a different bottle to relieve a different kind of pain. A boy on Lance's bed trying to comfort him despite his own suffering.

I thought we were friends, Lance, Keith said. Why didn't you say something? I thought you knew you could trust me.

Lance threw the pills in his mouth, swallowing them with the water that Angelique kept on his desk, returning to the bed with the phone, pulling the blankets up over his head to obscure his vision. Full dark was better than shapes. His hands shook. You don't need to call, Lance told himself. It's not that bad. The medication will take away the pain soon. You're not locked in here. The sun will come up, and you'll be able to push away the feeling of being pushed down the stairs. You don't need to call.

But he wanted to. Wanted to call and have Keith answer. Wanted to listen to him talk, wanted him to drown out the wind. Just one trust call. Will you do that? I thought we were friends. I let every excuse hold me back.

That's not it, Lance argued, shivering. It's not because I don't trust you.

Yes, it is, Allura reminded him. You're trying so hard to be strong for him that he thinks you don't want him in your life. He'd be devastated if he knew what happened to you and that you didn't reach out to him once for help. Now you call him and tell him exactly how much you need him.

More thunder outside caused Lance to startle, then cringe at the shockwave of pain the movement caused. He closed his eyes against the dark, despising how he couldn't handle being alone. Couldn't stand how the sight of his own possessions did nothing except remind him of how awful it had been, locked in his room, listening to the drums.

Lance squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, feeling himself giving up. Fine! If this is what trust looked like, what he'd agreed to do, then fine. Do it for spite if you have to. Do it to prove that it was pointless if that's what it will take. Just do it. He hadn't anticipated it being so difficult. Lance held himself tightly around his ribs, drawing up into a ball, feeling ridiculous. But before he could talk himself out of it again, he dialed Keith's familiar number and actually pressed send.

Then he panicked, instantly wanting to stop the call before it rang. He couldn't believe he'd actually done that. He didn't know what time it was. Didn't know where Keith was. What was he going to say if Keith answered? Um, yeah, it's raining, and I keep having nightmares, and I'm cold and lonely and my head hurts. That was so stupid.

"Lance, I'm here," Keith's voice from Lance's cupped and shaking hands. He sounded as though he'd been waiting for Lance to call. How could he possibly have known that Lance would call? "I got you."

"I'm sorry," Lance managed and then started sobbing. Really? What the hell was wrong with him? Whatever it was, he'd better knock it off. It hurt, and he didn't want Keith to hear him.

"What? No," Keith said. "Lance, you don't have to be sorry. Are . . are you crying?" Keith's voice took on strength. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"No," Lance gulped, but wasn't sure if the word were audible enough through the exhale.

"Your stitches are all fine?" Keith checked, asking the exact sorts of questions that Lance used to ask him, ruling out a physical problem as the reason for the call. The next peal of thunder interrupted him. "Are you . . . Lance, was that thunder? Is there a storm where you are?"

"Yeah," Lance answered. That question was easy. He pushed himself against the headboard, trying to get grounded, holding his head. He'd called because he wanted to talk to Keith; he could at least try to give him more than one word at a time.

"Oh," Keith said, as though that explained everything. "You're not alone, are you? Someone's there?"

"The cat," Lance offered, though it was too late to be casual.

"No, Lance, you shouldn't be by yourself." The sincere way that Keith said it made Lance want to cry again. He sounded like he actually understood. "But I guess that's why you called."

"It's fine," Lance assured, swallowing to make sure his throat didn't close on him. "I'm . . I'm just being stupid." So ridiculous that he could feel so lonely when Angelique and Fritz were only a few steps away. When he was with someone all the time. Stupid how he couldn't handle even the few hours of the night on his own. How he was wasting Keith's time about it.

"Lance, don't. It's not stupid. It makes sense; you've never liked being alone. I mean, think about it, you're a twin. I think needing to be with someone is programmed in your DNA or something. It's just who you are."

Lance lifted his head a little, blinking in the shadows. He'd never even thought of that. It had been so long ago; could that have any bearing on him now? And yet, it made sense. Sam butted him gently in the chest with his head as though encouraging him to lie down again. Release the tension in his muscles. Ignore the thunder outside.

"Is . . is that what's wrong?" Keith guessed. "Or part of it?"

"Nothing's wrong," Lance said, mostly to affirm it for himself, still reeling a little from what Keith had said about Rachel. But then it registered how ridiculous he sounded trying to say that nothing was wrong even though he'd called Keith in the middle of the night. "But nothing's right, either," he almost whispered.

"I get it," Keith agreed. "It's, um, it's hard to leave some of that behind, even when things are going good. It's hard to believe that they're going to stay good, you know? And even if you can do that, you think you're over it, that it shouldn't be that big of a deal, and then -" Keith trailed off, and Lance knew that he was remembering the times in his life when he'd experienced exactly what Lance was going through right now. The things that caused him to cry in his sleep. Lance wished Keith were physically in the room with him, that they could somehow comfort each other the way they'd been once.

"You all right, Keith?" Lance asked him. His default setting. Keith huffed.

"I'll answer that question after you do," Keith challenged. "Tell me what's going on. You're awake for a reason, probably a big one if you're calling me. What is it?"

"I called you first," Lance blurted out, wanting to make sure Keith knew that. Especially since the way he'd said it made it sound as though Keith figured he'd be the last person Lance would think to call. "You . . you said to call the first person I thought of, and that . . that was you. I trust you."

Keith sighed, and Lance wondered if he'd said something wrong. Put a responsibility on Keith that he didn't want. "Lance, God – you don't have to. Look, I'm sorry I said it if you think you have to prove it now."

"I . . no," Lance faltered. Because he was trying to prove it. But just saying it wasn't good enough. "That's not it. I called you . . . I called you because." What does trust look like? Patients communicate their needs. Fall. He'll catch you.

"Lance?" Keith prompted, sounding worried. As though he'd have to hang up and call someone else to come and physically check on him.

"Because I need you, Keith," Lance finished. "I keep having the same nightmare about what happened, and the wind never stops screaming outside. And Angelique and Fritz are great, but that apartment. There are so many memories in that apartment and now I can't go back there. And I can't go back to Cuba either, and I don't know how to say that to my family when I talk to them tomorrow. I've been . . been avoiding them for weeks. And I thought if anyone could understand any of that, it would be you."

"I don't know what you should say to your family," Keith allowed. "But I think it might be good to just say what you want."

"I don't think I know what I want anymore," Lance said gloomily. "Or . . maybe I know exactly what I want, but I don't think it's possible to have."

"Yeah," Keith agreed. "I do know how that feels."

"What?" Lance asked, intrigued. Keith had hinted at this before, this secret wish. Lance still wanted to give it to him.

"What is it?" Keith pushed against Lance's question, as though trying to pretend he hadn't heard him ask it. "The thing you think you can't have?"

You, Lance thought, but he didn't dare say it. That was a little too much trust. But he didn't want to lie either.

"I guess it's more that I want something back," Lance amended. "I want to go back to when we were all at my apartment together, when you were there all the time studying for your GED. That was just . . . my favorite memories are from that time. I wish I could go back."

"Well, you're going to California, I heard," Keith suggested. "So, it won't be at your apartment, but at least you'll be with Hunk and Pidge again."

"Yeah, but you won't be there," Lance lamented, then worried he'd made it sound wrong. It didn't help that Keith went silent after he'd said it. Lance held the phone tighter, like he could hold on to Keith that way. "Keith?"

"I'm here, Lance," Keith repeated, and those words in his voice were so soothing that Lance almost forgot that he wanted to ask him something.

"Do you have any idea when the Air Force will approve your leave request?" Because I want to see you. It may be a horrible idea, but I just can't stand how long it's been.

"Trust me, if I knew whose desk it was sitting on waiting for a signature, I'd be banging the door down," Keith seethed, though it sounded a little empty to Lance. Would he really? Had he even put in a request? Because it seemed like it was taking so long for it to route through all the channels. Was the military really that slow? Especially since Keith had already been taken off active duty to heal from his own injuries. It wasn't like they would miss him, right? So why would it take so long?

"I guess you can't really rush the government, can you?" Lance said, and he knew he sounded too hurt over this, but he was hurt. He was trying not to, but he couldn't help but wonder if Keith really did want to see him after all.

"I think," now Keith sounded extremely uncomfortable. "I think they want to wait until after the paperwork goes through for –" he cut off, as if he wished he hadn't said that.

"For what?" Lance asked, too curious to let him get away with the slip. "Keith? Paperwork for what?"

"Nothing," Keith said, and Lance could hear the shrug in it. "I wish everyone would just forget about it."

Now Lance was confused, and also wonderfully distracted from the dark and rain. He tried to think what Keith would want everyone to forget about that would also require paperwork, but the only thing he knew was that last month Keith had been in a plane crash. Since that was all he had to go on, he thought he'd fish for better information with it.

"Does it have to do with what happened last month? When you saved your wingman?" Lance asked gently, not speaking that woman's name. He really did want to forget about her, and he figured he was allowed to now that he knew she wasn't, and had never been, romantically involved with Keith. "You're not in trouble about it, are you? Because that's just –"

"No," Keith interrupted, and the tone of his voice told Lance to back off. "I'm not in trouble. I'm being awarded a damn Purple Heart. It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of."

Purple Heart? Lance ran through his military database to see if he had anything about that. He thought, but he wasn't sure, he thought that was the award given for being wounded in combat. But he understood why Keith wouldn't want to be recognized for that. Lance could see how Keith would hate being given the same award for his stitches that Acxa was probably receiving for being crushed straight out of her career. But Keith, Lance wanted to say. You were hurt too. Differently, but it still happened. And what happened to Acxa, even though Lance had to agree that it had been much worse, knowing that and seeing it wouldn't make Keith's wounds hurt any less. Wouldn't speed up or lengthen his recovery time. The fact that the Purple Heart was awarded no matter the level of injury was actually a positive thing to Lance's mind. He wished he knew how to say that.

"I don't think it's stupid," Lance ventured, hoping to say it right so it wouldn't offend Keith. "Pain is such a personal thing. I think it's good that your military recognizes all of it."

"You can have it then," Keith offered, slightly harsh.

"Keith?" Lance said, wanting to change the subject. He wasn't sure he'd be able to make Keith understand, especially since Lance was certain he didn't understand either. "What do you like best about being a pilot?"

He heard Keith take a deep breath, all the gears in his head rearranging around the shift. "The sky," he eventually said after a long pause. "Is this . . will this help you?"

"Yes," Lance said, certain. "I want to hear about your plane."

He wanted to hear Keith talk about his passion the way that Hunk and Pidge talked about theirs. He wanted to understand it better, learn that language. Keith faltered at first, unused to being asked to describe things in detail, and Lance knew he didn't really talk much anyway. But it turned out that Lance didn't need him to for very long. The ease in his voice as he described the cockpit, the aerodynamics of the system, and then the pride as he described the top speeds he'd been able to achieve, the unlimited, boundary-less world he navigated. Lance knew that Keith did so many difficult and dangerous things, but the way he spoke about flying through them made it seem as though he was completely at peace.

"I wish I could fly with you," Lance heard himself whisper, drowsy. The pain and fear tamed to nothing. He knew he was falling asleep, but he hadn't yet warned Keith it was a probability. He wanted a few more minutes.

"Te llevaré."

Lance knew he'd remembered it wrong the next morning, when he woke up with the phone in his hands, a new text message from Keith that said Lance had fallen asleep while he'd been talking to him. Keith wished him a good night and said he could call him again whenever he needed to. He knew he'd remembered it wrong, but the memory stuck with him anyway. Keith speaking Spanish, promising to take him.

Author's Note: I don't really have one for down here, but can you see why I needed the chapter? We've got to get Lance and Keith talking together when neither one of them feel like the other feels obligated to. They need a real friendship to develop – they've got a good thing going, but it can be way stronger.

It's hard to describe, but I do know what I need here. Oh, but if you're bored waiting, go listen to Lindsey Sterling's Something Wild. I listen to it all the time now and just imagine Keith playing it for Lance. I think it speaks to what's going on right now pretty well.

Love you all! Until next time.