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.

43. Black Hole Counterbalance

Author's Note: I know. I've got some explaining to do. First of all, dear hearts who were hoping that I was on some kind of schedule. There is no schedule. This production is a steal-a-minute-every-chance-you-can-get-it sort of thing. And while I could blame the kids being out of school or all the times I had to travel out of state to give keynote speeches and do workshops or my regular full-time job . . . the truth is I've been STUCK HERE.

And now, after what – two months of waiting on your part, I'm delivering you a chapter that I'm still not sure of. One that I've written and started over so many times. I wish I had an answer as to why I keep doing that – I know it's annoying for all of us. That's why I'm posting this . . .even though it's not my favorite chapter. I'm not even sure if I'll keep it in the final version of this. But for the sake of moving forward, I'm going to post it. There are some parts I like, and some I think are important. Keep being patient with me.

Chapter Forty-Three: Black Hole Counterbalance

Lance remained in bed, absently petting Sam and running through his memory, trying to pinpoint if Keith had actually been speaking Spanish or if his drained and drugged brain had just automatically translated what he'd really said. He'd almost convinced himself to call Keith and test him when his phone rang anyway with the number from Varadero, right on time. Lance had half-expected his family to give up on him after so many weeks of failed attempts. But there it was. The number from the church office. He knew if Allura were here she would remind him not to feel guilty, but it seemed that no international phone call could be complete without a sting of it. Lance redialed the number after the three rings, knowing he had to, though he had no idea what he was going to say.

Tell them what you want, Keith had suggested, but that seemed outrageous. And selfish. Especially after being missing for so long. He worried that he wasn't going to be able to say anything. He'd kept secrets for a reason. What would it do if he let them all go now?

To Lance's surprise and relief, Veronica picked up first. And though she'd always been the most understanding and supportive sibling about Lance's desire to leave the country, as soon as she realized that Lance had actually called her back, she plunged into a quick tirade that pitched strongly back and forth between insulting him for his absence, for making everyone worry, and then apologizing for pushing him away and earnestly promising not to do it again. It went on for a good long while before the storm finally calmed enough for her to even ask him where he'd been.

"Which week?" Lance timidly asked, stalling, trying to pinpoint how many weeks it had been since he'd last talked to them. At least two. Three? So much had happened. Luis was going to kill him.

"¡Comemierda!" Veronica spat at him, and Lance winced at the tone but smiled at the insult, remembering all the things he'd done during their early teen years that would frustrate her into screaming that word. To the point that it had almost become a rather vile pet name.

"Hey now," Lance soothed and teased. "Is that any way to talk in a church?"

Veronica made a funny sound that started as a growl, dipped dangerously close to a cry, and then died out as a puff of a laugh. So many emotions in one held breath, and Lance felt them all. Felt the distance in the blip of static on the line.

"Where's Mom?" Lance asked in that silence. Because if Veronica was swearing at him like that it meant Eva probably wasn't there.

"She's with Marco and Isabel," Veronica said. "Helping with baby Rachel."

"Is everything ok?" Lance wondered anxiously, his mind already scanning through the myriad of issues that could happen for a mother and baby. Though Rachel was almost six weeks old now. Still, something had to be very wrong for his mother to skip Mass. He sat up carefully, putting himself into a position where he felt more in control, though he knew it was nothing but a mind trick. There was nothing he could do from here.

"Nothing too bad. Isabel is sick, but you know Marco is useless. Luis took Diego home with him last night. I'm sure he'll be here with all the boys soon, though." Veronica didn't sound too upset, so Lance borrowed her calm. But he still wanted to know more about his sister-in-law.

"What are Isabel's symptoms?" Lance went into diagnosis mode automatically, which actually made Veronica laugh.

"You really do sound like a doctor," Veronica told him. "But you don't have to be so serious. She's got . . . I don't know the word for it, but it's that sickness that nursing moms get? Paloma had it once too with Mateo, I think."

"Mastitis," Lance supplied the name for her, easing a little bit.

"That's the one. Mom has her drinking liters of water and applying heat and massage, and she's taking care of everything, so all Isabel has to do is relax and nurse Rachel all the time. She started feeling feverish yesterday morning, but she'll probably be over it by tomorrow or so."

"Probably," Lance agreed, realizing that he didn't have any other treatments to add to the list Veronica had given him. They already had it handled. A crisis started and completed without him. One of who knew how many. "But call me if she isn't getting better."

"Will you really call me back if I do?" The sharpness in the question made it clear that it wasn't casual.

Yeah, ok. They had to get to this point sooner or later. But if Lance had to explain himself, he was glad that it would be to Veronica alone. She could handle it and then know how to best filter the information to the others. Pathetic, Lance belittled himself. Hiding behind your sister. But she was the only one on the phone and she had asked.

"Veronica," Lance began, preparing himself for what he was about to do and how he should go about it. "I've been . . . I haven't been very honest with you guys for a while."

"I know," Veronica almost snapped, but then calmed herself down. "It's not too late to fix that," she invited, confirming to Lance why she was his favorite sibling. "You could be honest with me now."

"Yeah," Lance agreed, though she made it sound easier than it was really going to be. "Just . . . can you wait to yell at me until the end?"

"No promises," Veronica returned, and Lance decided he deserved that. He started explaining what happened from the beginning of June, when Allura moved out. When he'd been left on his own and things had started to go downhill for him. He kept his voice flat, quick details only, kept his eyes on his bracelets, the red and the blue. And he talked about the disaster of a roommate that his family had never heard of. The people who had invaded Lance's apartment that he had never sent a photo reference for. Somehow, Lance managed to tell their names to Veronica. She did well, listening patiently, until Lance reached the point in the narrative that he knew would be the hardest to say and to hear. The parts that would be impossible to breeze through dismissively, though Lance knew he was being pretty vague on the more gruesome details. To the point where Veronica paused him for clarification.

"Lance, wait, you said they hurt you? How badly? When was this? Is this why you couldn't talk last week?" She didn't sound mad, but there was more worry in her tone than earlier when she'd been talking about Isabel. Lance really didn't want to tell her how bad it had been. But somehow he found it in himself to answer the questions. It had been over a week ago now. Last Sunday he'd been sleeping in this same bed at this time, slowly bleeding without anyone knowing about it. He told Veronica about the stairs and running away in the rain, about finding the payphone and calling for help, and then about being taken to the ER for surgery.

"But Allura didn't say anything!" Veronica wailed, as though Lance would be the one to lie to her. Like she would much prefer Allura's explanation.

"She didn't know at the time she was talking to you," Lance excused them both. "No one knew until later in the afternoon."

"So you just had surgery last week?" Veronica repeated, wrapping her head around this. "How are you now?" She gasped as sudden revelation hit her. "Are you still in the hospital?"

"No," Lance said, trying to calm her down. She was actually taking it better than he thought. "No, I'm staying at my boss's house. You know, Doña Angelique? She and her husband have been taking care of me. They said . . . they've offered to rent me their guest room. Things are getting better. I'm ok."

"Oh sure," Veronica said sarcastically. Lance heard her muttering something. Something about America and violence and how she didn't know it would be even more dangerous than in Cuba.

"Really," Lance confirmed, though he knew she hadn't been expecting an answer to whatever she was saying to herself. "It's . . really much better now." So much better. And not just his physical wounds.

"How am I supposed to tell Mom any of this?" Veronica asked helplessly. "I should make you do it."

"I will," Lance allowed. It was asking too much of Veronica to be the bearer of news like that. It wasn't her fault that she was the only one available to be at the church this morning. She shouldn't be punished for not giving up on Lance with a chore like this. She sighed. Lance could imagine her in the church office. She probably had her glasses drooping from her fingers, her eyes squeezed shut.

"No, I'll figure it out," Veronica eventually offered, and Lance sagged a little in gratitude that he wouldn't have to repeat it again to his mother or his brothers. "But Lance?"

"Yeah?" Lance prompted when the silence after his name went on too long. What was she hesitating for?

"It's still better, isn't it? America? Even though this happened, you probably still want to live there, don't you?"

He paused in his answer, looking around his new room. He could see his old suitcase near the closet, the one he'd brought with him. Keith's birthday gift sat unmailed on the desk. Items that didn't haunt him in the sunlight. The new orientation becoming familiar to him.

"I do," he finally said, confirming what his family had probably guessed a long time ago, a chain breaking from his heart. "I'm sorry."

"Why? Lance, come on, we all know that winning that scholarship was the best thing that could have happened to you. What would you have done if you stayed here?"

Lance wasn't sure how to answer. If he'd stayed, his choices for futures were few. He'd likely just do what generations of his family had done before him. "I would have been there," he offered, his voice lifeless. "Could have been there to help you all."

"Lance, what are you talking about? You are helping us. No one does more for this family than you do. You have to know that, right?" Veronica sounded surprised, but Lance didn't know why. He'd taken himself away from them, split their family apart. He did what he could but knew there was nothing he could send in the mail that would make up for his absence. "I guess that's our fault if you didn't. Is that why you're so apologetic when you send us things? You don't think you're doing enough?"

"I left," Lance repeated, like it was the greatest sin he could have committed. Like nothing he did for them would ever make up for it.

"Not really," Veronica said, opening up another point of view that Lance had never looked at before. "Leaving is when you pack up and never look back. If you'd really left, you wouldn't call every week or mail your nephews presents. People who abandon their families don't send them money every month to make sure no one goes hungry. You don't live here, but you didn't leave."

"Huh," Lance breathed, the only thing he could get out because Veronica's speech brought him to tears, and it still hurt to cry. He scrunched up protectively on the bed. Did they all see it that way or was this just Veronica?

"Lance?" Veronica asked him, noticing his distress. Sam, who was rarely far from Lance's side, rubbed his head against his hand, as if he knew that Lance needed the touch.

"I'm still here," Lance wheezed. "So you guys . . . you really aren't mad that I left?"

"Mad? Of course not!" Veronica sounded surprised again. Lance decided he'd better focus on breathing without tearing up his ribcage. "I know Luis and Marco give you a hard time, but that's more jealousy than anything if you ask me. I think it's amazing what you're doing. Mom does too. She shows your pictures and reads your letters to everybody; she's so proud of you."

"But," Lance protested, though he didn't know why he was fighting this. Maybe because he'd had the idea in his head so long that his family all held it against him for leaving them. That wasn't something he could just put down. "She . . she keeps saying –" It seemed all that Eva ever said was how much she missed him and wished he'd come back soon.

"I think we did it wrong," Veronica confessed. "We wanted you to know how much we missed you, but it came out like we didn't want you to leave. And lately, before you stopped calling completely, you always sounded so tired and sad. We didn't know what to do to help you except to ask you to come home so we could take care of you the way you've been taking care of us. We thought maybe that it was getting too hard for you to be so far away. Then when you stopped calling us back, I knew we'd messed up. We were asking too much of you, but you didn't know how to tell us. That's the only time I ever thought that you were leaving us behind."

"I would never leave you behind," Lance vowed. Especially now that he was starting to understand their true feelings about him living outside of Cuba. They not only approved but wanted him to stay. His mother read his letters to people? He tried to picture that. "I'm sorry I've been away so long."

"It's ok. I think I know why you didn't come back," Veronica said, and Lance wanted her to explain it because he didn't even think he understood.

"You do?" He prompted, watching the shadows in the room shrink as the weak October sunlight dragged itself slowly into the window. The start of another day.

"It would have been too hard," Veronica answered, casually, as if these thoughts and realizations had come to her easily. Maybe they had; Veronica had always been the smartest of the McClain children. "If you'd come back, I think you would have felt like you couldn't leave again. But that would ruin everything you worked to do, so you didn't risk it at all and stayed where you were. And I know your original plan was to come back when you were finished and had your medical degree, but somehow I don't think you could ever live here again. Not after all you've been able to experience there. But that's ok because I think it's best for everyone if you stay where you are."

"I think . . . I think you're right," Lance agreed, grateful that she could put it all into words when he had never been able to organize his emotions for himself. Grateful that she seemed to agree with him.

"Of course I'm right," Veronica drawled, and Lance smiled even as he wiped his eyes clean. He was going to have to get a grip on the crying or he was going to end up with another headache. He could already feel it starting up again. "But is there anything we can do for you? Are you going to be ok?"

"I will," Lance insisted, wanting to assure them both, not wanting her to worry. He felt close to her again, like the gap he once thought was breaking him from his family had really just been an intangible shadow that was now shrinking away in the dawn.

They talked a little longer; Veronica taking on the role of big sister very seriously as she confirmed over again that Lance really was safe, that he had a place to live, that he wasn't alone anymore. Lance reminded her that he'd sent over pictures of Dr. Delacroix and Officer Guist before, several times, that they weren't new names or faces in his life. He emphasized how much he trusted them, how living here with them was going to be a good move and how he was looking forward to it. He promised to start writing again, send more pictures, return phone calls. Promised not to hide it if anything was wrong. And when the conversation closed, Lance's head was foggy, but his heart was at rest. As though something had finally been resolved.

He got up but didn't bother getting dressed. It wasn't like he was going anywhere. Lance made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sam trotted eagerly alongside him, plopping himself expectantly beside his food bowl when they arrived and yowling at Lance until he deposited a fresh scoopful on top of what was already there. While Sam ate breakfast, Lance looked around the kitchen, inspecting it from the rather new vantage point. This was the first time he'd been up before anyone else, the first time he'd stood alone in the early morning quiet of the kitchen. He normally watched from the table, but he still knew where Fritz and Angelique kept the coffee.

He moved slow and deliberate, pausing many times as he noticed the finer details of the area, things he couldn't see from the table. The nesting glass measuring spoons on the windowsill above the counter, the handles shaped like duck heads, more decoration than utensils. The brand of soap on the counter, the woven rag rugs on the floor in front of the stove and the sink, the handles of the cabinets, the details in the countertop. Lance smoothed his palms over the old wood, ran his fingers over the faucet, quietly opened the cupboards, familiarizing himself with the locations of the coffee mugs and spoons. He was surprised to find his own dishes from Stony Island, tucked away in their own dedicated space, waiting for him. His old faithful coffeemaker had a place next to a Kitchen Aid like he actually lived here. After a long minute of internal debate, after all there was already a perfectly functional coffeemaker already on the counter, he pulled his old one out and filled it with grounds, pushing the familiar buttons that would start it brewing. The sight, scent, and sound of it activated sensory memory in Lance, something that hurt and soothed him simultaneously because it reminded him of being home while also emphasizing that he really wasn't anywhere close. A partially effective drug, alleviating only one symptom.

Sam finished eating and retreated to the couch in the other room, still visible if Lance were standing in a certain spot. Part of Lance wanted to join him, take his coffee and sit with him. Curl up and rest, listening to the wind outside, promising yet another October storm sometime today. Or maybe all of today. The quiet of the living room called to him, but so did the kitchen window and the stovetop. Lance put a palm against his forehead, pushing against the headache that hadn't decided yet if it were going to disappear or drive Lance back to bed. He looked at the couch, where he'd spent most of last week. He found himself equally tempted and disgusted.

Because he couldn't keep doing this; it was time to start moving again. He'd learned so much recently. About himself, his friends, and his family. Time to do something with it. He couldn't sit on the couch forever. Couldn't sit still forever. He'd wanted his life to change for months, and now it was waiting for him. His sister was waiting for new pictures. His friends were waiting for him to get strong enough to visit – that wasn't going to happen if he didn't start standing up and taking care of himself again. Lance turned away from the couch and began pulling things out of the kitchen cabinets and fridge.

Breakfast was simple but ready when Angelique and Fritz came down a little later, and they both reacted to Lance making it with different emotions of surprise. Fritz looked thrilled, as though he'd been waiting for Lance to wake up and be a real person again. As though he had plans that couldn't happen until Lance started to stand up on his own. Meanwhile, Angelique looked guarded, more hesitant, and Lance could feel her eyes on him all the time as he moved.

Despite her scrutiny and the discomfort, he wanted to keep moving. Wanted to be on the other side of his ordeal, wanted to put some distance to it. Except he discovered quickly just how hard it was going to be. He found himself standing near the windows of the house, looking out onto the wet streets, inspecting the bedraggled leaves still clinging desperately to the trees, shivering. He put on another sweater and followed Fritz for the first time into the basement where he handed him tools and held things steady as Fritz worked on the new shelving units for the items he'd brought with him that didn't have a place on the upper floors. Tools, fishing gear, a surprising quantity and variety of ammunition. Fritz seemed to enjoy Lance's company as he talked about his past, about the pieces of his life that he was tucking into new homes here. Angelique called down to them often to make sure Lance wasn't over doing it. He assured her he wasn't even though he knew perfectly well that he was. But he was getting tired of waiting. There had to be a change.

It rained on and off all day, messing with Lance's head. Pain ebbing and flowing with the pressure. He kept it to himself, hoping he could force it into submission by ignoring the symptoms and increasing his blood flow, though the discomfort continually increased as Lance's energy waned throughout the day. By dinnertime, Lance could barely hold his head up, struggled against the pain-induced nausea to eat, and he finally excused himself to take a long, hot shower afterward, still trying to counteract what the weather was doing outside. Trying to bolster himself for another long, stormy night. Could he handle another night? Should he call Keith again? What would Keith think if Lance called him two nights in a row? Was that moving forward or backward? Trusting or needy? He was so blurry and confused.

He dried himself off and got into clean, snuggly clothes, still thinking about Keith. He wanted to call him, but what would he talk about? He wanted to talk, well, mostly he wanted to listen to Keith talk, but he also wanted to pull the heated blanket over his head and hide there until the storm finally blew over because what kind of quality conversation could he really have when he felt like this? It was such a strange feeling, wanting to be still and quiet so nothing would hurt and also wanting to run out the front door to get away from it. As if that would work. It was so frustrating to know that his recovery was still so fragile that he would find it so impossible to make any progress through it.

Lance looked at his phone, answering a few texts that had trickled in with his palm pressed against his eye. Doing just fine, Allura, though I wouldn't complain if the sun came back a little sooner than June. The rain is starting to get to me. Hey Hunk, I used that one engineering trick you showed me to help Officer Guist put up some shelves today, thanks a lot. What's with the packing list, Pidge? Do I really need a suit?

She answered almost immediately that yes, he absolutely must bring a suit. And swimming trunks. And he was not allowed to pack any scrubs. Then she told him exactly how many hours he had left before his flight left even though it was still a week away and admonished him to go to bed.

Lance knew that was a good idea. But the migraine had grown into something he could no longer ignore, his whole body aching from all that he'd done with it today. Even though it hadn't been all that much or all that strenuous, he knew he would need a last dose of pain medication from downstairs before he tried to sleep.

He leaned on the stair railing on his way down since it was getting hard to see clearly. And even though he wasn't moving very fast, he slowed his steps even more as he heard Angelique and Fritz talking to each other at the table, low and intense, and suddenly going to the kitchen for meds transitioned into creeping closer without being noticed as he realized they were talking about him. Or was it arguing?

"He'll be all right," Fritz pointed out, his voice somehow serious and eager at the same time. "He did great today."

"He forced it today," Angelique countered, not convinced. "Harder than he should have. I'm surprised he didn't pass out at the table." Lance kept quiet in the shadows near the television, out of the splash of light coming from the dining area, steadying himself against the wall. The open floor plan of the house wasn't making it easy for him to be close enough to listen in unseen, and he wasn't sure how long he could stand still here without throwing up. But he wanted to hear at least a little more before they knew he was there. Angelique sounded pissed. Or scared. It was always hard to tell the difference with her.

"Ang, it doesn't matter at this point. It has to be done. In any other case, it would have been done already. The truth is if we don't go there, they're coming here. And I know you don't want that."

Angelique made a distressed, frustrated sound that made Lance want to rush clumsily into the kitchen and hug her from behind to ease her. Maybe he did want to stop this discussion. Whatever it was they were talking about. What was Fritz talking about?

"As his doctor," Angelique began, but Fritz didn't let her play that card.

"You're not keeping him from this because you're his doctor," Fritz said gently, and Angelique made the noise again. "And it's not really a choice anymore. We put it off too long already. The question isn't whether he will or won't do this tomorrow; it's whether it will be here or at the station and when I'm going to tell him about it. I want to give him some notice. He'll need at least a little time to prepare because even I know that springing it on him last minute will be too much of a shock."

"Fritz," Dr. Delacroix protested, surprisingly helpless, and suddenly Lance understood what was going on. Fritz was talking about taking him to the prosecutor's office to provide an official statement about the last night Lance had been in his apartment. The details of Damien's attack and the extent of the damage. Things that Lance was dedicatedly trying not to think about. Things that haunted him at night and unexpectedly made him tremble at any moment they caught up to him. Like now. He'd just gone over it with Veronica this morning, and even barely glossing over those events had been stressful, but he doubted the police would allow him to be comfortingly vague. Lance felt his arm slipping around his torso, holding himself. And here he thought he was going to be able to move forward.

But now it had become even too difficult to take the final steps into the kitchen to retrieve the medicine he needed. He couldn't go in there, not anymore, so Lance retreated instead. Unsteady and unsure, he backtracked in silence all the way up the stairs and into his room. The heated blanket was turned up all the way, but it didn't make any difference. Lance couldn't stop shivering. He clenched his teeth, but that just locked his jaw and stiffened his neck down through his shoulder, reminding him of the the night he'd walked through the rain. Shit. Right back where he'd started. He'd tried so hard today, too. He'd talked to Veronica. Used the engineering technique. He couldn't forget to pack his swimsuit. Because there was something on the other side of this. There was going to be a life on the other side of this. Please, let me get away from this.

"Lance?" Officer Guist called him from maybe as far away as the desk, though it sounded much farther than that. Like he was calling down a tunnel, a halo and an echo that shouldn't exist. "Everything ok?"

Lance trembled under the blanket and wondered if he could feign sleep well enough to stall any conversations about tomorrow, but he doubted it. The question in his name wasn't checking whether or not he was awake; there was more concern to it, and maybe a little guilt too. His attempt at eavesdropping hadn't gone as unnoticed as he hoped. The blanket pulled slowly away from his face, but the change in brightness gagged him. He pulled in tight and clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to breathe deep enough to tame the nausea, feeling ridiculous.

"I knew it," Angelique commented, though her words were far from smug. Lance went to sit up, needed to quickly, and was relieved that Angelique could read him well enough to anticipate what was going on. She handed him an empty trash can just in time for him to throw up the few bites of dinner he'd managed to swallow, his entire blood stream turned to ice.

"Pushed yourself a little too hard, too soon," Angelique admonished him, rubbing his back as he finished. He whimpered, hoping he hadn't broken open any of the stitches, hating how she was right but so completely wrong at the same time. He hadn't forced it all that much. It really had been a good day. Mostly. It was. Right up until the rain showers had settled into a real storm at sunset and he'd heard Fritz and started remembering all that he'd have to talk about tomorrow. When he remembered that this wasn't over no matter how much he wanted it to be. Right up until he'd clenched his teeth and shocked himself back to that phone booth. Would he ever leave that phone booth?

"It's just a headache," Lance tried to reassure her, though he was worn out and listless as she gently pushed him into bed. She didn't seem convinced in the least and didn't even allow him to rinse his mouth out before coming at him with a thermometer.

"It's never 'just' anything with you," Angelique quipped, lifting his shirt to check on his healing incisions as she waited for the reading. Lance felt his skin prickle under her fingers but could tell from how she smoothed her hands over him that nothing had torn open. Despite how it had felt. "Are you experiencing any shortness of breath? Back pain?"

Lance couldn't answer her until she'd taken back the thermometer. He knew what she was checking for. Symptoms that meant his body was having an adverse reaction to the blood transfusion or that an infection had settled into the stitches. Nothing that was actually the real problem.

"No," he promised, dully, distracted. "It's the weather, Doña, really." The weather and the memories. All those buildings in the dark. Spencer's stupid haircut and Damien's fists. The loneliness. How he was going to have to relive it at least one more time. Or maybe all the time for the rest of his life. "I'm fine." I really want to be fine.

"You can't even sit up straight," she pointed out, rather ruthlessly, and Lance had to allow that. "I decide if you're fine." He wanted to shake his head at her, but he didn't dare. He knew there was nothing really wrong. His blood type made him a universal recipient. He could receive literally any other type of blood safely; there shouldn't be any need to worry about reactions. Especially not a whole week after the transfusions had been administered. Still. There were always exceptions, and she was looking hard for signs of them. Signs of something that she could treat. It was the only kind of pain she knew how to heal. Lance squinted up at her, a glimmer of understanding coming together for him. Did she want something to be wrong with him? No, not wrong, but something that would allow her to keep him here tomorrow, that would make it so he wouldn't have to go to the station. Were they both avoiding that? Maybe they were both feeling helpless. Angelique frowned at the thermometer. "But you definitely don't have a fever."

From her tone Lance inferred that his temperature was still lower than it was supposed to be. He didn't have an answer for that, though he did wish he could figure out how to stay warm. He'd never guessed being out one night when it wasn't even freezing would have this kind of lasting effect on his system. It just didn't make sense. He wasn't sure if his life ever would again.

It had been a good day. He'd made breakfast. Learned about fly fishing.

"It's just a headache," Lance reiterated, miserable. It'll be fine. The other side of this is full of sunlight. I just have to get there. Would anyone allow him to get there?

"I think I believe you," Angelique gave in, though Lance could hear how much she hated to. "I'll be back in a minute with your medication then."

"Thank you," Lance expressed his gratitude, closing his eyes as her fingers trailed down and then off his shoulder. He heard her leave the room.

"Lance," Officer Guist called him again, much closer this time. Lance wondered where he'd been standing throughout all of that. How he could spend so much of his time silently to one side, on guard, waiting for the moment he needed to intervene. No wonder he got along with Shiro so well. "I need to talk to you. I know now's not a great time, but we're running out of it, so do you think you can listen?"

"I already know," Lance sighed, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn't need the trash can anymore. Tomorrow you're taking me to the station where I'll be questioned. It's going to be awful, but there's no choice. I didn't do anything wrong. You told me that, and I trust you. But still . . .

"I know you know, but I wanted to apologize for how you found out," Fritz said, even though Lance wished he wouldn't. What difference did it really make? "Angie and I have been going back and forth on it for a while, and she's put in extension requests up to the limit. Believe me, son, I don't want you to have to go through it either, but it's the law. It's how we put this guy away. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Lance breathed, wondering when Fritz would have come clean about this. In the morning? In the car on the way there?

"Angie's worried," Fritz continued, and Lance tried to pay more attention because it was obvious that Fritz had moved on to a more important topic. His tone had darkened. "And part of me thinks she's being way overprotective, especially from our time together this afternoon, but now . . . hell, kid, I don't know. I guess she would understand better, wouldn't she?"

"Fritz," Lance began, pausing to swallow, wishing Angelique would hurry with the pills and something to drink them with. His mouth felt sticky. "What are you talking about?"

"You," Fritz returned, quickly and not without exasperation. "Sometimes I think Angie's reading you wrong or looking at you too hard, but . . . then I wonder too."

"About what?" Lance asked even though he didn't want to. Crazy how he'd almost rather talk about what was happening tomorrow, what the protocol should be and how he should speak to the prosecutor. He wanted instructions from Fritz, like he'd received outside of Judge Kolivan's office right before he'd been called in to talk about Keith. The conversation now didn't even feel like a conversation, and Lance wasn't sure if that was because he wasn't hearing everything or if Fritz was truly making a mess out of saying it.

"If you're really going to be ok," Fritz put it out there in a burst of almost accusation, and Lance could guess why. If Lance wasn't ok, if he couldn't recover from this, then that would affect Angelique in a negative way, and consequently Fritz. It was the same thing over and over again. Get up, keep moving. It doesn't matter how you feel; you have obligations, a long list of responsibilities. You signed up for this life; this was your own choice. Maybe it really would have been better if Lance hadn't found the phone booth.

Bile rushed up his throat at the memory and even though it was disgusting, he managed to choke it back down. He wished it wasn't raining, that his head didn't hurt. This was hard enough to talk about without all the extra pain. There was something about being trapped in his mind right now that made it hard to think that there would ever be anything to look forward to.

"I wonder that too," Lance whispered, surprising himself. He didn't think he'd meant to say that, though it was the truth. So much of him was healing well. The incisions, the transfusion, the paperwork for his leave from the med program, his new room in this safe place, his relationship with his family. Even the court case was technically going exactly as it was supposed to. But even though everything looked hopeful, everything right on track, there was still this . . . emptiness to it. Like the purpose had melted. What did it matter, really? The change in location? The return to the program. There would still be rain, then snow. Lance would stay half-frozen and alone, no matter what he did.

Angelique returned, eyes scanning them both, gauging the new feeling resting in the space, studying what had changed while she'd been gone. The room filled with the scent of peppermint from the mug of hot tea she carried in one hand. In the other she had a glass of water and the entire bottle of Lance's pain pills.

"I'm sorry," she apologized to Lance as she carefully set down the mug and glass on the desk in order to free up her hands to open the bottle. The words raised the hair at the back of Lance's neck. It sounded strange from her. He didn't like it. He just wanted things to go back to normal. No, not quite normal. He wanted . . . the medicine and sleep. And sunlight. And . . .

"It doesn't matter," Lance heard himself say, his head hanging. He heard Angelique make a tiny huffing sound and knew that they'd gone somehow backward. Whatever progress he'd fought for today, for the last week, had been lost in the last couple hours because of his drained energy and miserably resigned attitude. And Lance found that he didn't even really care.

He let Angelique fuss over him, accepting the pain pills and water with appreciation. He let her smooth his hair from his face and rest her hand against his forehead. He caught Fritz looking at him, not quite angrily or with any scorn, but there was a certain disappointment in the corners of his eyes. Lance wished he had more energy, more conviction. He wished that they would leave him alone but also feared that they would. He held the mug of tea close, inhaling the soothing, sharp scent, letting small sips of it help settle his stomach. This is how it's going to be. One step forward and three steps back. Lance closed his eyes, knowing he was making things hard for Angelique. Knowing his actions were stressing her out. That him acting like this was what had prompted her to beg Fritz not to tell him about the prosecutor, to do whatever she had to in order to push that task as far into the future as possible. Because she thought he couldn't handle it, that he was too delicate. He was proving her right. But he was too tired to try anymore.

There was more talk, attempts at comfort, but Lance wasn't participating much. He did thank Angelique for the tea; it was really helping. He continued to drink it, resting his head against the headboard between mouthfuls, wondering if he would ever feel better. He thought Angelique asked Fritz if there was anything that could be done; if there was any way to exempt Lance from the proceedings. Apparently there wasn't, and Fritz mentioned something cryptic about how what was happening here was not the same as before. Lance didn't understand that, but the way Angelique stiffened after she heard it decided him against asking. He closed his eyes, but not before slipping his hand into Angelique's. He didn't know why, but he thought she could use the support, even more than he did. She tightened her strong fingers against his, letting him know that whatever was going on had only been prompted by Lance, but it ran much deeper.

"Hey," Fritz nudged him gently aware, taking his empty mug, and Lance blinked up at him. He hadn't even noticed how far he'd spaced out. He was actually surprised that Fritz and Angelique were still in the room. "You have enough energy to talk to Keith?"

"What? Yeah," Lance answered blearily, shifting sluggishly in the bed, realizing that Fritz was holding his phone. That it must have rang without Lance even noticing. Which meant Keith had called him. A little rush of something shivered through Lance's stomach, but not in a completely unpleasant way. He took the phone as Angelique stood up from the bed. She removed her hand from Lance's hand and his knee, making him realize that she'd been touching him all this time and he hadn't noticed that either. Had he fallen asleep? It felt like he had, but did that mean Angelique and Fritz had just watched him? For how long?

Fritz took his wife's arm to escort her out of the room to give Lance and Keith some privacy to talk. Lance tried to pretend he didn't see the concern in her face as she turned away from him. They left with whispered assurances that they'd be close if he needed anything and that everything would be ok tomorrow. Lance nodded to them, lifting the phone, more than ready to shove all of that into a corner in order to talk to Keith.

"Hi, Lobito," Lance said into the receiver, gathering all his weighted limbs so he could sit up more, glad that Keith couldn't see him. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to remember the last time he'd shaved.

"Lance? What happened? You sound like shit," Keith told him, and somehow the concern in Keith's voice didn't bother Lance at all. Concern from Keith was different than worry from Angelique. It was clearer? Pure? Guilt-free? Lance decided it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Keith had called him. "Are you sick or something?"

"No," Lance answered, noticing that the medicine had dulled everything way down by this point, leaving him heavy and fuzzy. He heard Keith take a frustrated breath on the line, and he bit his lip. Keith thought he was lying. Lance hated that. He also hated how Allura popped up in his mind, arms folded, eyebrows raised, and head tilted, shrugging her shoulders expectantly. The message was clear. Maybe he thinks you're lying because you are? Lance sighed, giving up. He wasn't lying, but he could be more open. "I'm getting over a migraine." Wow, did that sound lame.

"Oh," Keith responded, as though he understood all about it. "I can call back later; you probably want it quiet-"

"No," Lance broke in, quickly, actually lifting his hand a bit as though Keith could see it. "I took some medicine, so it's going away. I can talk." I think. I can definitely listen.

"You sure?" Keith double checked, then exhaled sharply, as though something had just occurred to him. "You get migraines a lot, don't you?"

"Well," Lance tried to think of a way to answer this but couldn't come up with anything other than the truth. Though he couldn't think why it would matter. "Just when it rains or if I don't get enough sleep, or . . ." Lance let himself trail off. Surely, Keith had better things to do than listen to Lance's migraine triggers.

"And this is what you sound like when you're talking through them," Keith muttered; Lance was only barely able to understand him. Like he was speaking to himself. "God."

"Keith? What is it?" Lance asked, trying to pull Keith back to him. Let's talk about something else. There's got to be a better subject.

"Just realizing how many times I've heard you sound like this on the phone and didn't understand what was going on," Keith responded, the words tight and terse. Was he mad? The chill in Lance deepened. Could he ever do anything right when it came to Keith? "You never said a damn thing."

"Please don't be mad," Lance didn't mean to beg, but it came out that way. But he couldn't stand for Keith to be angry with him. He'd never mentioned it to Keith because it wasn't all that important, especially when compared to what Keith had been going through.

"I'm not mad," Keith responded, though the tightness remained in his voice. He paused, breathing. Lance felt pressed to fill the silence with an explanation but didn't get the chance. "No, actually, I am. It pisses me off that you," Keith cut himself off with a growl, reconsidering his words. "Shit, Lance, how? How am I supposed to get through to you that you fucking matter? That you are the most important per—"

He cut off again, so abruptly Lance wondered if the call had dropped, leaving him blinking and partially numb. Definitely confused, but there was nothing new about that. Lance frequently felt confused when he talked to Keith. Pleased and pained at the same time. It was difficult to process.

"Keith?" Lance called into the quiet. Did you hang up? Did you leave me? What did I even do? Why are you upset? He slouched down under the heating blanket, resting his head on his pillow, curling up into a ball. "I'm sorry." I don't know how to not be the way I am. I don't know how to not make you angry.

"No, I'm sorry," Keith said, much softer. Lance pictured him with one hand covering his face. "I shouldn't . . . did I just make it worse? Are you ok?"

And Lance knew that this time he needed to really answer that question. If he weren't one hundred percent honest with it, he might just lose Keith as a friend forever. Though he didn't feel it was quite fair. He'd asked Keith the same thing plenty of times and hadn't received an answer at all. Now Keith was demanding it? No, not demanding. He just really wanted to know. He wanted Lance to be open with him.

"Nothing hurts anymore," Lance said, genuine with his response, pushing himself to open up more. Trust even though it made Keith upset. "I'm just cold."

"You're cold?" Keith repeated, and the concern was back, no longer any trace of anger. "When did it start? You're sure you're not sick? That . . . that happens with blood transfusions sometimes, right? Maybe you should check your temperature. Make sure you don't have a fever."

The chill and confusion twisted up together around Lance. Keith sounded pretty worried about him, and still frustrated, but that had softened a little. It sounded more like Keith wanted to be closer, so he could see for himself what was going on with Lance. Like he wanted to help. The thought created a tiny warm spot in Lance's chest. He wasn't sure if it would be best to ignore it or nurture it, but since it had been so long since he'd felt anything like it, he decided to hold it as best he could.

"I definitely don't have a fever," Lance emphasized. "And believe me, Dr. Delacroix is more than paying attention. My temperature has been stuck at the lowest end of the normal range since –" And now it was Lance's turn to cut off. They both knew what since meant. In the pause, something else Keith had said came back to Lance, allowing him to turn the direction of the conversation. "Keith, how did you know that receiving a blood transfusion can cause a fever?"

Keith hesitated a second too long. "They . . . they mentioned it. The medics in Germany."

"Lobito?" Lance checked, because Keith wasn't being fair. If he wanted Lance to come clean and stop hiding things, then he'd better start doing it too.

"Two days," Keith shot out, like Lance would know what the exclamation meant. "I had a fever for two days after they gave me . . . it wasn't a big deal, but everybody freaked out because . . . I guess . ."

"Because your temperature was too high," Lance finished for him, smiling bitterly at those memories, at how high and how quickly Keith could spike a fever. "A low-grade fever to you is a medical emergency for everyone else. But it was just the two days? You're all right now?" It had been so long since Lance had even checked that. He used to get at least a partial update from Keith every day. Then he'd disappeared for a while. Then Lance had disappeared. He knew that Keith was farther along in his recovery by several weeks, but since Lance hadn't had a clear picture of what he'd gone through to begin with, he suddenly wasn't sure that Keith hadn't been suffering all this time with him ever noticing.

"Mostly," Keith said after another long pause. Lance felt his forehead crinkle, wondering how hard he'd have to dig for what that meant. Wondering if he should point out the double standard that they had going on here where it was ok for Keith to keep secrets but not Lance. Fortunately, he didn't have to. Keith went on to explain by himself. "Physically, I'm good, but I'm . . . having trouble sleeping."

Was that why Keith had answered so readily last night, sounding like he'd been waiting for Lance's call? Lance remembered him, the nights that he'd been allowed to watch Keith sleep, how he talked or cried even in rest. Lance looked around his room, sort of understanding what that felt like.

"Me too," Lance admitted, though it felt wrong to compare the petty incident at his apartment to the horrendous plane crash that had likely caused Keith's insomnia. Though right after he'd thought that he remembered how he'd coached Keith about pain. How it didn't diminish Keith's suffering any to know that Acxa's was worse. And even though it was harder to apply his own logic to himself, Lance knew it was true anyway. What he was going through was still his highest personal level of pain. There were certainly higher levels in the world, but he had no way to know what those felt like. His scale was set at maximum out of all the experiences of his own life. And that meant . . . somehow, that he and Keith could understand each other about being awake and afraid in the night, despite the differences in the circumstances that caused the situation.

"What keeps you awake?" Keith invited, and the sincerity of the question broke Lance wide open. He talked about how claustrophobic he felt in his room after dark. He spoke about the howling wind and the unrelenting cold. How there were nightmares about what happened, but they weren't even the worst part. The worst part was how he was so stuck. Trapped in the house, trapped by his stitches, trapped by the trial proceedings that would show up at unexpected intervals in his life for at least the next few months. He explained about his day and how well it had started when he'd spoken with Veronica and made breakfast and shelves – only to have everything collapse on him toward the evening by the dropping barometric pressure and the realization that Angelique felt he couldn't handle a trip to the police station and how he'd proven her so right about that it made him sick to think about. He almost spoke about the crushing loneliness he felt, how much it hurt to see how in love Fritz and Angelique were, and how jealous he was that he would likely never experience that for himself. But something stopped him before he went there. That was something he just wasn't ready for. He'd already said more than enough anyway. It was Keith's turn.

"What about you?" Lance asked, cuddled in his heating blanket, no longer focused on the wind or anything that was happening outside of this phone call. "Why can't you sleep?"

"I don't know," Keith responded, and Lance drooped a little. Here they were again. Keith was going to keep his secrets even after Lance had just spread almost all of his cards face up and exposed. It didn't make sense. Were they friends or not? Did they mean anything to each other or not? Did they trust each other? Lance thought for sure that they must. At least, he trusted Keith. He wanted to trust Keith. It just seemed like Keith didn't reciprocate – not to the same degree. Which was the entire issue about all of Lance's feelings for him. Keith just couldn't reciprocate. Though he came maddeningly, confusingly close most of the time. Enough to keep Lance invested and wondering. Trapped with no way out.

Lance sighed, unsure of how much longer he could take it. The uncertainty of this friendship and the pain of wanting it to be more than that. Would it ever change? Could it? But what could Lance expect? Keith was being a real friend to him – like Hunk and Pidge. Keith obviously thought about Lance, going so far as to check on him tonight and worry about him. When Hunk called to see how Lance was doing, it didn't strap him in tight on an emotional roller coaster. It was just nice. It was what friends did. It wasn't Keith's fault that he did all the right things, the same things Hunk would do for Lance as a friend, and Lance couldn't accept it as good enough. That wasn't fair. He had to take what he was given and be grateful. He knew Keith had a hard time communicating his emotions, especially things that bothered him. So Lance had a choice – keep Keith and enjoy their relationship the way it was, grateful for whatever it was that they had, or push him too far with some kind of ultimatum and lose everything. A choice that wasn't even a choice. Or maybe it was that Lance had just made it so often now that it was second nature. He would always choose Keith. The part that needed to change was how he couldn't ever seem to be satisfied with what Keith was willing to give. It was time to make peace with that. Which meant not pushing Keith for an answer.

"Is there any way I could help?" Lance offered, still wanting Keith to need him. The strongest way to stay close.

"I . . . don't know that either," Keith murmured, emphasizing the distance that still rested between them. "I . . . I wish you could."

Damn it, Keith, what does that mean? Why did it sound so hard for you to say it?

"I could try," Lance said. I've helped you sleep before. I've spoken Spanish to you over the phone and, a very long time ago, you rested quietly in my arms. Something that probably didn't mean anything, but it means everything to me.

"No," Keith denied softly, even though it didn't make sense. He sounded far away, pensive and worried. "I just . . .Hey, look, about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Lance echoed, thrown off by the change in subject. He wasn't ready for tomorrow; they weren't done talking about tonight and how each of them was going to get through it. What the hell did Keith mean that Lance couldn't even try to help him?

"When you go to the prosecutor's office," Keith clarified, and Lance closed his eyes, tightening against his will. "It's, um, I know it's going to be hard for you to remember everything they have to ask you about. They . . they won't let anyone in the room with you except a lawyer. Do you have a lawyer?"

"I don't think so," Lance answered. He hadn't even thought about needing a lawyer. He was the victim. Why would he need a lawyer?

"Yeah, it's probably different for you than it was for me."

Lance winced, painfully aware of just how many differences there were going to be between Lance arriving at the police station as a victim and a witness and Keith arriving there years ago as an unrecognized victim and accused. He had to take a second to breathe that past away, reminding himself that Keith had come through all of that, survived and succeeded it.

"Anyway," Keith continued, a shake that brought Lance back to the conversation. "You can call me if you need to. Before you go, and after if you want. I know it doesn't help much to say it, but I know you can do this. Everything in you is going to resist it. Talking about it, thinking about it. I mean, you just spent a whole week dragging yourself up out of it, and I know that this feels like you're being shoved back in. And I guess you could . . . I don't know, you could let this be an excuse to just sink in it and drown. I remember being there, dragged into something that I really wanted to be over. I remember thinking there was no point in even trying because it didn't matter how hard I worked, I wasn't ever going to move past it. That's where I was when you found me in that apartment."

"Keith," Lance breathed, but he didn't know why. Didn't know if he wanted Keith to stop or desperately wanted him to keep talking. That apartment. Keith weakly sitting up from the bed, unable to push Lance away. Hiding his fear beneath the façade of hostility. Lance had forced him to accept his help that day. But he didn't think he was sorry for it.

"I can't be there with you," Keith said, almost an apology. "And I'm not going to lie and say this isn't going to suck, but . . . keep trying. Remember what you said to me? You said I was going to have a future. That things were going to get better, and you were right. It will be the same for you. You're strong, way stronger than I am. And you have the most amazing future. I've heard you talk about it, and I know you're going to make it happen. Focus on it, hard, whatever light you can see in the distance. It'll get you through this dark part. And . . .and if there's any light I can send you, all you have to do is tell me what it is."

Lance sat stricken on the bed, completely confused. How could Keith tell him all this, sound so fervent about it. He really meant it! How could he say that and then tell Lance with equal sureness that he didn't want Lance to even try to help him in return?

"Thank you," Lance said, quietly, even though he wanted to say a lot of other things. But what could he say? That Keith wasn't being fair? That Lance didn't understand. That Keith shouldn't offer to be a light if he wasn't prepared for all that would mean.

"I should probably let you sleep now," Keith went on, as though he were also overwhelmed by his speech.

"Wait," Lance said quickly, not ready to hang up yet, certain he wasn't going to be able to sleep. He had questions, lots of them, but they weren't the sort of questions he could ask. Not when he had finished telling himself that he needed to accept whatever degree of friendship Keith offered and not expect anything more. And yet. "Do you need to go?"

"Do you need me to stay?"

"I," Lance hesitated, unsure about taking this risk. Need was such a strong word. He remembered a different night, before Keith's verdict hearing. A night they had spent together because Keith had been frightened and sick. Lance had pulled Keith into his lap, let him rest against him. Keith had asked for Lance to recite that poem. Lance wasn't facing anything near as consequential, wasn't in such a terrible place. He shouldn't ask for the same kind of comfort.

"Lance?" Keith called when Lance didn't respond, though it sounded like that question again. The one Keith started but never finished.

"Yes," Lance answered, to all the questions. The one Keith had said out loud and whatever else he meant when he said Lance's name that way. "Please."

"Ok," Keith agreed, almost as if he were relieved. Lance shifted to get as comfortable as possible as Keith awkwardly tried to make small talk. Lance smiled as he listened, knowing that talking wasn't Keith's strong suit. But it felt so special that he was trying so hard for Lance's sake. It made it easy to forget the more frustrating parts of their conversation. Keith amped up Lance's upcoming visit to Hunk and Pidge, talking almost excitedly about the area, about the kinds of things that Lance could expect to do while he was there. He talked like he'd actually seen it. As though he'd been hiking in the San Gabriels himself, eaten some of the local food, seen Hunk and Pidge's house in person.

"You sound like you've been there," Lance broke in at one point.

"Yeah, Shiro and I were stationed at Edwards for a while," Keith explained, slightly hesitant, like he'd been caught in something. Like he hoped he hadn't just ruined something. "It's about ninety minutes away from Altadena. We, um, we met up with Hunk and Pidge sometimes."

"Oh," Lance acknowledged, trying to pretend like that didn't hurt to hear. Hunk and Pidge had seen Keith. He'd been able to visit them. More than once. No one had mentioned that to Lance at all, ever. Why? "I didn't know."

"I asked them not to tell you," Keith said, and this time it truly sounded like a confession. The warm spot in Lance's chest that had been growing throughout the conversation chilled up again immediately. So Keith had been avoiding him. Avoiding him. Not needing anything from him, not wanting his help. Allura had it all wrong.

"Got it," Lance said, crisply and quick around the huge knot that was suddenly in his throat. What was Keith even doing calling him? Did he still feel like he was obligated to do things like that because of what Lance had done for him years ago? Was he just waiting until that magical moment when he would feel like he'd done enough and didn't owe Lance anymore?

"No," Keith countered just as quickly. "Lance, you don't understand."

"You're right; I don't," Lance responded, not knowing how he got the words out. One step forward, three steps backward. How can you ask me to trust you when you go so far out of your way to make sure I don't even know where you are? How can you offer to be my light when you're keeping so many damn secrets?

"I think I made a mistake," Keith went on, but Lance wasn't sure he could even listen anymore. There was a lot going on. He had so many things to think about already. What he was going to say tomorrow. How he was going to comfort Angelique, or even figure out why she seemed to need it. There were still things about his conversation with Veronica that he wanted to mull over. All of it seemed to be a better idea than listening to Keith keep going like this. "I don't know. I told you at the beginning that I'm a real shitty friend."

Part of Lance wanted to agree that yes, keeping so many secrets, disappearing without a trace, not answering phone calls, and flat-out avoiding Lance were all really shitty things to do to someone who cared about you. Even if Keith would never know just how much Lance cared. But how would he know? Lance had been told how he'd also been pushing Keith away. That this might not be all Keith's fault. He couldn't put all the blame on Keith.

"Lance, I'm trying," Keith continued.

"I know," Lance allowed. I know you're trying. You called me tonight. Told me the truth. Comforted me. Sent me CDs and books and this bracelet that I will never take off again. It's not your fault that I need more from you than you can give. It's not your fault that I'm asking way too much of you.

"Lance?"

"It's ok, Keith," Lance assured, being as genuine as possible. "I'm just . . . I'm going to try and sleep now."

"Can I call you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Lance . . . it's not what you think. . . I can't even tell you why."

"Why not?" Lance pressed, even though he'd just said he was going to sleep. But if Keith were going to offer an explanation for what he'd done, Lance was all for it.

"Because I . . . I just can't. But it wasn't your fault, ok? It's all on me. I just don't know how to – but I'll figure it out, ok?"

"Lobito, you know you're not making any sense, right?" Lance said, almost desperate for Keith to finish a sentence properly. What was he saying? What was Lance misunderstanding?

"I know. I know I'm not. And I've got no right to ask you to be patient with me or trust me or anything –"

"I trust you, Keith," Lance interrupted, not liking how he'd pushed Keith into this corner with his own insecurities. "You're my friend." Please don't ever stop being my friend.

"That's right," Keith assured, though by this point Lance wasn't even sure who needed it more. "And I trust you, Lance. I'd trust you with my life."

Then why not trust me with the question you never ask? Why not trust me with this explanation that you say you can't give me? You'd put your life in my hands. Hell, you have put your life in my hands. But you can't tell me why you were avoiding me? Lance didn't know what to make of it. Couldn't think of anything to say except to promise one more time that they were ok, and they would talk tomorrow. But even as he promised, he wondered if there would be a conversation tomorrow. It felt like Keith might run again, that Lance had pushed him too hard despite trying not to.

He wondered if they could actually keep this up. Because Lance could feel the lie between them. For all that Lance said he trusted Keith, he was still keeping a secret. And for all of what Keith just said Lance was absolutely certain that Keith was doing the same thing. And it almost didn't matter what the secrets were – just the fact that they existed was going to be enough of a wedge to break them apart. Lance just had to figure out which he'd prefer. Keeping the secret and letting the mistrust split them apart, or actually allowing himself to trust Keith with everything and risk his complete rejection. Both meant losing Keith – one just took longer.

Lance stared at the ceiling, not trying to sleep. He didn't even bother moving to turn the light off. Sam joined him on the bed, curling up close near the incision in Lance's chest, purring contentedly. Lance stroked his fur, studying the colors in it, sifting through the silvers, grays, and whites of his patterning and also sifting through all the memories he had of Keith, all the conversations they'd shared, the short time they'd spent together. He focused on specific moments – the day Keith had turned up unexpectedly at the plasma center, wanting to buy Lance coffee. The day they'd gone to the grocery store and prepared for Hunk's birthday party. The time that Keith had wanted Lance to join the military with him.

At some point, when Lance was somewhere between awake and asleep, Angelique returned to check on him. Lance kept his eyes closed, though her presence had woken him. She switched off the light, then paused in his doorway. He heard her sigh, then heard her footsteps as she drew closer to his bedside.

"Don't give up now," she whispered to him, and for a second Lance wondered if she knew that he was awake. "You promised me."

The scent of her shampoo lessoned as she stood straight. "Watch him, Sam," she instructed her cat. "I can't lose him. I can't do that again."

Author's Note: And I think I can move forward now. Get Lance to California. Get out of the black hole and MOVE FORWARD with this. I'd give you an estimate of how much of the story is left, but I've been horrible at calculating that sort of thing (anyone remember when I said this was going to be short?). The good news is I do have a lot of the next chapter written already (I skipped ahead because this one was killing me). Which means it won't be another two months before I'm talking to you again. You're all such good sports and this story has resulted in so many wonderful, real friendships. I love you for giving me that.