Author's Note: Ok, confession time. I am a sucker for College AU stories. They are my favorite. Even better? College AU with tons of vulnerability. Bring it on. This story showed up in my head out of nowhere, extremely demanding. I meant to write the sequel to Fight Like This, but this . . .this wants to be first. I'm going to do my best to keep at it in a timely fashion. I'm going to do my best to keep it short. However, for the first time I'm writing exactly the type of story I'm searching for when I'm reading, so who knows how long it'll take to get it out of my system. And I'm putting it out here in case some of you enjoy this kind of thing as much as I do.

You Could Have Told Me

Chapter One: Stalker Book Club

"Not again!" Lance burst out, staring at his phone.

"Geeze! Lance, could you keep the dramatics below 130 decibels for me? I'm trying to weld really tiny wires together," Hunk requested from their dining room table, which at the moment was completely covered in a variety of pliers, wire, gears, bits of PVC pipe and plastic, a hand-drawn schematic, and a can of Coke. . . which Hunk maintained he was not drinking but using as some sort of caustic agent.

"Can you believe he canceled on me again?" Lance vocalized his annoyance, though he did gentle his tone, shoving his phone into his scrubs pocket so he could slip into his coat. "The write-up is due on Monday, but I can't even start unless I sit down and talk to this freak for at least twenty minutes. You'd think he could find a measly half an hour in the whole fourteen days we had for this assignment, wouldn't you?"

"So corner him after class and follow him," Hunk suggested mildly, selecting a miniature screwdriver from the assortment on the table.

"That'd be a great idea," Lance acknowledged, rearranging the contents of his backpack in furious little jerks of motion, tossing his chemistry book on his bed and replacing it with early child development. "If he ever came to class!"

"Can you talk to the professor? Get an extension or a different partner or something?"

Lance paused, calming down a little thanks to Hunk's steady voice and practical commentary. The stuff he said always made so much sense that it always struck Lance hard that he hadn't thought of it first. The finality of admitting defeat by whining to the teacher helped Lance find another round of charity toward his difficult project mate. He didn't want to be that guy.

"He says he should be back on campus tomorrow, so I'll give him one more chance. If he blows me off again, then I'll see about getting a different partner," Lance planned, shrugging on his backpack over the bulkiness of his coat sleeves and standing in front of Hunk. "Ok, I'm off; you can weld in peace," he said, changing the subject. "How do I look?" Hunk barely glanced at him.

"Dude, you look like you always do. You're wearing scrubs and a lab coat like every other tech in the place. If you want to impress her, you're going to have to actually, like, talk to her." Yeah, Hunk always made too much sense.

"I do talk to her!" Lance protested, a little weakly.

"Taking her vitals doesn't count as a conversation," Hunk pointed out. "Buck up and ask her out already, would you? Bring her here; I'll cook. You can have the place to yourselves, but please, if you have ever cared about me at all, would you please ask her out so I don't have to keep listening to you pining over her?"

Lance fought the urge to throw his mittens at Hunk's face. He was making way too many points today.

"Yeah, yeah," he committed, nonchalantly. "Don't forget it's my turn for the table tomorrow to repack my med bag. You'll have to find another home for all that tech junk." Hunk hurriedly placed his large hands over the piles of random, like a mother covering a child's ears to prevent them from hearing something inappropriate.

"It's not junk!" He protested. "It's a –"

"Tell me later," Lance interrupted, already on his way out. "I don't want to be late." He could practically hear Hunk shaking his head as he closed the door behind him.

His amusement lasted all of five steps outside, which is when he almost slipped on a patch of ice. A bit of ungraceful flailing saved him from going down, but it made him question, again, why he'd picked a college so far north. Surely, he could have gotten into a pre-med program somewhere a little warmer? Like UCSD? He wondered if they would have required him to take a ridiculous English course. A ridiculous English course with a stupid assignment to interview and then write a biography on one of your emo, absent classmates who kept making plans to meet and then rescheduling. Yeah, he was certain UCSD would have never done this to him.

Come to think of it, though, he'd never responded back after receiving the last text. Checking ahead to make sure the sidewalk was shoveled and ice-free, he pulled out his phone again, reading the latest from his partner one more time.

"Stuck in meetings," it said. "Tomorrow at 7?" Lance assumed he meant evening. He actually couldn't do tomorrow at seven; he'd be working. But he could do eight or eight-thirty. But did he dare ask for that kind of change? Maybe it'd be easier to ask his supervisor to get off early – this dude's schedule was tighter than the lid on a leaky tube of crazy glue. On the other hand, he'd already been bending over backwards the last ten days whenever a new time was suggested, and he was more than sick of it. Because really, what kind of meetings could he possibly have going on that would require this kind of flaky behavior?

"I can do eight-thirty tomorrow," he typed. "Meet you at the library by that picture of James Joyce."

"Last chance, psycho," he said to himself, replacing his phone and his mitten. Then he plunged both hands in his pockets, hunched his face deeper into his scarf, and tried to pretend he was home on a beach as he froze all the way to the donation center on Maryland Avenue, part of the on-campus hospital.

It wasn't a requirement to be in any kind of med program to work as a lab technician, but it certainly had helped Lance get the job. For twenty miscellaneous hours a week, he collected plasma donations from his fellow students and sometimes members of the community. Working there meant he didn't have to actually donate his own plasma in order to buy groceries. And it meant that every Wednesday, usually around six, he would see Allura Lyons.

She'd been coming pretty steady all of last semester and had continued into this one. Allura was in the one percent of the donation crowd. The other ninety-nine did it for the money. Allura didn't need the money; she did it because she felt it was her duty to help humanity. Lance was completely fascinated by her. The moral obligation was just one part of her charm; it didn't hurt at all that she was the most exotic kind of gorgeous he'd ever seen. White-blonde hair, dark skin, eyes the multi-color that crystals are when you try to take pictures of them, a very specific shade of light blue and almost pink and lit from within at the same time. And even though it had nothing to do with anything, Lance couldn't get over the fact that she wore a perfectly white peacoat.

The first time he'd met her, she'd dropped her book trying to turn the page one-handed. Sometimes it took forty-five minutes to complete a donation, so lots of students brought stuff to study while they were in the chairs. He happened to be right there when the book fell, so he'd picked it up and helped her find her place again. He couldn't remember the title of that first one, but he looked at them all now. Spied on the title, checked them out at the library, and read them so they could have something to start a conversation over.

Except he never got that far. He'd read Pride and Prejudice, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, The Da Vinci Code, and Gone, Girl all without ever saying a word to her about any of them. No wonder Hunk teased him. What kind of idiot stayed up until four in the morning reading Jane Austen for a girl without ever letting her know that he'd done it?

"Hey Lance," one of his coworkers called him, five minutes to six, right on schedule. "Your girl's here." Everyone who worked with him knew about his crush; he wasn't exactly subtle. He thought there was a gambling pool on whether or not they'd actually go on a date, but he didn't want to ask what the odds were. He grabbed Allura's chart from the wall and crossed the floor to where she was seated in the waiting area, hunching over a little bit as he walked as if his racing heart could be seen through two layers of clothes. It never changed. It never mattered how often he looked at her. It had the same effect on him every single time.

"Must be Wednesday," he said as he approached, hoping his voice sounded casual. "I've got your chair ready for you, Allura."

She smiled at him, grabbing her bag and standing. That was another thing to prove they were made for each other. Allura stood a model five foot nine inches tall, the perfect complement to his six one. He gestured for her to make herself comfortable in the donation chair as he grabbed a new kit to hook her up with. Then he tried to make unawkward small talk.

"How was your week?" He began, a safe question, as he attached a blood pressure cuff to her upper arm. She preferred to donate from the left, leaving her dominate hand free for whatever she'd brought with her to do. She already had her book out, a new one, but it was upside down and under her palm, so he couldn't see the title yet.

"Chaotic," she answered vaguely, in her beautiful accent. He knew it was British, but couldn't guess exactly where. When he asked her where she was from once, she'd raised her eyebrow and said Oak Brook. He'd had to look it up, disappointed to see it was not in Europe at all. It was on the top ten list of wealthiest suburbs in Chicago. Which explained why she didn't need the money.

Lance wished she'd elaborate on what chaotic might mean for her. But he didn't ask. Instead he focused very hard on what he was doing, scrubbing her arm sterile with iodine, peeling bits of medical tape from the roll in his pocket so he could secure the line once he'd gotten it started. He never wanted her to ask for any other tech but him, so he made sure to be as gentle as possible easing needles into her vein. He didn't want to hurt her.

"Little sting here," he warned her, because no matter how good you were, and Lance had been told that he was actually very good, he was still piercing through skin with something sharp, using his thumb to press down and line up where he needed to insert, holding her arm still and steady, expertly slipping the point in place and covering it with a piece of gauze. "Like so. That all right?"

"Perfect," she assured, and his soul melted a little bit as they made eye contact. Yes, you are. He hooked up the tubes and pushed the necessary buttons on the centrifuge, setting it for 750 mL. He heard a beeping from another chair in his area. Someone was finished.

"I'll come check you in a few minutes," he promised, allowing himself to brush two fingers against her hand in parting. As he turned, removing his gloves to exchange them for fresh ones, it hit him that he'd actually never once touched her skin to skin.

The center was getting busy, which was normal for the evening. But it meant that by the time Lance made it back to Allura, she was over halfway through her cycle. She had her legs drawn up, resting the book against her thighs, hand draped over the top of it to keep it open. It was larger than the books she usually brought, hardcover, tiny print.

"How are we doing over here?" He alerted her to his presence. "Feeling ok?" He knew she was ok. Her vitals were fine; her color was amazing. She'd done this many times before. She raised her eyes to him and nodded.

"What are you reading?" He asked since he couldn't decipher it from the way she was holding it this time. He hoped it wasn't more Austen. She twisted her wrist without speaking, allowing him to see. Mountains Beyond Mountains, a biography about Paul Farmer. Lance felt a little zing of excitement. He'd already read that! Not only that . . .

"Oh cool, I met him once," he told her, with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, the words coming out of his mouth before he had really planned on whether or not it would be a good idea. "Dr. Farmer – I mean." Allura's eyes widened in surprise. It was the first time Lance had ever gotten any kind of emotional response from her.

"You did?" She questioned, tone interested and eager. Right? That's what Lance was hearing anyway. Definitely interested. "Where?"

"In Cuba," he answered, praying that he wouldn't stutter or forget English words. Two things he never did, but this was the most interaction they'd ever had so he was in new territory. "Mostly he works in Haiti, but he comes to Cuba every so often. He gave a lecture near my hometown once when I was in high school."

"That's amazing," Allura told him, which made his knees feel weird, like they weren't going to hold him anymore. "I'm supposed to do a report about him for my humanities class."

Another beep across the floor. Lance groaned inwardly. He'd have to go over there to see what that was, abandoning all the progress they were making. "Be right back," he said. Except it took longer than he thought. He cleared a clotted line, restocked the carts, started a new donor, walked one who was finished over to the cashier. You had to walk them over just in case they fainted. It didn't happen often, but it was a possibility. He didn't have another minute to spare for Allura until it was her machine doing the beeping. Lance glared at one of the newer techs who had started toward her, and he suddenly found somewhere else he needed to go. Lance hurried over.

"Great job," he congratulated, shutting down the machine and beginning the process of disconnecting Allura from it, gently removing the tape, folding a new patch of gauze into a tight square and pressing it on top of the needle. In one smooth motion, he'd slipped it out of her. "You know what to do," he said, but she was already lifting her arm, pressing hard on the gauze square to stop the bleeding.

"I was thinking," Allura said slowly as Lance gathered the used tubes for biohazard waste. He paused, unsure what to do. She hardly ever initiated any conversation. "If you had some time, maybe we could get together and talk about your experience with Paul Farmer. It would make an excellent addition to my report to see that his influence has extended to students of our university, don't you think?"

Lance missed the waste container, dropping the tubes straight onto the floor. He felt heat in his face and ducked down as quickly as possible, narrowly missing knocking his head against the corner of the cart that held the centrifuge, gathering up the tubes. Was she asking him out? Is that what was happening? Although Allura had been the one doing the donating, it was Lance who felt lightheaded all of a sudden.

"Uh, well, yeah, sure," he stammered, hating himself for it. Then hating himself even more when he couldn't seem to shut up. "I mean, if you think it would help. Yeah, we can chat about it. It was pretty much how I decided I wanted to be a doctor, really. He's an awesome guy. Where should we meet? At my place, maybe? Or yours, or you know, where ever you want." Holy crow, Lance, shut the hell up! "I mean – when?" He finally finished, turning his head away. Real smooth, idiot, he chastised himself.

She had a rather amused expression on her lips now, her eyes sparkly. He could only look at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Friday?" She suggested, calmly, magnanimously ignoring everything he'd just done. "At seven? I'll already be at the Regenstein library; do you think you could meet me there?"

"Yeah, cool. Sounds great," Lance replied, drowning in dopamine. "I'll see you then." He nodded, pivoting, ready to make an exit before he did anything else stupid.

"Um, excuse me!" Allura called after him, and he turned to look over his shoulder, wondering what she could have to add. "Aren't you going to finish my bandage?" It took a lot of effort not to smack himself in the face. She was sitting there with her arm still raised, looking confused.

"Ha," Lance half-laughed, not knowing how he was going to go out with her on Friday since it suddenly seemed a really good idea to go drown himself in Lake Michigan. "Yeah, let's take care of that."

He kept his mouth closed and eyes down, purposefully not looking at her so he could finish what he had to do on autopilot. Even though his insides were trembling, his hands were steady as he carefully lowered her hand and wrapped it with blue gauze. He heard himself tell her the required precautions she should follow after a donation, having said those words so many times already that he could do it without any conscious effort. The comfort of the routine relaxed him. He even managed the courage to lightly place his hand on the small of her back as she stood from the chair, and he left it there as he walked her over to the cashier.

Before he moved on to attend to his other donors, she rummaged in her bag for a notebook and pen and scribbled her number down for him. "See you Friday," she said, smiling. He didn't trust his brain not to betray him, so he simply nodded.

It was a good thing that he was so used to the rhythm of the donation center. By the time he was finished with the rest of his shift and was once again standing outside with his coat on walking home, he realized that he couldn't remember doing a single thing after Allura had left. He checked his pocket again, making sure that precious slip of paper was still there. Friday. They'd be together in the library; he would figure out a speech by then of what he was going to say because obviously he couldn't be trusted with improv. Oh! And he could actually be wearing clothes for once!

Hunk had been busy while he'd been gone; he opened the door to a mostly clean table and the most heavenly scent coming from the kitchen. Hunk wasn't actually taking any classes this semester; he was waiting to see if some special internship position was going to come through from JPL, so he was keeping his options clear. Lance's fancy, minority scholarship had taken care of the fees for their on-campus apartment, so instead of money, they'd arranged for Hunk to pay his share in domestics.

"Hunk, you are the best roommate a guy could ever hope for," Lance said, still giddy from the piece of paper he had in his pocket, the bracing winter air he'd just stepped out of, the cozy atmosphere of the apartment. "Marry me, won't you?"

"You know I can't," Hunk recited as he ladled up clam chowder into bread bowls. Lance sprung proposals on him every few days or so, savoring the joke of how Hunk was practically a housewife already. Hunk took it in good stride, but when Lance did it when Pidge was over, she usually rolled her eyes hard enough to almost fall off her chair. Pidge was also waiting on the outcome of the internship; they'd applied together, both of them aspiring astrophysicists. "It wouldn't be fair to the world if I were to settle down with just one person."

"You two are the biggest dorks I've ever seen."

Oh, so Pidge was here. Lance should have known. She joined them from the bathroom, her tone sharp but her eyes affectionate. He actually liked it when she had dinner with them, which was often. And when they brought all their super-smart, adorably awkward physicist buddies over too. It made it feel more like the home he'd left when the apartment was full of friends and good food, the atmosphere chatty and warm.

"Hey, Pidge," Lance greeted, removing all his winter gear and tossing it on the camp chair that no one remembered where it came from but they were still using as a coat rack. "Any word yet?" He already knew the answer to that; if they'd heard good news, he would have come home to a party. And if it had been bad . . . Hunk would probably be a sobbing mess of disappointment on the sofa. It was a relief that they'd applied together. It meant that they would be accepted together; neither of them would go without the other.

"No," Hunk said, wilting slightly. Every day that went by without a call or letter from California drained a little more hope from Hunk. Pidge remained undaunted, though.

"Could be any day, now," she maintained, certain. "For sure we'll know before the end of February."

"Because the positions start on March first?" Lance guessed.

"Precisely," Pidge complimented, missing that Lance had been half-teasing her. They automatically took seats at the table as they spoke while Hunk set down plates and spoons. It felt snug and pleasant, Lance's little college family all together on a winter evening. Even though it was way too cold outside, even though he was so far away from his real family and missed them terribly, he had to admit that his life was pretty good.

"So Lance, how was work?" Hunk asked, sitting down himself. Actually – life was very good. Going just the way he wanted it to.

"Oh yeah, it's Wednesday, isn't it?" Pidge interjected, tearing into her bread bowl. "What's the newest title in your stalker book club?" Lance looked up from the spoon he'd just put in his mouth, stamping this moment in his emotional memory, the moment right before he dropped the news that even though they'd been laughing at him for over a semester, he had Allura's number in his pocket.

"It's a biography on Paul Farmer," Lance replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. Like this wasn't very exciting. Like it'd been his plan all along. "She's doing a report."

"Sounds . . . riveting," Pidge said, unconvinced, obviously not remembering how much of an influence Dr. Farmer had been in Lance's life.

"Wait, isn't that the guy who you heard speak once?" Hunk said, slowly, as if he wasn't quite sure and didn't want to be accused of only half-listening to Lance when he talked about his motivation, inspiration, and life goals.

"Same one," Lance confirmed, impressed that Hunk had stored away such a small detail. "So it seemed only logical for me to offer to help her get a little more in-depth material seeing as I actually met him."

"Too bad you probably didn't mention it to her," Pidge lamented, teasing, knowing full well how often Lance's intentions made it into reality, particularly when it came to his love life.

"Oh yeah?" Lance shot back, pulling the slip of paper from his pocket and slapping it on the table like a winning poker hand. "Then why are we getting together on Friday to talk about it?"

"Lance, dude!" Hunk boomed, congratulatory. Pidge snatched up the paper, examining it like a merchant inspecting the possibility she might be holding counterfeit currency. Hunk punched him in the arm. "Good for you, man."

"You sure this is her number?" Pidge had the audacity to ask, tainting the moment. "Did you test it to make sure she didn't give you one to the humane society or something?" Lance felt a sliver of doubt pierce his heart. It hadn't occurred to him that stuff like that happened. She'd asked him after all. He guessed it could be a set up, but he dismissed it rapidly. People who actually went to the trouble of donating plasma in the middle of the winter every single week were probably above that kind of wickedness.

"Have a little faith," he said, leaning over the table to take his number back, putting it into his mental check list to get it into his phone pronto as the paper suddenly seemed a little fragile to him now.

They finished eating, concluding with a brief but intense argument between Hunk and Pidge on whether or not it was Pidge's turn to do the dishes. Lance actually won the point for Hunk as he broke in with a very quiet but clear, "Freeloaders clean." He didn't know why he bothered. It was only a few minutes before Hunk was standing at the sink with her, both of them scrubbing, rinsing, and drying while chatting a million miles an hour about the whatever-it-was that Hunk had been tinkering with earlier, on its purpose and functionality, and on the upcoming test they were going to conduct with it to see if it really was going to do what Hunk had intended when he made it.

Lance sat relaxed at the table, just watching them, not understanding half of what they were saying. Something about the space station and the legality of broadcasting music; Pidge was adamant in the affirmative, but Hunk wanted a cited reference. One of them had the music in question playing on their phone as they worked. It sounded familiar, but Lance didn't know the title or artist.

"Lance? Hey!" He startled, blinking fast to reorient himself as their conversation melded around him again.

"Huh?" He said, wondering how long and how far he'd strayed from their talking.

"He's all blissed out," Pidge noted, smiling indulgently at him and slipping her arms around his neck, her hands still a little wet from the dishwater. Pidge was literally the smartest person Lance knew, though Hunk came in at a quick second, packaged in a four-foot three frame of dynamite. She didn't express affection physically often, so when she did, he took advantage of it; this time grabbing her tight and pulling her in close. He knew she'd only allow it for fifteen seconds max, but it was worth the annoyed squawking when she got tired of it. He didn't get near as many hugs in a day as he'd like or was used to, so he'd take them where ever he could, willingly or not.

"You're so pathetic," she whispered kindly into his ear. "Now let me go."

"So anyway," Hunk redirected him as he detached himself from Pidge. "I know it's your turn for the table, but can Pidge and I do a quick look-see at my transmitter? Because you aren't going to do your thing until tomorrow, right?"

"Go ahead," Lance told them, standing. It was study time for him anyway. "Try not to stay up all night?" He loved them both dearly, but it always weirded him out when he found them still at it in the morning – the late hours working them into a disheveled frenzy. A little too close to the mad scientists of old movies for his comfort level.

They waved him off; the table quickly disappearing as Hunk and Pidge began the elaborate set up of whatever they were going to need. Lance had a moment of guilt looking at them. Hunk remembered his heart-felt ranting about Paul Farmer, but Lance didn't have a single clue as to what was going on with that transmitter. He promised himself that he would have Hunk show him sometime tomorrow.

And yet, as with many of his good intentions, he ended up simply running out of time. Pidge was missing when he returned to the kitchen shortly after sunrise, and he could hear Hunk snoring softly from his bedroom. The table was still cluttered with a little note:

"We had to choose – clear the table or not stay up all night. I'll do it later -promise!"

Lance wasn't too worried. He started the coffeemaker, moving quietly so as not to disturb his gentle roommate. By the time he'd finished the shortened version of his yoga routine, the pot was ready to transfer to his travel mug. He poured in half the liquid, leaving the rest for Hunk. Thursdays were full days – biology lab for the entire morning, a quick, kind of early lunch (oh yeah, from the fridge, don't forget it), child development, chemistry, repacking and organizing his med bag, and his longest shift at work. Then the library for the English assignment. Maybe.

Lance checked his phone, actually surprised he hadn't received a cancellation text from his mysterious and flaky-as-hell partner yet. This might be really happening after all. Weird. While he had his phone out, he entered Allura into his contacts, feeling more secure once he had the number in two places.

"Bye Hunk," he whispered simply for the tradition of the thing, pulling the door shut behind him. It was the last thing he did slowly all day.

His mother told him, half fondly and half in exasperation, that Lance had been born with something to prove. Consequently, he moved through his life as though he were always running late. Other children learned to walk at sixteen months? Lance started at nine and was swimming shortly after that. By kindergarten, he could read not only in his native Spanish but he had a pretty good grasp on English as well. And by the time he was ten, he could mimic just about any of the accents of the one million tourists that flocked to the beaches of Varadero each year, a trick that earned him trust and tips from visitors who needed a guide or information. Now he spoke English with a Chicago accent so perfect that no one ever asked him where he came from – making it an accomplishment that sort of canceled itself out because he'd done it so well that no one knew it had been an accomplishment. But that was fine. Because Lance never did anything halfway, including throwing himself into the medical field after hearing that one speech from the Harvard-trained Dr. Farmer. And the way that man had spoken of the great need the world had of qualified help, of people willing to make a difference, had created in Lance an urgency and determination. He was going to become a doctor, a pediatrician, and he was throwing all his energy into that, but he also couldn't wait. He had to start relieving suffering right now. Today.

This was why, even though he was only in his second year of pre-med, a time when he should just be working on generals, biology, chemistry, and similar, this was why he already kept a fully stocked emergency medical kit. Why he had already gone through several volunteer EMT courses. He not only knew CPR – he was qualified to teach it to other civilians and medical personnel. He'd trained himself in first aid and wormed his way into the hearts of the staff at the campus hospital. One of the doctors even allowed him to shadow him on occasion and gave him time on Sunday afternoons to pester him with questions. Some of his skills he had not yet put into practice in real life, but in theory, he could place sutures, deliver babies, insert trach tubes, restart hearts, and splint broken bones. It didn't bother him that he had a long way to go before he could introduce himself as a proper MD, provided that in his heart he knew that he was doing all in his power to get there. Check marks on a list, continual progress toward the ultimate goal. Something ingrained into his personality.

They'd talked about it once – Lance with Hunk, Pidge, and a behavioral psychology book open on the table in front of them, studying about the S.T.A.R. system. It had been Lance's homework, but since it had the word "star" in it, the other two had put down their astrological charts to listen to him. They'd figured out pretty quickly that Pidge was the T – technical, hungry for knowledge, and logical. Hunk was the R – into relationships, empathy, and morality. Then they'd debated back and forth on whether Lance was more of an action-oriented A or a systems-driven S. In the end, they'd concluded S – citing his passion for lists as evidence.

"We should find ourselves an A," Hunk suggested. "Get a complete set." The structure of that idea sounded good to Lance too, but when Pidge said that it sounded too much like a boy band, they had moved on. Lance sometimes still thought of himself as an A, particularly when his schedule seemed over the top – but then he would find himself contentedly standing in his Stony Island apartment with all his medical accoutrements spilled out all over the table that he was structurally ordering and organizing into his bag. The ritual of that, checking each article and putting it into place, restocking things like band-aids, tape, and painkillers, confirmed that his friends were right. He was an S.

He couldn't help it, though. He liked it. Thrived on it. Most of the time, it served him well. But then there were times, like now, actually, sitting here fuming under the picture of an equally frustrated-looking James Joyce, where being an S meant that you hated it when plans went off, when things changed too quickly without notice. Lance had a schedule, and he wanted it to be respected.

Lance checked his phone. 8:50 pm. No sign of his partner. No word from him at all. Where the hell was he? How come he didn't have the decency to at least say he wasn't coming again? What sort of person did that kind of inconsiderate garbage? Lance was sitting there still in his scrubs, starving, an ache in his lower back from the hours he'd spent hunched over tubes and monitors. His hands were chapped from how many times he'd had to wash them at work today, from the cold that penetrated his mittens and the stupid Walgreens gloves that he wore underneath. He didn't want to be here either. He wanted to be at home, eating a late dinner and listening, actually listening to Hunk talk about his transmitter and where the space station was and when it would be close enough to actually try out his thingamajig. Maybe he should switch and write the biography on Hunk instead. How would his teacher even know? He checked the phone again. He'd give him until close – the last possible second to make good on his promise that they'd meet today.

Not one to waste time and needing a distraction, Lance took his uncomfortable fury and plunged it deep into his coursework, which he had brought with him for this exact reason, somehow knowing in his soul that he was going to be stood up again. He read the next child development chapter, balanced some chemistry equations, and finally started writing the biography assignment based solely on his perception of his partner. It was full of snark and judgement, but it felt so good to bash it all down on paper, a disorganized diatribe of disappointment.

"Keith Kogane is the poster child of irresponsibility," he began with the surest of thesis statements and went on and on about Keith's many, varied, and completely fabricated faults. Why not? It wasn't like he was here to set the record straight. "He's horrible at communication, lacking in integrity, broody, a slacker and a future drain on the community." Lance even knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that whenever a loud car or motorcycle screeched past a window in the dead of night, squealing tires or revving motors, ripping decent people from their sleep – most assuredly, every time, no matter where in the country he happened to physically be, it was Keith's fault.

He wrote until the library announced closing time, scrawling in conclusion that he was putting all six of his names on this essay, because he had never spoken a single, non-written word to Keith and this was definitely a one-man effort performed by me, myself, and I. Then he closed the notebook, zipped up his backpack, and headed home. He'd talk to the professor in the morning about it, explain that he'd given Keith more chances than he thought should be required of any patient, mortal student, and he simply had to find an alternative. He was unwilling to be held accountable for Keith's truancy. He was in college, for heaven's sake! Wasn't it way beyond time to have to do shitty things like picking up all the slack for group assignments? Wasn't that grade school stuff? The stakes were higher now; if he wanted to be a doctor, he had to graduate college. If he wanted to continue in college, he needed his scholarship. In order to keep his scholarship, he had to maintain near perfect grades. And while he didn't exactly know what a missing English 101 biography would do as far as his overall GPA, it just felt wrong to lose points on something so simple. What if he needed that decimal cushion for something more serious?

Being pissed actually kept him warm on the fifteen-minute walk back to the apartment. Or at least he hadn't noticed the cold as much as he normally did. Or maybe he was just too tired to pay any attention. Thursdays were such long days.

He'd no sooner opened his door when Hunk grabbed him, coat, backpack and all, and he felt himself relax into it gratefully. It wasn't exactly home, but damn it was a good substitute.

"Where have you been?" Hunk accused. "It's ten-thirty! Did you get dinner? Were you going to let me know?" He kept it up as he stripped Lance of his coat, scarf, and mittens and gently seated him at the table. Lance was too tired to do anything except submit, noticing that Hunk was already in his pajamas. Apparently without Pidge around, he wasn't planning another late night messing around with wires.

"No worries, Hunk; I was at the library. I thought you knew?" It wasn't like either of them needed permission to be anywhere, nor did they really have a curfew, but out of friendship and for safety's sake they usually kept tabs on each other's schedules.

"I thought that date was for tomorrow," Hunk challenged, though now he sounded uncertain. Like he'd missed something. Maybe Lance hadn't told him he was going somewhere after work. That made him feel guilty. Especially as Hunk was moving around the kitchen, apparently putting together hot tea and buttering toast. I really don't deserve him, Lance thought to himself. "Or wait – was it for your English thing? That guy actually showed?" Really, really don't deserve him. How did he remember all this stuff?

"Yes, it was, and no, he didn't," Lance answered both questions, tucking one of his legs under him on the chair before remembering that it was still January, which meant that no matter how well the sidewalks were cleared, the bottom four inches of his pants were always going to be soaked. "But no one can ever say I didn't give him a chance."

"I wonder what's up with that?" Hunk mused, absently putting toast, eggs, and tea in front of Lance.

"Um, he's a lazy slacker?" Lance answered, not having thought much about the why of the absences and lack of communication. "He hates me? The universe has decided that in exchange for me having an awesome roommate I have to compensate by getting paired up with the worst of the worst for group projects?"

"That's sweet," Hunk dismissed the compliment. "But I don't know about him hating you. I mean, you've never actually talked to the guy, so how could he? What if something happened to him, you know? Like maybe he had a family emergency out of state? Like a funeral?"

"Or maybe it's January and the skiing is really good in Colorado," Lance shot back, not feeling particularly forgiving. Though the tea was helping.

"I'm just saying that you can't hate the guy before you know what happened," Hunk counseled, and Lance knew he was right but didn't want to say it. He rolled his eyes as he chewed.

"I don't even care what happened," Lance said callously. "I'm talking to the profe tomorrow to see if he'll let me do the write-up on you instead."

"Me?" Hunk asked, and Lance could tell he'd caught him off guard, but in a good way. Much like Lance's accent, Hunk didn't get near enough credit for his accomplishments.

"Yeah, you're endlessly fascinating and definitely more available. Would you mind?"

"I guess not," Hunk pretended to think about it, obviously pleased, though he was trying to hide it. "If you get permission."

"Thanks, man," Lance sighed, putting down his fork on his empty plate. "Maybe we can start with your transmitter? I'm not quite sure what you're doing with it?"

Hunk picked up the dishes and set them in the sink, shaking his head as he did so. "We'll get there," he acknowledged, smiling. "Later. Go on to bed before you fall asleep at the table."

"I really do want to know," Lance protested, wanting to put more conviction into his voice as he did so. Hunk ruffled his hair.

"And I want to tell you," he returned. "But only once, ok?"

"Ok," Lance gave in. "You need help with the dishes?" He felt so completely spoiled right now.

"Go to bed, Lance," Hunk commanded, knowing very well that Lance was an early to bed, first to get up sort of person. Lance thought a minute about pushing the issue a little more, but let it go. Hunk was right. After changing, brushing his teeth, and burrowing under the three blankets he kept on his bed, he was asleep in seconds.