Author's Note: So my husband just pointed out to me that most of my stories take place in January. To this, I can only say that I grew up in Illinois but now I live in a place where there is no such thing as winter, and I must miss it deep in my bones.
But hey, let's figure out what Keith has been up to that makes him unable to keep his appointments with Lance.
Chapter Two: Startle Reflex
When Lance's phone alarm woke him the next morning, he was certain it was a mistake. He may be an early riser, but this was too dark even for him. He checked the time, then the weather, and realized what was going on. Chicago had been taken hostage by a change in wind direction. There would be snow later, probably a lot of it. And Lance had been in the city long enough that the idea of a fresh snowfall no longer charmed him. He pulled his topmost quilt off the bed, wrapping it around himself as he got up to look out the window, studying the gloom that seemed to be crawling out of Lake Michigan like a horror movie. The only thing separating him from the threatening shore was the two-mile span of the Museum of Science and Industry.
He pulled his warmest thermal sweater from his drawer and threw on his maroon college hoodie over it. Pidge had explained to him over and over that when it snowed it was actually warmer, but his tropical soul simply could not accept that. He remembered a particularly bright day last winter, the sun coming out after what seemed like months of darkness. Pidge caught him before he left, reprimanding him sharply as she layered him in a better hat and a scarf, telling him how many minutes he could be out before any exposed skin would be subject to frostbite. He had tried to protest, gesturing toward the bright sun. It couldn't be cold out with that much sun. She tilted her head, glaring at him for questioning her native judgment and experience, and knotted the scarf tighter than he felt necessary. He'd never felt so betrayed in his life as when he went to class and discovered that she'd been right. Still, even though he now knew the science, he dressed warm for bright days and even warmer for dark.
Breathing deep yoga breaths to transition himself into the morning, he neatly replaced the quilt on his bed and moved toward the kitchen to start the coffee, pausing in the hall to nudge the thermostat just a bit higher. Not too much, just a few degrees. Hunk grew up in Hawaii, so he also preferred the place an oasis in the snow just as well as Lance did, but they found out pretty quick into their stay at the apartment that if they wanted to avoid extra electric charges, they needed to stay below 74 degrees – preferably 70. It made them both feel victimized, misunderstood, and chilly.
Hunk surprised him by flopping down on the couch just as the coffee finished. They hardly ever saw each other in the mornings unless Hunk had stayed up all the previous night or something kept Lance home late enough. He had a notebook with him, an unusual sight before breakfast.
"Morning, sunshine," Lance greeted, smiling as Hunk yawned, still in his pajamas and looking rumpled.
"Where?" Hunk asked innocently, glancing around as if to make it clear that there was no sunshine, morning variety or otherwise. Lance patted his shoulder in solidarity as he handed over a brimming coffee mug.
"Sorry if I woke you," Lance apologized, leaning back against the counter with his own steaming cup.
"No, you didn't, I needed to see you before you go," Hunk replied, safely depositing his coffee to the floor and opening the notebook. "Looks like it's going to be pretty awful all weekend, so I'm going grocery shopping today instead of tomorrow. Do you need anything?"
"Mangoes," Lance responded immediately, not without a little bitterness, picturing the fully laden trees in his backyard. The shade of their leaves, the hum of the bees as they crowded around the dropped fruit, the taste of the warm sun.
"Frozen?" Hunk clarified, abruptly shaking him away from the memory. Lance didn't know if that meant that they both knew perfectly well there wouldn't be any mangoes so they'd have to make do with frozen ones or that if there might be some pale imitation of a mango available they would be frozen by the time Hunk got them home. But it gave him an idea.
"Yeah," he thought out loud. "Frozen mangoes and berries and smoothie stuff. Coconut milk."
"You know you're lying to yourself if you think blending an icy tropical smoothie is going to make it seem in any way close to warm here, right?" Hunk said skeptically while Lance hid his face in his mug. "But sure. Smoothie stuff. Anything else?"
"No, just the usual. Spinach, milk, whatever you get that turns into dinner every day because you are a culinary magician. More coffee. How bad is it supposed to snow?" He switched directions so fast that he suspected Hunk had written half his question as if he were still making a list. Lance grinned as Hunk scratched part of what he'd written out.
"Bad enough that Pidge wants to stay with us this weekend," Hunk said, once he'd processed the question. "The second subject I needed to ask you about."
"You know you don't have to ask about that," Lance returned, sensitive about their situation. He hadn't meant to become the dictator of the apartment when he'd taken over all the fees. "It's your place too. Pidge is welcome whenever."
"Yeah, I know, but are you bringing Allura home with you or anything?" Lance felt his brain tighten around the question, snapping to it with instant focus. He'd almost forgotten about that! It was Friday.
"Oh!" He said, watching as the liquid in his cup started to tremble. He hurriedly wrapped both hands around it, not sure if he were excited or terrified. "Yeah, that. No, we're not coming back here; we're meeting at the library. So she probably wouldn't want to. . not if it's snowing. But what if she does? Do you think she'd want to? What do I do if she wants to? Should I suggest it? Invite her to dinner or something? But then what if she cancels? What if the weather is too bad to meet after all? Should we reschedule?"
"Lance, chill," Hunk commanded, pressing a hand in midair as if lowering a valve. "How about this? I'll plan on yes, make enough food, and wait to put blankets on the couch until we know one way or the other. Deal?"
"But should I ask her, though?" Lance queried again, feeling even more out of his element. Like he'd made a mistake before he'd even done anything.
"Eh, do what feels right," Hunk advised, rather carelessly, which didn't help at all. Lance set down the last few sips of his coffee. He didn't feel like finishing it now.
"That's usually not the best idea," Lance muttered, retrieving his coat from the pile near the door.
"Don't worry so much," Hunk told him.
"Easy for you to say," Lance said, smiling through his nerves, buttoning his coat and his humor tightly in place. "Sitting there, God's gift to humanity, all of us hopelessly in love with you. Say, speaking of that . . . "
"Don't be late, Lance," Hunk shooed him away, bending over the notebook again. Lance knew he didn't mind it near as much as he pretended.
"Careful out there," Lance warned on his way out, serious again. "Let's not get into fistfights over the last quart of milk, right?" Because Hunk was not the only one making a list right now, Lance was certain. It would soon be in the news, if it wasn't already, that citizens should be getting prepared to be snowed in for the weekend. Which meant they would all be out at the stores, buying extra toilet paper, stripping the shelves of medication, bread, and bottled water. Lance started making a mental check list as he walked of what he should do when he got back from class. Make sure the flashlights had batteries, refill their emergency water supply. Figure out a spot on their balcony to put the stuff from the fridge in case the power went out. That was the one plus side of living here – the entire outdoors was a freezer so nothing would spoil.
Pidge thought he was crazy the first time he'd gone into disaster stashing mode, called him dramatic, told him that it was never as bad as the weathermen claimed it would be, but she was the first to show up when the storm started, and finally admitted Lance was pretty smart as they cuddled together in the dark, electricity-less apartment, eating egg rolls warmed with a camp stove. Hopefully, it wouldn't be that bad again. Lance glanced above him at the heavy clouds, wondering when it would start.
Until the first snowflakes did make their appearance, however, there was no reason not to go about business as usual. Which for a Friday meant English 101 first thing in the morning. To make up for Thursdays, Lance kept his Friday schedule light. Through some miracle, he had bundled what he called his "fluff" classes together for Friday, with long gaps between. Fluff meaning the classes the university required for everyone to take, to round out the academic experience – English 101, some kind of foreign language (Lance had tested out of all the Spanish courses until he was up to the last two offered, which were more about literature and phonetics than language), and physical education. Lance had chosen Ballroom Dancing for this requirement, noting to his friends how underutilized a dating resource it was. A room full of forty girls just waiting for you to ask for their hand and maybe twenty-five guys to be their partners. Truly a hidden gem for an eligible bachelor.
The only one that really bugged him, of course, was the English. Not just because of Keith, either. There was a lot he didn't like about it. First of all, it seemed completely irrelevant to his future goals. Second, he'd already learned to speak English, so the challenge of it was kind of already over for him. Everything at this point seemed superfluous. Third, the professor was one of those embittered, failed creative writers who liked nothing more than to take out his frustrations on his students. Once he'd come to class with a guitar and a harmonica in a holder around his neck. He sat on his desk, played both instruments at once, sang "Like a Rolling Stone" not so much out of key but in a painfully put on gravel-ish tone, told them all to "think about that" and marched angrily out of the room. The only thing Lance had thought about that was how it was all a ridiculous waste of his time and how he'd trudged all the way over to this room in the snow to witness what he thought could only be some sort of hippy mid-life crisis.
Professor Gibbon didn't have his guitar with him today, though. He did have a reminder about the biography due on Monday, and a discussion on the components to construct a decent cover letter. Lance sat up a little straighter. Cover letters could be important someday. This lecture may be beneficial to him. He took his notes and drafted a template, rather satisfied with the lesson, but not forgetting that he needed to do something about his assignment for Monday.
He had to hurry through the crowd of students shielding themselves into their winter stuff to catch his teacher after class, gaining a rather surprised look when he appeared at the front desk. Prof. Gibbon obviously wasn't used to student interaction, did his best to avoid it, but that didn't matter. Lance had to plead his case about the biography assignment. He kept it short and relatively free of whining.
"So how can I possibly write a biography on him if I can't even find him?" Lance finished his concrete argument. "The only way I feel I can complete this assignment is if I talk to my roommate instead."
"I don't have a problem with it," his teacher allowed, his words and his tone contradicting each other. "But you do realize Keith's sitting right behind you?"
"What?" Lance said, confused. Prof. Gibbon pointed to the back of the room where Keith sat with his notebook open, resting his head on his hand. Lance felt his jaw drop. "No, you're kidding." He hadn't come to class in over a week! When did he get here? Lance was certain he hadn't been that interested in cover letters. How had he missed him?
"It's up to you," Prof. Gibbon finished, gathering his coat and his bag, his emotional quota for this particular class evidently full. "But I would prefer you to interview your partner, if only because he needs to interview you as well." The way he talked, it made Lance feel as though he didn't believe that he'd tried to contact him at all, that he was just lazy and trying to weasel out of something. He wanted to rip his phone out of his pocket and show him the long line of failed meeting attempts, prove how many times he'd tried to do this, how often he had shifted his schedule around to make it happen. He had more than tried! But before he could get it out, his teacher was nodding at him and headed out the door. "Good luck," he said over his shoulder.
The last of the students were clearing out as Lance shifted direction to the back of the classroom. Keith didn't move, and Lance confirmed his suspicions about why as he came to a stop directly in front of him. He'd propped himself up expertly, but he was undeniably asleep, his notebook blank. Lance folded his arms around his book, drumming his fingers irritably against the spine, his jaw grinding though his lips were pursed tightly closed as he thought of what he wanted to say to this jerk who had just made him look like an idiot in front of the professor – the latest in a long inconsiderate list.
Their classroom was divided by three long tables, ten chairs lined up along each to accommodate the class, one of the smaller rooms. Keith sat at the end of the last one, farthest from the whiteboard at the front, closest to the door at the back. Where losers sit. People who come late only to fall asleep in class. People with no ambition. People who ghost their partners.
Lance looked down at Keith, hovering over him from the other side of the table, and couldn't remember a single thing Hunk had said about getting his side of the story for why he'd been missing. He could not gather together a scrap of sympathy for him in this moment, having just come from what felt like a rather accusatory conversation with their teacher about his effort – or lack of it. Though it was exceedingly rare for him, all he felt as he stood there watching Keith sleep was a fiery hatred. How dare he? Who had been paid off to allow him admittance to the university in the first place? This wasn't a community college, so how had he even been accepted? It had taken all Lance had to get here. How fair was that?
Without really thinking, Lance lifted his textbook high and then crashed it hard on the table right next to Keith's head. For one second, it felt deeply satisfying, the righteous pleasure of vengeance, but that moment was extremely short lived as Lance was suddenly introduced to the consequences of what he'd just done. Keith jerked awake, as expected, but instead of cowering or perhaps tripping backward on his chair like the statistical majority, he leaped to his feet and almost instantaneously threw a right hook that connected solidly against Lance's left cheekbone, hard enough to knock him to the floor, white splashing over his vision in a brilliant starburst that faded out in rainbow static. Lance immediately enacted the opposite end of the startle response spectrum, covering his head, turning away from the violence, tightening up as he waited for Keith to come kick him in the ribs for his little stunt. He blinked rapidly as his sight returned to normal, scrunching up that side of his face as he tried to figure out the damage by pain intensity alone. He'd never been punched in the head before.
"What the hell is your problem?" Keith growled, his voice raising all the hair at the back of Lance's neck, more so because it was so seething and quiet. He thought he'd feel better if Keith were screaming at him. The low volume made him sound incredibly dangerous. Lance really should have thought this through better. And still, even though he was now on his side, half lying in the disgusting puddles of mush that were tracked in by the students all winter long, wondering if his cheekbone were cracked, Lance was still furious even in his fear. He shoved himself to his feet, angry at himself for cowering, angry at Keith for making him do it. He'd never intentionally hurt any other living creature before, but today just might be the day to spoil his perfect record. He forced his hands into fists, an unnatural position for him. He did his best to stand as tall as possible.
"You," he spat, simply, cause and effect and rage all in one. You're my problem. You and people like you for as long as I can remember. I worked too hard to get here for you to blow me off so casually. It's not fair or right, and I'm not putting up with it anymore.
"I don't even know you!" Keith returned, defensive, breathing hard, still coming down from the fight response Lance had revved up in him. Seriously? Didn't know him? Unbelievable.
"Uh, the name's Lance," he lectured, surprisingly hurt more by these words than the punch. "We're partners? Supposed to be interviewing each other for Monday's assignment? You've been rescheduling on me for almost two weeks? Ringing any bells for you?"
As he spoke, harshly condescending, he gathered his courage to actually look Keith in the face, which washed him in immediate regret, all his fury evaporating. This wasn't him; he was supposed to be a healer. Ease suffering, not cause it. What had he done? He may have been the one to take a physical hit, but Keith was the one who looked beat up, awful really. He stood there tensed and coiled, fist drawn back, ready to deliver another blow, panting and surprisingly shaky. Lance relaxed, palms raising in surrender. He'd made such a mess of this with one careless moment. Why hadn't he taken a moment to think? Hunk had even warned him about it.
"At the bottom of my list, actually," Keith hissed, voice still low, on edge, not shifting at all even though Lance was standing down. Lance felt guilt grip him by the throat as he registered Keith's posture. His eyes. Lance knew both well, should have noticed a lot sooner, he had the training, and he felt compassion and shame swirl together nauseatingly in his stomach, not sure how to move forward from their standoff now that he'd ruined everything.
The first time Lance had tried his hand at healing, he had been eight years old. The patient had been a starving, sick feral dog he'd found in an alley, too weak to move but with enough fight remaining in it to bite Lance's arm as he picked it up. He still had the scar; the dog had clamped intermittent pressure into him all the walk home, snarling, tearing into the muscle. Lance had cried both from the pain in his arm and because the dog was hurting so much, feeling helpless that he couldn't make it understand that he was only trying to help. His parents were skeptical but believed in letting some lessons be learned the hard way, so they had allowed Lance to make a bed for the animal in the goat shed. It continued to snap at him, though he did his best to give it water, feed it by hand, talking gently and encouragingly to it. His mother had joined him to dress his wound and try to coax him into the house. He stubbornly wanted to sleep with the dog. She had given her permission after wiping his tear-streaked face clean with her apron. By morning, Lance's arm was swollen and throbbing, and the dog was dead.
His dad and elder brother had helped him bury it, taking several hours out of their busy lives to try and soothe Lance's little broken spirit with the ritual. However, Luis had questioned Lance's judgement, rather ungently, as he tore into the soil in the heat. He should have known better than to go near a feral dog, especially an injured one. It had been stupid. He had gotten exactly what he deserved. They were no good to anyone, so what if one died? Their father had rebuked him quietly, making him leave Lance alone – he was suffering enough already.
Lance heard what Luis said to him, but he couldn't make himself think that he'd done something stupid. He sat near them as they worked, holding the dog, his arm heavily bandaged. His brother didn't understand. The dog bit him because it was scared, because no one had ever been nice to it. And Luis didn't know, couldn't know, that during the night, it had crawled over to Lance, cuddled up against his side with the last of its strength. Because it hadn't wanted to die alone. So Lance couldn't believe what he'd done hadn't been the right thing to do. He might have been hurt, but it had been worth it. No one should suffer alone.
Lance felt tears sting his eyes as that memory filled him, standing there looking at Keith, seeing the similarities. He hadn't thought about that dog in such a long time, but there was something fierce, feral, and wounded in Keith's expression that brought it back, his lips curled, his body tight, trembling. Lance should have approached this differently. He didn't know how to save the situation now – at least not without one or both of them getting hurt.
"I'm sorry," he heard himself say, dropping his eyes and hands, submitting to Keith's dominance to help him feel safer, needing to turn this around so he could actually talk to Keith, ask him about where he'd been, figure out what was really going on, see if he could help him. "That was a jerk move, and I shouldn't have done it." He knew better. Such a stupid thing to do. He really wished he could take those moments back again, erase them.
"You think?" Keith snapped, but there wasn't much strength in his voice anymore either. Lance thought he knew why, but couldn't ask yet thanks to his own thoughtlessness, knew he couldn't get close enough to check. Keith still had his fists up and ready. Lance paused a moment to gingerly touch the back of his hand against his cheek, shocked at the temperature difference. His hand felt so cold on his face. His cheek felt swollen and hot against his hand. He winced unconsciously, wondering what kind of damage Keith could inflict if he had the time to think about it, glad he hadn't decided to hit him more than once.
"Can we start over?" Lance offered, hoping the textbook and the punch could cancel each other out. A point for each of them. New match, friendlier this time. "Truce?" He extended his hand, but Keith just eyed it suspiciously.
"Just stay the hell away from me," Keith told him, hotly, before turning away. Lance wilted, disappointed, then had to hurry and awkwardly catch his textbook when Keith flung it at him, discus-style, the corner gouging him in the chest.
"Ow, hey!" He said, more sad than anything. Keith ignored him, shakily bending to retrieve his backpack. He paused when he stood, his arm hanging loosely at his side, one hand clenched tightly around the straps, the other planted firmly on the table, his eyes closed. Lance felt his heart tighten up watching him. "Keith?" He began, taking a cautious step nearer.
At the sound of his name, Keith turned his head, opening his eyes just enough to glare at Lance, who was studying him intently now, concerned, his EMT training prodding at him. The wild dog was still in Keith's expression, suffering, angry, scared to death. Lance held out his hand soothingly without thinking about it. How bad was it? Was Keith at the beginning or the end? How could he get Keith to let him close enough to tell?
"Leave me alone," Keith commanded, slinging both backpack straps over one shoulder and hunching forward out of the room. Lance stood berating himself with his textbook in his hand, thinking maybe he should rush after him, despite what he'd just said. He should follow him, make sure he was all right. But then Lance blinked and even that tiny, unconscious motion hurt his wounded face, so he decided against it, letting Keith disappear down the hallway. Besides, even if he thought he could check on Keith without putting himself in physical danger, he didn't actually have the time right now. So he packed up his stuff, threw on his coat, and hurried back to his apartment to change for work. His shift was only two hours on Friday mornings, ending at lunchtime.
He paused just long enough to check himself over in the mirror, surprised at the reflection. His eye was fine, but there was already an impressive bruise splashed a little underneath it, running outward from the corner of his eye up toward his temple, his cheek visibly swollen. He grabbed a couple Ibuprofen and swallowed them with water he drank straight from the bathroom faucet, feeling stupid. It was his own fault. He wondered how he was going to explain it to . . oh, everyone who was going to see him in the next week or so. Like Allura! He groaned, hanging his head over the sink. What a way to start a date. Of all the days to act like a moron. He never did stuff like that, what had possessed him?
But it was already done, no way to change it now. He'd have to figure it out later. Why he did it; what he was going to say about it when he was inevitably asked. Except instead of thinking up a story on what he'd done to himself, he found he couldn't stop worrying about Keith, the expression on his face, the broken posture, sleeping at the desk, how Lance had been so cruel to him without ever giving him a chance. He replayed their confrontation over and over in his mind all the way to the donation center. He'd given up on the idea that Keith might have a legitimate reason for not meeting up with him. Because why not just say so if he did? And then to do what Lance had done when Keith was already . . . . Lance couldn't get over it. He was so shocked and disappointed with himself.
He ended up relying on what he did best regarding the startled questions he was peppered with all through his shift. It was strictly Emily Dickinson for him. Tell the truth but tell it slant. So that's what he did. To his boss. His coworkers. The few, but regular, donors who really needed the cash so they had braved the weather to come in. "Oh yeah," he jokingly responded to all queries. "That? Got it in a fight, but wow, you should see the other guy!" That mostly brought unconvinced guffaws and the matter was dropped. To the very few who were still concerned and pressed him on what really happened, he poured on exaggerated sincerity. "But I did get in a fight. Dude got in the first hit, but only one." The words were true. The tone made it seem like a lie. It worked here at the center, where people only thought they knew him. He'd have a harder time later, when he went home. When he'd have to confess to Hunk not only how he got hurt but that he'd deserved it.
An email came in from his Spanish teacher, cancelling class that afternoon due to the weather forecast. It was still only threatening to snow, but the darkness had a weight to it now, the barometric pressure tangible in the air. He suggested the class use the time to review for the upcoming oral presentation – their choice of a poem or excerpt of Spanish literature. Lance wasn't too worried about it. He'd already memorized Segismundo's monologue from the play La Vida es Sueño; a quick couple of recitations before class on Monday would do the trick for him. It meant that he suddenly had a completely open afternoon, a guilty conscience, and a growing need to check one more time on his English partner. It felt increasingly like a moral obligation the more he thought about it. He called Pidge before he left the donation center after his shift.
"Need some dating tips?" Pidge purred into the receiver before any kind of greeting.
"What?" Lance asked, caught off guard before remembering that Pidge was referencing his meeting with Allura later on that night. Why did he keep forgetting about that? Getting a date with her had been so high on his list of life goals that he found it distressing how he wasn't thinking about it at all and had to be reminded so often. "No, that's not for hours. I've got that covered." That was a complete lie, but he had something else taking his attention right then. Brains do not actually multi-task like people think they do. No matter what anybody says, a human brain can actually only focus on one thing at a time. Right this second, Lance was completely focused on Keith. Standing there with his hand on the table and his eyes closed.
"Suit yourself," Pidge told him, making him second guess the offer. Did he need dating tips? On the other hand, even if he did, could he trust taking them from Pidge? She was brilliant and everything, but Hunk had brought her over to the apartment several times before Lance had even noticed she was a girl. "So what do you need?" She asked, changing the subject, obviously wanting to move forward so she could get back to whatever she'd been working on when he called.
"I need an address," he said, favoring her wishes to get straight to the point, glad they weren't talking awkwardly about dating anymore. "Keith Kogane – he's a student here. Can you figure out where he lives?"
"Can I?" Pidge echoed, pretending to be offended.
"Will you?" Lance rephrased, but he didn't need to. He could hear her typing already. He hoped she wouldn't ask him what he wanted it for. He didn't have a good reason. Fortunately, Pidge wasn't in the mood to be nosy, though she'd probably demand an explanation later. He added it to the growing list. His cheek. Keith's address. His own poor judgment.
"Got him," she said triumphantly, though Lance had no idea how she'd done it. He never asked, wanting to live in a place of plausible deniability. "He's at Snell-Hitchcock, southwest building, room 110 on the first floor."
"You're amazing, Pidge, thanks; see you tonight."
"Behave yourself," she told him, hanging up. He knew she was just saying that to say it, that she had no real idea of who Keith was or why Lance was going to see him, but her comment still hit him rather hard. If he'd behaved himself earlier, this whole thing might not have been necessary.
Was it necessary, though? Lance asked himself this repeatedly on the walk over to the dorm. Maybe it was actually a bad idea. Keith had specifically told him to stay away. He was already sporting the consequences of getting on Keith's bad side on his face. He had a million other things he could be doing with his time right now. He had permission to do his biography on basically any other person in the world besides Keith. If he just kept walking, he could be snug in his apartment in no time at all, drinking Koko Samoa with Hunk, waiting for the snow, finally hearing about the elusive and suddenly intriguing transmitter. It was so incredibly tempting.
But he couldn't. Keith's eyes wouldn't let him. The hand on the table. The vulnerable pause.
His fellow pre-med students sometimes mocked him about it, but Lance had a knack for medical observation. They said that Lance told you what you had and then you came down with it, like he cursed people instead of diagnosed them. They teased him about the med bag too, but shockingly no one ever minded much when he showed up with it to take care of them.
He didn't have the bag now; it was sitting in a neat pocket on the floor between his dresser and his door. He kind of wished it were with him, though its weight was daunting to be schlepping it around everywhere he went. Still, there were few calamities he encountered in the world that couldn't benefit from something contained inside. Crying classmate? Here's a tissue. Forgot your lunch? Have a protein bar. Need an aspirin? Got you covered. Teabag? Sure. Batteries, of course. Extra pen? Ace wrap? Emergency blanket? Chocolate? Check, check, check and why would you ever leave home without that?
"What are you even doing here?" He asked himself, out loud, standing outside the dorm entrance. He'd almost summoned enough internal momentum to walk away, forget all about it, when a resident came out the door and politely held it open for him to go in.
"Thanks," Lance said, automatically, not sure if he meant it, stepping inside. He breathed deeply, down to the pit of his stomach, to calm himself down, still uncertain on what he was going to say. How would he even get Keith to trust him now? What if he wouldn't talk to him? What if he gave him a matching bruise on the other side? But maybe that was the answer. Maybe he needed to take the hit. A penance. A token of good will. God, he hoped not.
He paused again in front of room 110, in the dark of the winter hallway, conflicted. His nerves told him to just leave. His heart told him to knock. You don't owe this guy anything, his logic said. But he believed very strongly that no one should suffer alone. You don't even know that he is alone, Lance argued his own conscience. There's nothing that says he doesn't have a roommate just as cool as yours. Well, no, honestly, no one has a roommate as cool as Hunk, but he likely has friends. Maybe you're being arrogant in thinking you're the only person that can help him. Maybe you're completely delusional thinking he even needs help. Maybe you're just being selfish because you know you were mean on purpose and the guilt is making you see things that aren't even true.
The memory of the dog came back to him again. Then the words in Paul Farmer's lecture that had focused and anchored his dream to ease pain in the world. Even if he were totally wrong about Keith, about what he thought he saw, he knew he wouldn't be able to get over it until he'd made sure. Until he'd apologized once more. He put his palm against his arm, where two layers of clothes down, the bite scar puckered his skin, then for the second time that day, he tightened his hand into a fist, this time to tap his knuckles against the door.
Quiet. No response. Maybe he wasn't home? But no, Lance was all amped up for this conversation now. If he had to summon his courage to come back later, he didn't think he could manage it. He knocked again, louder this time.
"Keith?" He called for good measure, not suspecting for one second that Pidge could have given him incorrect information; his faith in her stronger than in himself. "Are you in there?"
His hand moved from chest height to the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the old brass. "Keith," he said again, amazed how he could want two very different things at the same time. He wanted Keith to answer him. He really hoped he wouldn't. The knob turned as he twisted his wrist, unlocked. That was a surprise. He wouldn't have put money on Keith being the kind of guy who left his door unlocked. He felt the latch give along with the resistance, the hinge ready to obey his next decision. If he wanted, he could pull backward and let himself in to Keith's dorm room. He took a moment to contemplate the consequences of that. It couldn't be considered breaking and entering if the door was unlocked, could it? And if Keith weren't in there, then he'd know in a matter of seconds and could leave immediately, no one the wiser for the intrusion. But if he were there? Was there a reason he wasn't answering? What kind? He needed to find out.
"Keith, I'm coming in," Lance warned before he talked himself out of it, tugging the door toward him and peeking timidly inside.
It was so tiny, so different from his own place, a cell rather than a room. There was a small window with a miniature desk beneath it straight across from the door. A stand-up dresser smashed against the wall on the left side of the room, and crowded on the right was a twin bed. With Keith just sitting up on top of it.
"Oh, hi," Lance stammered, surprised, worried about being responsible for waking Keith up twice in a day. "You are here."
Keith blinked at him, groggily. He was still wearing his coat and boots, as if he'd staggered through the door, tossed his backpack on the desk, and just collapsed into the bed. He looked terrible, worse than before. Lance suddenly didn't feel so dumb in making the decision to come check on him. It gave him some confidence.
"What are you doing here? Go away," Keith commanded, his voice rough, a wild dog snarling out a warning. Lance softly pulled the door closed, sealing them both inside, actually feeling a bit more secure now that he was standing here, now that he could very clearly see that he'd been right. The social aspect of this visit was obviously still delicate, but Lance had no intention of going anywhere now. He had a job to do. "I'm not doing the stupid assignment, got it?"
"That's not why I'm here," Lance told him, looking around. Not a single poster on the wall. Not a shred of personalization anywhere. The blanket on the bed could have been there from a previous tenant, or supplied by the residence hall. The desk was clear except for Keith's backpack. It looked like he'd just moved in but hadn't brought in all his stuff yet. Or like he was on his way out.
Lance brought his gaze back to Keith, who hadn't moved from the bed. Lance figured if he were going to attack him, he likely would have done it already. But he didn't look like he had the energy for something like that. He'd braced himself with one hand on the mattress, the first finger and thumb of his other hand straddling his forehead, pressing against his temples. Lance helped himself to the chair at the desk, turning it so he could sit down at Keith's level, the room so narrow that their knees almost touched.
"How long have you been sick?" Lance asked him, his tone gentle, professional, in his element now. Ready to check symptoms, assess treatment. It couldn't have been the entire length of the assignment. Unless, maybe, mono? That had a long duration, with lingering exhaustion and weakness. That would explain a lot.
Keith lifted his hand away from his eyes just enough to glare suspiciously at Lance, obviously perturbed that he hadn't obeyed his request to get out but not willing to expend the effort to force him to leave. Lance watched as Keith scanned him critically up and down.
"What are you? A nurse?" Keith said, not answering the question but not denying it either, taking in the scrubs he was still wearing, and Lance supposed the tone was meant to be taunting.
"Pre-med," he corrected quietly. "But I am a certified EMT."
Something slipped in Keith's expression as he said it, a tiny flash of innocence, not trust, but a glimmer that maybe he wanted to. It encouraged Lance into thinking that they might be able to move forward, past this morning. Both Keith's hands gripped the mattress now, and he looked suddenly much younger to Lance, sitting there with hunched shoulders and bowed head. Kind of helpless, shivery.
"I'd like to help," Lance offered. "If you'll let me. I'm really sorry about earlier, that was not cool. I don't even know why I did it."
"I do," Keith whispered; Lance barely caught it. He didn't know what he meant, so he let it go. He wanted to move on.
"Can I touch you?" Lance asked for permission, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, though he was already reaching out as he said it, assuming cooperation. The one-way flow of the conversation was starting to become clear to him. Keith wasn't going to answer questions; he was way too guarded. He didn't want anyone to see him prone or weak, so he certainly wouldn't be admitting it. Lance had worked with people like him before. Hell, his own sister Veronica was just like this. He wouldn't ask, but he wouldn't refuse either. So even though he didn't verbally respond, there was no resistance when Lance pulled his right hand away from where he clutched at the blanket.
"Checking your pulse," Lance explained as he turned Keith's wrist toward him, letting him rest his arm on Lance's legs. His skin was dry, extremely warm. Fevered. Lance settled his fingertips below Keith's thumb, counting as he looked at the clock on his phone. 105 beats per minute. Judging from Keith's physical appearance, Lance would guess his normal resting rate was closer to sixty. Elevated.
"Can you turn your face up a bit?" Lance asked, letting Keith's hand go, surprised when he left it on his leg. Keith looked doubtful, but after a moment's pause, he did as he was told, accepting Lance's authority even in his own room. Lance tried to rub his hands together for friction heat. "My hands are going to feel cold on your neck," Lance warned, but Keith still jumped at the contact. His temperature was so high that everything was going to seem cold to him right now. He shuddered under Lance's fingers. It only took a second to find Keith's lymph nodes, swollen and hard. God, the poor guy. Lance leaned back. "Last thing. Just follow my finger with your eyes, ok?" Again, Keith did as instructed, his eyes dragging, his reaction time slowed.
"Does your throat hurt?" Lance asked, narrowing down what he was seeing. Lack of throat pain would dismiss mono.
"It's like the only thing that doesn't," Keith confessed, shocking Lance. He hadn't been expecting him to answer like that. He'd been thinking he would have to drag every tiny bit of information out of him, one yes or no question at a time. He was either sick enough that his defenses were way down, or he was secretly relieved that Lance had forced himself into caring for him. Possibly both.
"I'm taking it you didn't get a flu shot this year?" Lance guessed, unconsciously picking up Keith's hand again since it was still in his lap, part of his natural bedside mannerism. Keith shook his head. Lance swallowed the lecture he had prepared for that. He'd already given it to both Hunk and Pidge. And probably too many other people he'd looked after this winter who should know better. Fortunately, his own vaccination seemed to be holding up well.
Lance studied the room again, as if it could have been possible to miss something the first time. No bathroom in here. No sink. Snell-Hitchcock was one of those dormitories where all those things were communal. One huge bathroom per floor. One community kitchen. The worst place ever for a flu patient – both for his recovery and for likely spreading the contagion to the entire complex.
"Do you have anybody who can come stay with you?" Lance asked, holding Keith's hand in both of his now, feeling him tremble, chilled. He was going to need rest, fluids, possibly a steadying hand to guide him to and from a bathroom. Things that Lance might have felt comfortable in him doing for himself if he had lived in a different residence hall where all that stuff was in one space. Keith stared at the floor, his hand limp in Lance's, his shoulders twitching.
"Keith?" Lance tried again. "Is there someone you can call to come help you for a few days?"
The pause after the question went on so long that Lance got worried. How high was this fever? He really wished he had his med bag, the old-fashioned, reliable mercury thermometer would be so helpful right now.
"Keith," Lance called him, going to his knees on the floor so he could look up into his face. There were tears in his eyes; his mouth a tight bloodless line. No wonder he hadn't wanted to look up or speak. He had no one. He really was alone. Lance stared at the empty wall above the bed, the depressing atmosphere of the place. Lance stood up, putting a comforting hand on the back of Keith's neck – which made Keith gasp at the cold and Lance wince at the heat.
And suddenly, Lance no longer cared exactly why Keith had decided to keep skipping their appointments. Right now, he was alone and suffering; the two things that Lance absolutely could not tolerate.
"All right," Lance said, making a decision. "Help me pack some stuff. You're coming home with me."
Author's Note: Ok, so we don't find out what Keith's been up to, but it's coming soon. Ah, Keith, so secretive. But good job, Lance, on partially taming your wild wolf here. Sorry about your pretty face. Keith's sorry too . . . but he won't tell you that.
