Author's Note: As always, thanks for your patience and reviews and reading and all the wonderful things that you do. I appreciate you so much!
Chapter Five: Thundersnow
While sleep was the best thing for Keith, it was Lance's least favorite part of taking care of someone. He liked to be useful, to be doing something. Waiting around, quietly monitoring someone as they slept, didn't require enough effort, didn't feel like assistance. It made him feel edgy and restless. The storm and his missing friends made it worse.
He stayed with Keith for a while, resting a gentle hand on his brow to keep him calm and quiet as he drifted off. The medication seemed to be helping him sleep at least, though it was not touching his temperature. He was still burning up. Some people were like that. Their body chemistry put together in such a way that certain medications just didn't work how they were supposed to, or only worked partially. Like the one patient Lance had seen where the muscle relaxant component of Vicodin worked for him, but the pain reliever part did not. Lance would have to experiment a little to see what would and wouldn't help Keith, though he was hesitant to do that. Hopefully, the fever would break in a few more hours and it wouldn't be necessary.
Once Lance was sure that Keith was asleep, he fetched his notebook to write down some stats before he forgot them. How much Keith had eaten of the soup, the time he'd taken the Tylenol and the dosage. The time he'd fallen asleep. The crying. His last temperature that Lance had taken before he'd tucked him into bed. It had risen to 103.1 – which meant that Lance had a new mental timer to keep track of. If it continued to rise, or stayed over 103 for forty-eight hours, he'd have to take him to the hospital, which was less than two miles away, but somehow, with the storm and knowing how hard it would be for Keith to move, what it would do to his heart, it seemed across the country rather than just across campus. It also felt like failure. He'd told Keith that he would take care of him, not strangers working the nightshift at the ER.
The storm intensified and Lance grew more agitated as the apartment seemed to shrink on him. He put away the curry, cleaned the kitchen, then the bathroom. Made up the couch with the extra sheets and blankets they kept specifically for Pidge when she slept over. He wrote up his meeting with Paul Farmer on the computer that Hunk and Pidge had built for him, just so he'd have it at a moment's notice if Allura texted him her email address. He checked his phone obsessively. No messages from her or anyone else. He started sending texts to Hunk and Pidge, at first casual, then becoming increasingly worried when they didn't respond. A steady, uneasy rotation began as the sun set and hours went by. Lance would stand at the window, watching the snow, listening to the wind. Then he'd send another text. Then he'd check Keith, who shifted often, sometimes muttering in his sleep though Lance couldn't understand him. Then Lance would try to find something to do to keep himself from thinking of his friends or the storm.
Where were they? Why wouldn't they answer him? Lance flipped on the small lamp on top of his dresser, casting more shadows than light into the room, but he could clearly see Keith's sleeping face, so that's all he really needed. At least one of them was peaceful through this.
Lance started the calming ritual of a sun salutation, but the rumble of thunder broke into the streamline of his forms and brought him back to the window. He could see the battling wind patterns over the lake. While he knew it would please Hunk and Pidge, and all their geoscience friends camped out at the Museum, he didn't care for it at all. It looked like the end of the world. As he stood there watching, lightning struck the lake, seeming to come from above and below the water, meeting in the middle, the shock of the broken sound barrier rippling away from it and shuddering into Lance's heart.
It's just thunder, he reminded himself. But even as he thought it he knew it didn't matter. He wasn't worried so much about the thunder. He was worried for the space that separated him from the Museum, for how close his friends were to the lake, for how deep the snow was already and how much of it was still falling fast. He didn't know exactly what he thought could happen to them. It's not like they were in actual danger. But there was just something about the early darkness, the lonely sound of the wind, the sudden peals of thunder, that made it so he couldn't help but worry.
The next strike of lightning had a strobe-like effect on the falling snow. Everything seemed to freeze in the light, all the snowflakes suspended as if time had stopped. An illusion, but a powerful one. And when the thunder followed, Lance actually jumped at its intensity. He texted Hunk again and started to pace to keep himself away from the window for a minute. What were they doing that they couldn't respond? Didn't they know how much it was bugging him?
"Are you ok?"
Lance startled, his whole system way too keyed up. What is your problem? He asked himself. Calm down. But then again, Keith had this weird ability to sneak up on Lance, even if he hadn't actually moved. Lance didn't even know when he'd woken up, didn't know how long he'd been watching him. He smoothed his hands down his hips, as if wiping anxiety off them, taking a deep breath as he went to the bedside.
"Just fine," Lance answered the question, forcing a smile. The last thing Keith needed was to start worrying about him. Keith had pushed himself semi-upright, turned toward Lance, his body twitching randomly with the rigors of the high fever. "How are you?" Seemed the more appropriate thing to find out.
Keith's expression darkened, and Lance could see he didn't want to answer. He didn't understand what was so hard about it, but he shrugged it off. He could guess how Keith was feeling just from looking at him anyway. He knew he felt cold, a very specific breed of chill that seems to come from inside and feels like you'll never be warm again, that his joints and muscles were shooting with sharp pain without warning. He likely had a pretty intense headache, though it would be nothing compared to the backache he'd have later as the illness progressed.
"Never mind," Lance absolved him from having to say anything, standing quickly. "But since you're awake, let's get you a drink."
"That's ok," Keith began, not wanting it. But this wasn't something Lance was going to compromise on. He was already on his way to the kitchen for fresh water and an ice pack, sort of glad to have something to do again even though Keith wasn't doing any better. He still appreciated having something to keep him away from the window or his phone.
"You need to keep hydrated," Lance called out as he walked through the apartment, amazed how relieved he was to not be alone in the space anymore, though he could hear the edge in his own voice, how he sounded rather frenzied, trying too hard. "You've been here more than seven hours and haven't needed to use the bathroom once, which means you definitely should have some water as often as possible."
He paused to consider his stock of medicine, then grabbed the Tylenol again. It may not be doing exactly what it was supposed to, but since Keith wasn't eating or drinking much and his heart was struggling, it would be easier on him than the NSAIDs Lance had at his disposal.
"Here," Lance said as he entered the bedroom, hands full of water, ice, and medicine but paused to flinch as a lightning flash cut into the room. Lance tried to ignore the look Keith gave him as he handed him the glass. "You've got a 15-hour window to urinate on your own before I haul you to the hospital for an IV," Lance threatened. "So drink up."
Thunder hit the apartment so hard it shook, and Lance actually dropped the bottle of Tylenol. Pull yourself together, he lectured himself, bending to retrieve it, thankful he hadn't opened it yet so at least he hadn't scattered two hundred little white pills everywhere.
"Uh . . . Lance?"
He stood straight, the Tylenol bottle secure in both hands. Keith hadn't ever said his name before. He had actually thought that he'd probably forgotten it. The water glass shook slightly in Keith's grip as he sat there without drinking anything, propped up sort of awkwardly on one arm, watching Lance with concern. It looked strange mixed with the discomfort already present on his face. Lance knelt at the bedside, fiddling with the childproof cap.
"They said there would be thundersnow tonight," Lance prattled as he struggled, trying to pretend that he hadn't just jumped out of his skin over a little thunder. "That's what they're doing, you know? They're over there at the Museum taking readings of the storm, figuring out I guess what atmospheric conditions should be to get this kind of thing." He flapped one hand behind him at the window, indicating what was going on outside. "Pretty crazy, isn't it? Lightning in a snowstorm."
Keith shifted, grimacing, pushing himself to a sitting position in order to free the hand he'd been braced on, which he then carefully and slowly rested against Lance's on top of the bottle. "Hold still," he entreated. Lance froze, more from Keith's hand than what he said, registering the heat and the shudder in the touch. "Is the storm bothering you or something?"
"Of course not," Lance dismissed, lying. "It's just thunder." In a blizzard. In the dark and cold. Completely burying the streets outside. Bolts of electricity through air that is full of frozen liquid conduit. "Take a drink," he reminded Keith, pulling out from under his hand, renewing his efforts with the cap, absolutely unable to hold still right now. Keith obediently lifted the glass to his mouth, but continued to stare disquietingly at Lance.
Another flash of light, bright enough that Lance was surprised it hadn't cracked the window, followed by more thunder. The short duration between the two indicated that the storm was right on top of them now. Lance's shoulders tightened automatically before he could stop them. Keith tilted his head at him, his eyes seeming entirely too large on his face. Lance needed to turn away, starting to pace again, fighting with the stubborn cap.
"Can you . . .can you stop? Why are you so afraid?" Keith asked him, the words a little sharp but the tone suggested that Keith was actually trying to be gentle. Lance heard his breathing change as he spoke. It was speeding up.
"Is that what you think? That I'm afraid? That's funny," Lance said, very quickly, succeeding at last in getting the Tylenol open so he could give Keith another dose. "Here, these are for you." Hopefully, this would be it. Lance did some mental math regarding how long Keith had slept the last time and gauged what time it would be before he might need more. He didn't want to medicate him too much. Keith took the pills, swallowing them without even looking at them, a gesture of trust that Lance barely registered.
Lance wasn't afraid of thunder, or lightning. He wasn't afraid of storms. Cuba had plenty of rainstorms, wilder than this, and Lance actually loved the feel and the sound. It was the cold that was doing this to him. The cold, the threat of the electricity turning off on them. Having no electricity was common in Cuba, it happened all the time, but no one was going to freeze to death there if it happened. It also really bothered him that if Hunk and Pidge were in any kind of trouble, there would be no way he could get to them. That's what he hated most, though his concern was manifesting strangely – making it look like he was scared of thunder, so what was Keith supposed to think?
Lance took Keith's empty water glass, setting it safely to the side, pausing to look out at the snow swirling violently through the streets, across the lake. The thunder curled him over the desk, drumming his fingers against it. How long was this supposed to last?
"Lance?" Keith called him, voice weak, and he forcefully turned away from the window to see Keith reaching out to him. He looked frightened. He was panting. Lance had to get it together – Keith needed him. "Could . . . could you come here?"
"Sure, Lobito, what's up?" Lance asked him, still a little distracted by what was going on outside but doing his best to hide it, returning to where Keith hunched miserably on the bed. He had one hand against his chest now, like before, which pinned Lance's attention immediately when he noticed. In fact, he probably should have been paying more attention this entire time. He forcefully slowed himself down. "Is your heart racing again?"
"It's starting to," Keith admitted, gasping and scared, his flushed face beginning to pale as his heart demanded more of the blood supply to rush inward. The start of shock, a byproduct of arrhythmia.
"That's ok, you know what to do, right? Lie down," Lance instructed, not liking what he was seeing, feeling guilty. Keith shouldn't have had to call him over for help; he should have been there already. "Just relax."
"I can't; you're freaking me out." Oh. Lance hadn't thought of that, but he should have known. Patients need their doctors to be calm, and he was not doing so well at that. He could at least fake it a little better.
"I'm sorry," Lance apologized, kneeling again, compelling himself to chill out for Keith's sake. "Come on, put your head on the pillow. We'll calm down together, all right?" Keith shivered as Lance pulled his quilt over him, adjusting it over his shoulders as he lowered himself painfully back on the mattress, his color returning almost instantly as he put his circulatory system into a gravitationally neutral, horizontal line. Lance ran his hand up and down Keith's arm in what he hoped would be a soothing rhythm, something for his heart to copy, steady, slow, regular. "Is that better?"
"A little," Keith said, curling up into what seemed to be his natural recovery position, pulling his limbs to his core, some of the tightness leaving his jaw. "You?"
Lance was about to answer when thunder rattled every single one of his vertebrae, making him flinch, his hands convulsing around the fabric of the quilt. "God," he breathed automatically. He wished he could stop doing that, it was doing absolutely nothing to help and was actually making their situation worse, but it seemed to be out of his conscious control.
"Shh," Keith told him, sounding drowsy and breathless but no longer panting now that he was on his side, now that Lance was close to him. He fumbled out from under the quilt until he found Lance's hand, folding his fingers loosely over it. "It's ok." In that moment, Lance's heart almost broke open, full to bursting with how endearing this attempt at comfort had been even though Keith was suffering so much. He didn't think Keith knew how to be comforting.
"I know," he responded, smiling at Keith though his eyes were closed now and he couldn't see it. "Everything's fine; we're safe. I know that."
"Then why are you all over the place?" Keith asked, holding him still at the bedside. Lance bowed his head, then decided to tell the truth. How could Keith ever open up to him if Lance didn't trust him first? Then again, the slur in Keith's question told him that he probably wouldn't remember any of this conversation in the morning anyway. Either way, there seemed to be no harm in telling him.
"I'm not really ok with blizzards," Lance confessed. "It doesn't snow at all where I grew up. Last year was my first actual winter. The power went out on us for a few hours and I have never been so cold inside a building in my entire life. I don't want to do that again. And I wasn't planning on Hunk and Pidge being out in it, or gone so long. And now they aren't answering my texts, and it's just getting worse and worse out there and . . . I know there's nothing wrong, that everything's going to be ok, but I just want the storm to stop, and I want you to feel better, and I want them to come home so I know they're safe."
"You're something else," Keith was struggling, trying hard to stay awake. Lance had heard that expression before; Hunk said it to Pidge when he was exasperated with her. He wasn't sure how Keith meant it. "But that makes sense, I guess." Lance smiled again, relieved that Keith wasn't judging him for his fear, that he seemed to be trying to help Lance feel better, safer. His hand still covered Lance's but it had relaxed to the point where Lance knew it was no longer a deliberate decision of Keith's to have it there. The fever and the drugs were pulling him back under, which was good, that was what they were intended to do, and he needed the respite. Even though it would leave Lance completely alone again. "You guys are really close, huh?"
"Yeah," Lance acknowledged, selfishly talking in hopes that Keith would stay awake for a few more minutes even though he could hear how hard it was for Keith to be present with him, to keep up the conversation. He pictured Hunk and Pidge in his mind, thinking of them so hard that he almost imagined he heard the door opening. "They're my college family. They mean a lot to me." Keith's hand tightened over his as he shuddered, a concerning little spasm. "How are you doing, Lobito?" Lance asked him gently, changing the subject, shifting his position so he could settle two fingers on the pulse point on Keith's wrist to analyze the speed and rhythm. Still too fast, but steady now at least.
"That's right," Keith said, his voice half-asleep already.
"Keith?" Lance checked, wondering at the not answer that didn't seem to have anything to do with anything they'd been talking about. Could he really never answer that question properly? He wished he wasn't like that. What was so hard about just saying if you were ok or not? Looks like Lance's attempt to admit weakness first hadn't really worked. Or maybe Keith was a little behind in the conversation and had missed the question? "Did you hear what I asked you? You doing ok?"
"What?" Keith asked, and Lance gave up. Keith wasn't trying to get out of answering; he was genuinely not hearing Lance anymore. He could see Keith was lethargic, exhausted, that he was having trouble concentrating as he drifted off. Trying to keep him interacting was getting cruel.
"Forget it," Lance sighed, resigning himself to how claustrophobic his bedroom was going to seem to him in the next couple minutes after Keith fell asleep again. "Just rest."
"It's just thunder," Keith murmured. "God, will you hold still?" Keith's hand tightened around his. Lance looked at him, bewildered. "Stop moving." He was holding still. He hadn't really moved for several minutes now. Concern tapped him urgently at the base of his spine.
"Keith? You still with me?" Lance shook him a little, getting worried.
"Can you close the window?" Keith told him, not opening his eyes, the words hardly discernible. "It's so cold."
"I know it feels that way," Lance responded, deliberately calm despite his unease, watching Keith closely, wondering if anything he was saying was getting through. "But it's not cold; your fever is getting worse. Which reminds me." Without moving his hand from under Keith's, Lance stretched backward to get the cold pack he'd left on his desk, feeling a little helpless, feeling like he needed to be doing something, feeling like the situation was getting out of control.
The pack was made of soft cotton, navy blue and printed with stars, fitted with a plastic screw cap so it could be filled with ice, and it fit comfortably in one hand. "You're going to hate this," he warned Keith, talking to him as if he were still a participant in this conversation, needing to narrate what he was doing even if he was the only one hearing it. "But we need to do something about your temperature since Tylenol doesn't seem to be working for you. I'm going to hold an ice pack on the back of your neck for a while to see if it'll help. It seems counterproductive, but trust me, the lower your temperature goes, the warmer you'll be."
When Keith didn't respond, Lance reached over his head as he lay there on his side, turned toward Lance, to press the ice bag against his neck. But Keith jerked as if touched with a white-hot brand the moment Lance placed it on his skin, grabbing at Lance with surprising strength and pulling him off, suddenly defensive. Lance paused, completely shocked. He knew the ice wouldn't feel all that great to Keith until his temperature came down a little, but this kind of reaction was pretty extreme.
"Don't," Keith pleaded, cringing away. "Don't hurt me. Please."
Lance felt pain in currents up and down his arms, not from Keith's grip but from his words, which confirmed something that Lance had suspected before but wasn't completely sure about. There was no questioning it now – the fever was bringing out the truth. Someone had hurt this boy. Badly. Probably over and over. He ached to do what Keith wanted, forget the ice pack, bury him in blankets, snuggle up tight against him, assure him as many times as he needed to hear it that he was safe here, that Lance would never hurt him, but he knew that would be the worst thing for him. His heart needed the break. Actually, all his internal organs would benefit from not slowly being turned into jerky from the heat and dehydration. The way he was raving right now just proved even more that his temperature needed to come down. Quickly.
"Keith," Lance reasoned, probably uselessly, but he had to try again. He had to promise him out loud that he was not a threat to him. "I'm not going to hurt you; I'd never do that. I'm trying to help. Your temperature is too high and not responding to medication. It won't be comfortable at first, but it will get better if you let me do this. You trust me, right?" Keith was shuddering in front of him, eyes open since the shock of feeling the ice on his neck but not really seeing anything, looking like he really did expect Lance to hurt him. Looking like he might not actually be looking at Lance anymore.
"Please wait," Keith begged, getting panicky, keeping a tight grasp on Lance's wrist so he couldn't come any closer to him with the ice, as if it were a weapon. Lance relaxed the muscles of his arm, leaving it limp in Keith's hand, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. "Just let me. . ."
Lance couldn't hear the storm outside anymore. There was suddenly nothing but the tone of Keith's voice, the wildness in his eyes. And even though Lance knew better, he knew he wasn't going to force it. Not when Keith was looking at him like that, sounding like that, terrified and desperate, not actually understanding what was going on. Lance knew that this suddenly had nothing at all to do with the ice pack.
"Ok, ok," Lance settled him, backing off. "Look, here, you take it. You do it yourself. Put it on the back of your neck, or under one of your arms or the small of your back. Put it anywhere you think you can handle it, it doesn't matter to me. You pick."
Lance dropped the bag, giving Keith the control of the situation, and Keith sort of broke down, collapsing into a weak sort of calm, releasing Lance's wrist. Lance could still feel his fingers clamped there, like the teeth of the dog. Keith, what did they do to you?
"It's ok, Keith," Lance repeated, soothingly, making himself small at the side of the bed, folding his arms over the mattress and lying his head down, closing his eyes, his heart breaking, trying to convince himself and Keith at the same time. "I'm sorry."
How was he supposed to help him? How had he thought that he'd be capable of helping him? He had no idea what he was doing anymore, and Keith kept throwing new horror at him all the time. "I'm so sorry, Keith." Sorry for thinking I could do something I can't. Sorry for everything that happened to you that made you like this. Sorry for all the things I thought about you when I had no idea who you even were. I am sorry. Lance had to stop talking, his throat had closed tight. The wind outside cried for them.
Something cold and soothing came to rest against his bruised cheek, which shook him alert again. He fought against his instinct to jerk upright, forcing himself not to move, but he did open his eyes to see Keith's face in front of his, both of them with their heads down, looking at each other. Keith had changed again, abruptly and without warning. Now he looked soft, almost concerned. Lance had never seen anyone so unpredictable before. He wondered what Keith was like when he wasn't so sick.
"What . . .what are you doing?" Lance asked him, drained at the back and forth of Keith's emotions, not sure how much longer he could keep up.
"You said I could pick," Keith returned, quiet again, sleepy, like the last few minutes had never happened, his hand trembling on the bag, a sensation that shuddered all the way through to Lance's jaw. The ice felt good on his injured cheek, but the cold seemed to sink into Lance's heart. Keith was starting to really freak him out. "What happened to your face? Who hit you?" What the hell?
Lance slipped out from under the ice pack, out from under Keith's hand. Instead he sat on the side of the bed again, staring down at Keith, monitoring him from a different angle, needing to get higher. This situation was way out of his comfort zone now.
"You did, Keith," Lance answered him, hoping he'd snap out of it. Please snap out of it; I don't have training for this.
"I did?" Keith said, sounding uncertain, his body completely boneless on the bed, prone and weighted. Lance put both hands on his chest, rubbing a little to keep Keith awake, genuinely afraid now.
"Do you not remember?" He pressed. "Keith, look at me – what's my name? Can you tell me that?"
"Lobito," Keith responded in a whisper after a long pause, eyes closing again, his head falling to the side. Lance drew a long breath, running through the protocol on where to go from here and came up with getting a temperature reading. He pulled the ear thermometer from his bag since Keith was either asleep or unconscious and probably couldn't hold anything under his tongue right this second. It wasn't quite as reliable, but it would do for now. Keith barely flinched as Lance took the reading – 103.5. Still going up.
Lance checked the time, a little after ten. Late, but maybe not too late? No, this was urgent. He needed some advice. Dr. Coran would be ok with it, even if he woke him up. Hadn't he given Lance his cell phone number just for stuff like this in the first place? Lance kept one hand on Keith's chest, over his heart, pulling out his phone with the other, taking a moment to notice that there were still no messages from Hunk, or Pidge, or Allura. He hoped the doctor would be a little more accessible.
"Lance?" Coran answered, not sounding as though Lance had woken him but confused nonetheless. Lance usually only called on Sunday afternoons or they communicated via text for shadow sessions at the hospital.
"Coran," Lance responded, gratitude and relief audible in his voice. "Hey, sorry to call so late."
"You sound like there's a reason," Coran soothed, his Australian accent relaxing Lance a little. It was the voice in Lance's head, the voice of experience and education. A voice he trusted. "What can I do for you, my boy?" Lance liked it when Coran called him that, so close to the mijo that his uncles called him at home. He felt some of the crushing weight of responsibility for Keith lift off his shoulders.
"I'm looking after someone," Lance began, watching Keith intently, glad that his voice wasn't betraying quite how terrified he was right now. "And we're at the point where I'm not sure if it would be better to keep him here or call for an ambulance. Can I run his symptoms by you to get your opinion?"
"Certainly," Coran invited. "Go ahead."
So Lance told him everything he knew so far. The febrile seizure, the arrhythmia, the dehydration and delirium, the non-response to fever reducers, the rising temperature – the changes that had taken place in the hours that he'd been under Lance's supervision and treatment. The way Keith freaked out over tiny, strange things like backpacks, ice, phone calls. The way he looked a moment ago when he couldn't remember where Lance's bruise had come from, when he couldn't remember Lance's name. The way Keith was lying right this second, breathing fast, still as death.
"Well, that is a tough call," Coran said when Lance was finished. "He's definitely borderline. If it weren't the way it is outside right now, I'd say yes, go ahead and take him into the ER. However, I know for a fact that they have their hands full at the moment." Which meant that Keith would go through all the trauma of getting to the ER only to wait in triage for who knew how long until his symptoms got worse enough to be critical, or fatal. But if he stayed here and waited for the same thing to happen they might not have enough time to get him to the ER. But then again if he didn't have to go through the stress of getting to the ER, he might just improve and not need it. Lance hoped that Coran could give him a more definite answer.
"I don't want him waiting around in triage," Lance said out loud, and Coran hummed in the affirmative.
"Which is precisely what would happen if you take him now," he admitted. "The only thing they can do there that you aren't already doing is a fluid IV and an antipyretic. If it were anyone other than you looking after him, I'd say go anyway, but since I know what you're capable of, here's what I would recommend." Lance grabbed his notebook and pen to document what Coran was about to say.
"Keep him resting there as long as possible. I know delirium can be difficult to watch, but you're doing all the right things so far. The temperature tipping point is 104," Coran advised. "If his fever gets that high, call the ambulance. Keep waking him up, every hour, to replenish fluids – something with added electrolytes if you have it. If he won't rouse enough to drink, bring him in."
"Is that all?" Lance asked, wanting to be sure he had everything.
"No, one last thing," Coran finished. "Trust your judgment. You have the training. I can tell you care deeply about this person, and I can tell that it's upsetting the trust you usually have in yourself. Stick to your training; you know what you're doing. Remember the numbers, no matter how frightening the symptoms present themselves. I'll keep my phone nearby in case you need to call again. Don't worry about the time or waking me. I'd come sit with you right now if I thought I could get my car out of the snowbank it's buried under."
"Thanks, Coran," Lance said, feeling a little bit better about what to do going forward, secure knowing that he had a lifeline now, that he had a solid plan.
"Take it easy," Coran instructed. "You can do this. I'll be here."
They hung up and Lance sighed. He'd known all of that information before calling, but it was nice to hear confirmation from an actual MD. After writing a few final notes, Lance picked up the ice pack again as if it were a grenade. But, he reminded himself, it had already exploded. Gently, Lance lifted Keith's head, slipping the ice against his neck as he'd originally intended. Before it had blown up. Before Keith had spiraled down into some crazy PTSD psychosis. Keith moaned in his sleep, but didn't move. Lance wasn't sure if that was an improvement or not, but at least the ice was where he wanted it now.
"You are not going to the ER," Lance promised him, remembering how Keith had tried to use the ice pack to help him at the end, that he'd attempted to ease Lance's pain with it, even though he couldn't remember who Lance even was. That counted for a whole lot, especially since Lance knew how delirium worked. It didn't make it any easier to watch, but he knew how it worked. It was basic instinct, all facts, logic, and whatever else that kept a person functioning in polite society stripped away. He'd just seen Keith's bare soul, boiled to the surface by the fever. Part of it was fear and violence, but not all. Part of it was kindness and compassion. "But what am I going to do with you?"
Lance set a timer on his phone to let him know when he should try and get Keith to wake up enough for another drink. Then he settled on the side of the bed, listening to the weather, listening to Keith breath, just looking at him, exhausted from what they'd been through already, knowing they still had a long way to go.
I can tell you care deeply about this person, Coran had said, but how could he tell? Lance didn't know anything about Keith except what he'd learned today, which wasn't much. So how could he care about him any more than he cared for any of the other people he'd looked after? He didn't understand why, but he knew it was true. There seemed to be more on the line than before. The stakes seemed higher for helping Keith. Like this was the most important thing he could be doing, like he actually might be responsible for saving a life here.
Keith moaned again, distressed even in his sleep, and Lance put his hand on his head in an effort to still him, wishing there were more he could do. He wasn't comfortable yet either. The storm was still fraying the edges of his nerves, and he was still wound up from talking to Keith earlier, from how he'd watched him fall apart, but he understood now that Keith was tuned into his emotions way more than anyone else he'd treated before, so he stayed where he was, forcing himself not to pace anymore, not to look out the window. He couldn't stop himself from startling when the thunder hit the room in waves, but at least that was softening, the time between strikes getting longer, the storm blowing away across the dark lake.
Before the timer rang for Keith, Lance's phone started playing an instrumental clip from "She Blinded Me With Science" – Pidge's ringtone, which she wasn't sure if she loved or loathed. Depended on the day.
"About time!" Lance whisper-shouted into the receiver. "Where the hell are you and what have you been doing for so long that you couldn't let me know?" It was kind of a relief that he didn't really have to watch his mouth with Pidge. She could handle every emotion he threw at her without taking it personally. Unlike Hunk. Or Keith actually, who had started shaking his head side to side, a little frantically, when Lance began talking. He'd have to alter his tone. He rubbed Keith's chest in smooth circles.
"Told you he'd be mad," Hunk said, his voice muffled by the distance from the phone. Why did they always put him on speaker?
"He's not mad; he's overprotective and panicking," Pidge told Hunk before putting the phone close to her mouth to actually speak to him. Lance wasn't sure he liked her assessment, however accurate it may be. "Sorry, Lance; Hunk forgot his charger, so his phone is dead, and I turned mine off so it wouldn't interfere with any of the equipment we were using. I'm guessing you sent Hunk twice as many messages as me?"
"I didn't count them," Lance defended, trying to make it seem like he hadn't overreacted. "It doesn't matter; are you guys done? You coming home now?"
"Well, the storm's moving on, but the damage is pretty heavy. We can't really get the car out of the parking lot until maintenance comes in the morning to plow it, so a lot of the team is staying here for the night, looking through the data and we were thinking of doing that too. I guess we could walk home?" She said this last as if in question to Hunk, to see what he thought of that idea, whether or not it would be a requirement if they wanted to keep Lance happy. Lance looked toward the window, though he couldn't really see anything from his position on the bed. But he knew the snow was deep, and neither one of them had their boots. He knew they would do it for him if he asked them to, and that it wasn't all that far, really, less than half a mile, closer than the plasma donation center which he walked to and from almost every day. But he could tell that they hoped he wouldn't ask.
"You don't have to do that," Lance told her, trying to pretend like he wasn't disappointed that they'd be out all night, even though he knew it'd be safer for them to stay where they were rather than try to make it home at this point. "Stay warm and safe. But keep your phone on? Keep me updated?"
"Aren't you going to sleep?" Pidge asked, knowing how Lance liked to keep his schedules, even on a Friday night.
"Not yet," Lance answered, noticing that Keith was growing more restless as the conversation went on. His hands were clenching in the quilt, his whole body jerking at random. Come on, Lobito, just rest.
"Hey, Lance, you doing ok?" Hunk's voice, the tenderness in it making Lance's eyes sting with exhausted tears. Damn kindness. Got him every time. "You weren't that worried about us, were you?" Hunk, you have no idea. Worried isn't even the right word anymore.
"It got intense for a while," Lance admitted, leaving it at that. Keith took a weird breath, a little gasp, and Lance decided it would be best to get off the phone, even though he didn't want to. He wanted a couple more minutes. "I'm glad you guys are ok."
"It was epic," Pidge assured him, and Lance couldn't help but smile weakly. He waited expectantly for the two of them to geek out about the storm and their gadgets and what they'd seen or learned. He prepared himself to remember any words that he didn't know that still sounded important. He kept rubbing Keith's chest.
"We'll tell you all about it later, though," Hunk jumped in before Pidge got carried away. Because Hunk could always tell what was going on with Lance, whether Lance wanted him to or not. "How's your patient over there?"
"He's . . . ," Lance hesitated, not knowing how to answer that question. Then he remembered who he was talking to. "He's a lot worse than this afternoon."
"Worse than Pidge was?" Hunk asked. He gauged just about everything to that; it had really rattled him. Lance had a new appreciation for how he'd felt. Helpless and worried and responsible.
"Yeah," he confirmed, defeated.
"Good thing you brought him home then," Hunk's voice was encouraging, a thin layer on top of the concern. Lance had a sudden image of Keith lying in his own bed back in that tiny room. Lying there alone, like this, for all the long hours of the night. He heard himself make a little "huh" sound in acknowledgement to what Hunk had just said, not trusting his voice. He couldn't think of anything worse than that.
"Oh hey, Chris, wait a second," Pidge said, to someone over at the Museum. "Lance, we need to go. Will you be ok?"
"Sure," he said, trying to sound like he meant it. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"Hang in there, buddy," Hunk said in parting. "Try to get a little sleep."
"I will," Lance lied, knowing he absolutely would not be sleeping tonight.
Then they were gone and the room seemed darker all of a sudden. At least now Lance knew what happened, knew what they'd been doing, that they were just fine. He'd known that the whole time, but like talking with Dr. Coran, it just felt better to have the confirmation, though now he also knew for certain that they were not coming home at all tonight.
Keith was taking more quick breaths, one after the other without a break. It was almost a relief when Lance's timer went off, giving him permission to try and wake him up. He didn't want to disturb his rest, but this didn't really look very much like rest.
Lance successfully pulled Keith to a sitting position, making him coherent enough to swallow some water, even though he didn't truly wake. His eyes stayed closed; he didn't speak – his brain on fire and stealing most of his cognizance. Lance had to support him upright with one arm and hold the cup to his lips with the other. Somehow he did both without spilling anything on him.
"You were going to do this by yourself," he said disapprovingly to Keith, even though he couldn't hear him. "There's independence and then there's just stupidity, Lobito."
He lay him gently back on the mattress, leaving the blanket at his waist. Since he wasn't aware enough to protest, Lance wanted to keep him as cool as possible now. Lance refilled the cotton bag with more ice, replacing it under Keith's neck, making him whimper in his sleep. Lance made a note on his page. The time: 11 pm. Last water intake, approximately half a cup. Last temperature reading – holding at 103.5.
Keith seemed unable to hold still anymore, his body wracked by the pain of the fever. He turned his head, sometimes bringing one arm up to cover his face as if he were shielding it from some invisible threat. He twisted incessantly, uncomfortable.
"Shiro," he cried, his hand stretching out. Lance took it, holding it tight to his own chest.
"Shh, Keith," he begged, disturbed almost beyond endurance to be here watching this, not able to do much to help. Delirium is hard to witness, Coran had said.
"Please don't leave. Don't leave me here," Keith said, trapped in his own mind. "Can't I come with you? I promise I won't . . . Shiro, it's so cold." He ripped his hand out of Lance's grip, twisting to the side. "I swear I didn't touch him. Tell them, Shiro. I haven't even . . . please stop. Shiro, they're hurting me."
Lance was beginning to see that Shiro was a lot more important to Keith than he'd hinted at earlier. Who was he, though? And since he seemed to be the one that Keith wanted most, in the deepest part of his soul, why hadn't he wanted Lance to call him?
"Can they do that?" Keith went on, still seeing things, caught in the worst fever dream Lance had ever seen. "Shiro, wait, I can't . . . my heart hurts . . ." Lance grabbed Keith's wrist when he heard this, feeling the hard, intense pulse under his fingers. Not good.
"Keith," he called, hoping to somehow get through to him, leaning in to him as if that would help. "Calm down. Come on, come back to me now." But where ever he was, it was too far.
"Shiro, I didn't mean to," Keith went on, not hearing Lance at all. "I was trying to . . . you believe me, don't you?"
Lance looked around the room, desperate for something that might help shake Keith out of this. He caught sight of Keith's duffle bag and remembered the backpack inside it. Where Keith's phone probably was. Would that help though? Keith had told him not to call, but that had been before. When Keith could sit up on his own, when he could speak clearly. Lance's voice wasn't reaching him, but maybe Shiro's could?
"Get off," Keith was growling, thrashing against Lance now. Lance obeyed, even though the command hadn't been directed at him. He crossed the room to the duffle bag, pulling the backpack out from it. Was he really going to do this? Should he?
"I'll kill you," Keith hissed, and for a second Lance thought that he was talking to him. He almost dropped the bag, looking back where Keith writhed on the bed, panting, furious and terrified at the same time, oblivious to what Lance was doing. What on earth? Where had that come from?
English was so full of expressions. Some of them made no sense at all, like when Keith had told Lance that he was something else earlier. Some of them made sense, but the context was messed up. Kill was one of those. Lance heard Americans say the word kill way too casually all the time. I'd kill for a cheeseburger right now. If I don't get an A on this test, my dad is going to kill me. Jokes that were apparently funny enough to slay someone. Lance probably heard someone flippantly threaten death once a day, and none of it meant anything. This was the first time ever that he'd heard what that particular phrase sounded like when it was used in its literal translation. Keith wasn't aware of his surroundings, and Lance had no idea what he was experiencing in his mind, but he could tell from the chill in his blood when he said it, that Keith was being completely serious.
"K. . . keith?" Lance said, unnerved, but the moment was past.
"I'm so sorry," Keith was sobbing now, practically crippled with remorse, the last few seconds of violence just a flash like the lightning earlier. Lance returned his attention to the backpack, conflicted about whether or not he should open it. He'd promised he wouldn't. Keith had told him that Shiro was the one to contact in an emergency. "I didn't mean to, Shiro."
Lance carried the backpack with him, folding it in his arms as he sat on the edge of the bed. He put one hand on Keith's head, shushing him repeatedly, hoping it might be easier to calm him now that he was quieter, crying.
"Keith," he called again, bending over him. "Come on. Wake up."
"Shiro," Keith repeated, his main focus.
"I'll find him," Lance promised, reaching down for the backpack, not knowing what else to do. Yet even though he'd made the decision, his hands still hesitated on the zipper, knowing full well that if Keith were awake that he would not want him to do this. But if Keith were awake he wouldn't have to. He'd just about talked himself into it, the zipper moving slow as he pulled it, when he heard the front door to the apartment open.
He looked at Keith, who was still crying, but softer now, his body exhausted, and then hurried toward the living room where Hunk and Pidge were just turning on the lights, covered in melting snow. He'd never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. Without a word, without letting her finish getting her arms out of her sleeves, Lance went to his knees in front of Pidge and grabbed her around the waist, resting his bruised cheek against the fresh, wet cold of her coat.
"Aww, Lance, is it that bad?" She asked him, softer than she usually spoke. He opened his mouth to answer her, but instead of words, he heard himself sob in relief. "Yeah, ok. It is."
By this time, Hunk had succeeded in getting out of his Carhartt and had come around to Lance's other side, reaching around his back to hug him too. "We're here," he assured, the words a comforting rumble against Lance's shoulders. He couldn't seem to stop crying. He couldn't seem to let go of Pidge. He hadn't known how much the night had been bothering him until just this moment, though he'd been told before that he was like this. He would power through hard situations, saving his breakdown for a more convenient time. Apparently that was now.
"Did . . did you walk?" Lance sniffed, calming down. Pidge was uncharacteristically running her fingers through his hair, though his embrace had gone long over her normal tolerance time.
"We hitched a ride with someone who had the common sense to park on the street," she answered. "The way you were talking, we thought we'd better come home."
"Thank you," Lance expressed his gratitude, feeling like he might burst into tears again. "I could really use your help."
Author's Note: So, I meant for this story to be fluffy and sweet and cuddly, but as always, things are getting away from me a little (Keith, darling). This is going to be a lot longer than I thought. (Sorry? Maybe that's a good thing?)
