Author's Note: Sorry for the late update, friends. This chapter ended up shockingly different than I had intended, and a lot of what I had planned for this chapter is actually going to show up in the next chapter (how long is this going to be, Karin? You said it'd be quick – yeah, well, I always say it's going to be quick and then suddenly it's over 100,000 words. I don't know. I apparently only have one story setting – NOVEL).

But I also know for a fact that more than one of you likes for this kind of thing to be on the slow side. So let's keep it slow and enjoy it. And by slow, I mean slow in the story, not slow in the updating. Again, sorry about that. Please forgive me, enjoy the chapter, and maybe review. (Those glistening reviews – how I treasure them. Thank you so much!)

Chapter Six: Second Degree

Lance's subconscious woke him at a quarter to seven in the morning, as he'd been conditioning it to do for years. It happened whether or not he set an alarm (though he always, always set the alarm just in case), with or without sunlight present, and without any regard to what time he'd gone to bed the previous evening. Lance's subconscious didn't care about any of that. The standard was set at fifteen minutes before seven, and so when that particular moment became the present, Lance lifted his head, his cheek throbbing because he had stupidly slept on it, as close as he was ever going to feel to being hungover.

He woke in a crumpled heap on his bedroom floor, wearing his teal green scrubs from yesterday and partially covered with the crocheted afghan that they usually kept on the back of the couch – another item in the apartment where no one was actually certain where it had come from, but no one bothered to move it. It wasn't the prettiest thing ever and it wasn't near long enough, but he gave it credit for being warm and snuggly.

Lance gathered his stiff limbs underneath him, then settled into child's pose, hips easing to the floor while his fingertips pushed forward, unkinking his skeleton before sitting up slowly and leaning back against his bed, going still after rearranging the afghan over his raised knees, just watching the color brighten in the room as the sun began its ascent over Lake Michigan. Apparently, the world had made plans to continue turning. The way last night had gone, Lance had begun to wonder if perhaps dawn had been canceled.

He stopped himself just in time from rubbing both hands over his face, switching to gingerly trying to scrub the sleep from his eyes with his fingertips instead since his cheek was already tender. He looked at the mess on his desk. Keith's water glass, his stethoscope, the bottle of Tylenol, one of Hunk's largest pots, half full with melted snow and floating Ziploc bags, a few wadded-up towels, some still soaked, and a wet patch on the carpet from where they'd been dripping off the desk. The part of Lance's brain that liked things settled properly in their places starting ringing a little alarm for him to fix all that as soon as possible. He ignored it.

Instead he turned over, rising to his knees so he could fold over his mattress. The position hurt, the ache of overuse. He'd been kneeling by the bedside for most of the night, and his muscles were telling him that they'd had enough of it. He ignored that too. He wanted to check on Keith.

There was a kind of magic in the hours of the early morning. Somehow, no matter how awful the night before had been, somehow the piece of night right before dawn and the first hour or so of sunlight had a stillness to them that encouraged the best rest. Keith's fever-ravaged body was taking full advantage of that time right now, lying comfortably quiet on his side, his fingers open in soft curls instead of gripped tight and trembling. He breathed faster than normal, but at least it was steady. Lance felt his heart soften a little at what a relief it was to hear Keith breathing like that. Automatically, Lance reached for the ear thermometer he'd placed on the floor, but grabbed his notebook instead. He didn't want to risk disturbing Keith right now. If he could sleep like this, he should just keep right on doing it for as long as possible. He flipped through his notes from last night, reviewing them now that things were quiet, now that he had time to think.

He didn't read for very long. He discovered after only a few entries that he couldn't. He didn't want to remember all of that just yet. Flipping to a clean page, he wrote the date at the top. A fresh start. He wrote the time and a description of how Keith looked, noting his reason for not getting any measurable stats. Then he picked up the wet towels from the desk and took them with him to the bathroom, seeing on his way that Pidge was zonked out on the couch and he could hear Hunk softly snoring behind his closed bedroom door. He'd have to be careful not to wake them either. They'd been right there with him most of last night and deserved the break.

Tossing the towels with a squelchy plop in the corner, Lance started the water running in the shower, hurrying out of his clothes and into its soothing heat, taking a few luxurious minutes to just lean against the tile, hanging his head into the spray. It felt so nice. He'd have to try and get Keith in here sometime today. Probably not a shower; he'd be too dizzy for that, but a long soak might sound good to him later. If he were still here.

Lance bowed his head lower, thinking about Keith.

It wasn't arrogance when Lance told people that he knew what he was doing. It was simple fact. He'd studied and practiced, reviewed and trained. He spent his free time reading medical books, following Dr. Coran at the hospital. Twice a month, he attended refresher courses with other first responders: volunteer firemen, the Coast Guard for the Lake Michigan sector, and members of the local Search and Rescue team. Every thirty days, he was required to ride a shift with the campus hospital ambulance in order to keep his EMT status. It wasn't like he had no experience in the field. There had even been a few instances where he'd not only been first on scene, he'd been the Incident Commander in Charge. And he exceled at it.

But Keith.

Lance knelt down in the shower, lacing his fingers together at the back of his neck, taking these private moments for the rest of that delayed, but expected, breakdown. Keith was so extreme. Keith was like nothing Lance had ever encountered before, and he couldn't even really explain why. He stared at Lance and made him shake inside his soul. When Keith cried in his sleep, Lance forgot everything he had ever learned about manually reducing body temperature. When Keith held his breath, Lance's breathing stopped right along with him, paralyzed and not knowing what to do – even though he knew perfectly well what to do!

He let himself watch it over again, from this side of the morning, knowing that Keith was resting easy right now, breathing steady and calm, no longer in danger. He let his mind debrief, sorting through the chaos. He remembered explaining to Hunk and Pidge about Keith's condition, about why he was being treated in Lance's bedroom instead of the hospital. He'd made it very clear that he was going to do all he could to keep him out of the hospital even though Keith's illness had done all it could to thwart him – holding Keith hostage just at the tipping point where Lance would have admitted they no longer had a choice. It had gotten personal to him, mostly because of the ice pack – Keith's fear, the way he had held on to Lance's shirt. Releasing him to the treatment of strangers, even ones more competent than himself, felt somehow like a betrayal of the trust Keith had placed in him. Lance hadn't known when Keith relented to coming home with him how precious a gesture that had really been, and even now he only had a hint.

In the end, Hunk and Pidge had brought him Ziploc bags full of snow from the balcony, wrapped in towels, and he'd placed them all around Keith. Under his arms, against the femoral arteries in his legs, at the small of his back and even across his chest and the pulse points on his wrists. By that point, Keith didn't even respond to the cold. By that point, he was breathing in a tortured sort of loop. He'd take a gasping breath in and then hold it, longer and longer he'd just hold it, before releasing it in an agonizing rush, followed by another gasp and a longer pause. It wasn't as though he'd stopped breathing, exactly, but it was so close, and his heartbeat was everywhere – like a trapped bird flown into a building by mistake and searching desperately for an exit. And in that hour, the hour between two and three in the morning, the mysterious hour that Lance had learned was the most likely to break a fever – that was the hour when Keith's had spiked to a dangerous 103.9.

Damn it, Keith.

He probably should have taken him in. He knew that now. But decisions like that were somehow so hard to make in the dark, tight, pressured space of his bedroom. He couldn't think outside of it. Couldn't think past the threshold, couldn't think two feet beyond the perimeter of the bed, couldn't think past counting the seconds until Keith took his next breath. And just when Hunk and Pidge were suggesting it, letting Lance know as gently as possible that it might be time to get more professional help, the snow did what it was supposed to do. Keith's breathing became less labored. His heart rate slowed, stopped jumping. The fever came down at last, and Keith started ranting again, as if his symptoms were working in reverse.

But oh, the things he'd said in that place. The sobbing. The visceral terror. The anguished begging. The violence.

Lance had perched protectively at his side doing his best to keep him still, stroking his face, holding his hand, speaking to him as if he could hear, while his friends stared at him, Hunk straddled backward on his desk chair, one of his legs bouncing at the stress, and Pidge clenched in a tight ball of anxiety on the floor, resting her head against Hunk's non-moving knee. Lance tried to make them understand that this was actually an improvement, even though it looked scarier than when Keith had been quiet. He tried to convince himself because Keith did not seem in the least bit improved – he was terrifying.

"What is he even saying?" Pidge couldn't help but ask, her voice shrill with the strain of listening to Keith as he cried out for someone to listen to him, believe him, pleading not to be left where ever he thought he was. "Shiro? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is it even English?"

"It's a name," Lance replied, his voice a displaced sort of calm, like a thin layer of gilded paint on a tarnished and broken mirror, a façade. Incident Commander in Charge – pushing back the stress of that moment to a more convenient time when he could deal with it alone. He sounded hollow, but in control, though he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it together either. Listening to Keith was ripping him up inside, making him forget what Coran had told him, his own heart as exhausted as Keith's but in a different way. But Pidge was looking at him, so was Hunk. Keith still needed him. So he took one more breath and stayed still one more second, speaking to Pidge evenly just to prove to himself that he could, knowing exactly how much she needed the comfort of his capability. "Shiro is someone he knows. I think it's his guardian. You don't have to stay, guys. I know it's hard to listen to. He's coming down now; I think I got him."

He encouraged them to get some rest; they'd been with him for over four hours now, and it was obviously getting to them. They hadn't asked to be mixed up with this. They'd been amazing to come and help him at all, but they had more than done enough and they were at their limit. Also, he didn't think that Keith would want them here, witness to this extremely vulnerable situation. He knew that Keith would not want anyone to see him like this, to hear anything he was saying right now.

"What about you, though?" Hunk asked, resistant to leave Lance alone, but obviously exhausted.

"You'll be in the next room," Lance pointed out. "If I need you, I can come get you."

"Except you won't," Pidge snapped at him, which was completely fair. Lance gave her a tired smile.

"You'd be surprised how much you give me just from knowing you're sleeping nearby," he told her, shocked that these simple words made her lower lip tremble, made her turn away from him. It had been a long night for all of them. She stood up, taking the few steps to him so she could wrap herself around his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"You sure you'll be ok?" She checked. "Listening to him all alone here in the dark?" Lance returned his attention to Keith, his flushed face and tight jawline, understanding what she meant. She knew him well, knew what it would do to him. Hell, she'd just seen him fall apart when they came home earlier tonight, but that had been different. He really had been all alone then.

"If you're here, even if you're asleep, I'm not alone," he told her, meaning it. They had given him final words of promise and encouragement, but then they did what he asked and went to find their beds.

Lance turned off the water, finished with his shower, still on his knees. He knew when his friends had left to sleep, but his memories blurred after they had gone. Keith had grown quiet, the restful kind not the critical kind – his fever finally tamed back to 102.9. Lance had continued to rub his chest, speaking to him, telling him what a fighter he was, telling him he could relax now, "descansa tu corazón, Lobito." Telling him he was safe. He kind of remembered getting the afghan from the couch, careful not to disturb Pidge, but the moment when he'd felt that Keith was stable enough for him to stop watching him, the time he had actually curled up on the floor next to the bed for just a few minutes of recovery that ended up with him falling asleep. . . . he couldn't remember that.

Keith hadn't moved when Lance made it back to his room, so he eased his dresser drawers open in tiny little fragments, just enough to snag his clothes. He dressed quickly and silently then headed toward the kitchen with Hunk's pot so he could pour the snow water down the sink. While he may have been able to move around Keith without waking him, the dull clatter of kitchen noises stirred Pidge as he set the pot down on the counter and began brewing coffee.

"Everything ok?" She murmured from the couch, voice still rough from sleep.

"Yeah," Lance assured in a low tone just loud enough to reach her. "He's resting right now. I think the worst is over."

"You should go back to sleep too," she chastened him, not knowing that just wasn't possible for him anymore. He was up, showered, and dressed for the day. He had to clean off his desk, force himself to review the notes from last night, contact Dr. Coran to let him know what had happened and where they were now, do some laundry to take care of all those wet towels. There was a quickly growing list of things that needed his attention.

"I will," he lied, hoping Pidge was still half-asleep and wouldn't call him out on it.

"How well do you know that guy?" Pidge asked out of nowhere. "You've never brought anyone home before."

"I don't know him at all," Lance confessed, surprising himself with how bitter he sounded about it. He kept talking to try and smooth it out. "We were assigned to do a project together for our English class, but I don't know anything about him except that he lives in one of those tiny rooms without a bathroom or a sink. It just made more sense to bring him here."

"And give him your bed?" Pidge pressed. Lance poured himself a cup of coffee though the pot was only half done, needing the caffeine and a way out of this conversation.

"Well the couch was already taken," he said, jokingly, but Pidge would hear what he was implying. Keith wasn't the first patient he'd brought to the apartment. She had been. This wasn't that far out of the norm for him. Not . . .really. "Get some more sleep, Katie-bird," he instructed, taking his mug and heading back to his room.

"Wait. Lance?" Pidge stopped him as he walked past the couch. He didn't know why, but her simple questions were making him feel a little defensive. He knew she didn't mean them that way, so he forced himself to pause for her next one. "I was going to ask last night, but you were so upset and focused and everything was going on, and Hunk told me not to, so I didn't, but what the hell did you do to your face?" Lance covered the bruise automatically as she mentioned it, as if he could hide it now. He hadn't looked at it in the mirror this morning, but he imagined it was likely much darker than it had been yesterday. It hurt more too.

"Ha," he huffed, playing it cool. "You're going to have to wait for that one. That's a story that needs a dramatic reenactment to do it justice."

"Give me the movie trailer version, then," Pidge demanded, not distracted in the least. She'd obviously waited as long as she was going to on this, probably longer than she wanted. Lance turned his face away, even though his bruised side was already toward the kitchen, not the couch.

"I did something stupid," he answered her, switching his coffee mug to the other hand so he could ruffle her bedhead even more, as if that would scatter her thoughts and make her forget all about his face. It's not a big deal, he told her in his head. Just leave it alone.

"Lance, why won't you just –"

"I need to get back in there, ok? I'll tell you later, promise. Go back to sleep." Of course, he knew it wasn't an answer. He also knew it was suspicious as hell that he wasn't giving her one, but if he said anything else Pidge would know he was lying. Sometimes he wished that Pidge were a little more like her other scientist colleagues. The ones who could recite the coordinates for every visible star in the Milky Way but couldn't read a social cue if their life depended on it. But no, not Pidge. She was the kind of genius who could do both.

She scowled at him in exasperation as he passed her, and Lance knew the only thing saving him from having to explain himself was probably because Pidge was still sleepy and likely a little frightened to follow him into his bedroom. She liked the structural mechanics of a functioning human body, found them elegant and sophisticated, but only as words on paper and schematics. Not graphic pictures. Not in person. Last night had been hard on her; it was a solid testament to their friendship that she'd stayed with them as long as she had. Lance had only bought himself a temporary reprieve, though. You're going to have to tell them, he reminded himself as he tiptoed through his doorway. Eventually.

Keith slept on while Lance did what he could about straightening his desk. He texted Coran an update on the night. He realized that Allura had never sent him her email address. Who knew that a simple canceled date could make someone so angry? On the other hand, girls like Allura probably didn't have their dates cancel on them very often. Or at all. Not how he wanted her to remember him, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Maybe he'd have a chance to talk to her about it on Wednesday, after he'd connected her to the centrifuge and she had no choice but to sit there and listen to him. If she'd only known what happened here last night, she would forgive him. Lance hunched his shoulders forward, stretching his back, not fully capable of coming up with a lot of emotion for Allura. He just wasn't worried about it. He had bigger things going on right now.

For a little while, he stood at his window cuddling his coffee, watching the snow falling softly, astonished at how different it looked in the daylight. The sky and the lake had all but disappeared in the general whiteness of the low, foggy clouds, and even though the snow was still falling, big, fluffy flakes adding to the already impressive piles on the ground, it seemed peaceful and lazy this morning. Lance sipped his coffee, enjoying its warmth in his hand and down his throat. He very deliberately did not look at his notebook, even though he knew he should clean it up a little, put in order some of the scattered thoughts and scribblings of the night before. Three stories down, a snowplow cleared a path along South Stony Island Avenue, ruining the crisp, white perfection of the drifts. Lance breathed in the scent from his mug, sighing, then reached a hand out to pick up the notebook.

He'd just barely touched it when he heard Keith sneeze behind him, causing him to abandon the notebook completely. He had another difficult task to attend to. Setting his mug on the desk near the book, Lance turned to see Keith beginning to push himself up from the bed. Saw him shudder, look around in confusion at the unfamiliar place he was waking up in, then sink down, groaning.

"Hey, champ," Lance drew his attention to the fact that he was not alone in the room, keeping his voice chipper even though he was still pretty concerned. He wasn't sure what sort of mental state Keith would wake to, wasn't sure how much from last night he'd remember. Wondered how much of it he would have to tell him and how he was going to do that without falling apart. But one thing at a time; follow protocol. Keith twisted a little so he could look at him, disoriented, but not delirious. At least, he didn't think so. Lance chanced it coming closer, kneeling at the bedside again. "You know who I am today?"

Keith's eyes softened, some of the confusion clearing, though he now wore an expression that suggested he thought Lance was asking a strange question. "Yeah," he said, voice slow and deep, in a tone that told Lance that Keith was trying to humor him. He wasn't sure if that made him more or less worried. "You're my . . . my –" his face scrunched up and he quickly turned it into the pillow, sneezing again. Lance winced, blessing him, wondering what he'd been about to say. "Lance," Keith sighed tiredly, staring at him, giving up on whatever he'd started on. Lance smiled around the sudden warm ache in his chest, positive Keith didn't understand what he'd just said but liking it anyway. That's right, Lobito. I'm your Lance. Except I really don't deserve the trust in your eyes right now. He reached out to put his hand on Keith's face but hesitated, paused by memory.

"Can I touch you?" Lance asked for permission again even though he'd done nothing but touch him practically all night. After hearing some of the things Keith had whimpered in the dark, he thought he should. Every time. Keith nodded, a simple movement that meant a lot more to Lance this morning than it had yesterday. He rested his palm against Keith's forehead, frowning at the heat, leaning close when he heard Keith sigh again, wishing he were better at this. Wishing he could ease Keith more in return for all the faith Keith was giving him. He'd never wanted to heal someone more in his life. "Let's get some stats, huh?" Lance picked up the ear thermometer to get started on some data, though he wasn't pleased to see the reading. 103.1. For some reason, the numbers screwed in Lance's stomach like a low grade on a test, like he'd failed somehow, even though he knew that was ridiculous. He couldn't think like that, because he also knew that Keith had another long day of fighting this virus ahead of him, and Lance would have to help as much as possible, even if that meant taking him to get better treatment. He now understood that going over 103.5 would burn into Keith's mind, force him to see and say things that Lance really never wanted to hear again. He didn't think it was a good idea to treat him at home anymore.

"Still really high," he told Keith seriously, grabbing the notebook so he could write it down, deliberately flipping past the previous night without looking at it, like fast forwarding through the scariest part in a movie. But he couldn't keep doing that. Keith's face was full of question, and Lance knew he was still tuned in to his every movement, every expression on his face. "Keith, I don't know. You probably don't remember much from last night, do you?"

"What did I do?" Keith asked, suddenly fearful, his eyes conspicuously glued to Lance's bruised cheek, making Lance's heart twist. What makes you think you did anything, Lobito?

"You did great," Lance assured him quickly, wanting to make it clear that he'd done nothing wrong, sad that was the first thing he'd thought of. "You're such a fighter." Surprisingly, this statement did not have a positive effect on Keith. He turned away, tightening. Lance wasn't sure what he'd said, and he wasn't sure of the things he knew he needed to say.

He bought himself some time by helping Keith to sit up so he could listen to his breathing and his heartbeat. Both were moderately reassuring. Keith's lungs were clear; his heartrate fast but steady. Lance deliberated, remembering what Coran had said. He's definitely borderline. Lance just wasn't sure.

"What is it?" Keith asked, monitoring him closely. "You look mad."

"No," Lance denied, sitting facing Keith on the bed, removing his stethoscope. "I'm just thinking what we should do for you." Lance watched what his words did to Keith, consumed with sympathy. His statement was supposed to be concerned, thoughtful, but Keith's eyes were full of fear and oddly rejection – as if Lance had just vocalized a threat. He raised his hand to his head, breathing hard, and Lance could see what a struggle it was for him to stay sitting up like that. He took a moment to make a backrest out of the afghan and his pillow, arranging them against the wall, helping Keith shift backward and lean into it so he could rest his head but still be semi-upright.

"Keith, we need to talk, ok? I have some questions, and some of them are going to be difficult for you to answer, but we need to make a decision about where you should be."

"I don't . . . what do you mean?" Keith returned.

"You –" Lance paused. He knew that Keith had a hard time talking about what he was feeling, but he hadn't anticipated that he wouldn't be able to say it either. He reached over to hold Keith's hand, as if that could help them communicate. "You had a bad night, Lobito." He hesitated, knowing Keith needed more information. Where should he start? How much should he say?

"Lance," Keith still seemed scared, looking at Lance's hand covering his. "Why are you . . . What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything, Keith," Lance repeated, needing him to understand that his hesitation in talking about last night had nothing to do with anything Keith had done wrong and everything to do with Lance's mistake. Keith raised his head enough to look Lance in the eye, though it was impossible for Lance to maintain visual contact. The resignation was back, the knowing that Lance was lying to him, or at least that Keith thought Lance was lying. And that he'd been expecting it. Something Lance couldn't tolerate. Keith should never expect for Lance to lie to him. He was going to have to tell him. "But I did."

"What?" Keith was still obviously confused and no wonder. Lance knew he wasn't making a lot of sense.

"Your fever spiked to 103.9," Lance explained, starting as always with the statistics. The sure, solid facts. "You . . honestly, you scared me. I should have taken you to the hospital way before it got that bad. I should have taken you in when you didn't know me anymore, when you weren't coherent enough to even know where you were, but I didn't. I don't know why I thought . . . I guess I was just being arrogant? I don't know. It was the wrong choice. You were crying in your sleep for a while, saying all kinds of things, and then you were barely breathing anymore, and I just couldn't think. It's like I forgot that we could leave the room. My friends and I . . . oh my God, Keith, this sounds awful, I can't believe we did this. We packed you in snow to bring your temperature down. I really should have called an ambulance. I'm so sorry."

Lance kept his head down after his confession, not wanting to see Keith's face. He half expected Keith to tear his hand away from Lance and demand to leave. He wouldn't blame him at all. Lance had basically kidnapped him, bringing him home with him so he could what? So he could redeem himself from what he'd done at the end of their English class? So he could feel better about all the horrible things he'd thought about Keith before? So he could prove something? It wasn't fair, or right, and Keith was more than Lance could handle. He was too delicate, physically and emotionally, for Lance to pretend like he still knew what he was doing. He took a deep breath, needing to fill the silence. Why wasn't Keith saying anything?

"I can still take you there," Lance offered. "We can go; get you some better help."

"You want me to leave?" Keith asked, so softly, but the question echoed within Lance in various repetitions of what Keith had been saying all night. Don't leave me here. Can't I stay with you? Please. The sting of abandonment sharp in the words. How many times had someone left Keith? How many times had someone given up on him? This wasn't the same, though. Lance just didn't have the resources available.

"I thought you'd want to leave," Lance responded. "I really messed up. You could have died last night, Keith."

"But I didn't," Keith pointed out, making Lance feel sort of foolish. Well, obviously. "Because of you." Lance felt brave enough to look at Keith again, wondering how it had happened. How could anyone leave this boy behind or give up on him? Had Shiro done that? But why? Keith's eyes were full of gratitude and pleading. Lance couldn't believe it, but it was plainly there. He wanted to stay. "Thank you."

Lance held his breath to keep from crying. Keith, for heaven's sake. But he hadn't thought of it that way before. What would have happened to Keith if Lance hadn't dragged him home against his will? What if he'd stayed alone in his room last night? Lance closed both of his hands around Keith's now, bowing his head.

"Don't thank me yet," Lance heard himself say. "You're still very sick, and we might not have a choice about the hospital. I think we both want you to stay here, but we're going to have to keep your temperature below 103.5. I'm going to need your help doing that; I'll need you to answer some questions for me."

"O. . ok," Keith agreed, though he sounded overwhelmed and a little apprehensive. Lance knew that even if he were willing, he probably wouldn't be able to handle a general 'how are you doing' sort of request. Lance would have to be specific, ask for small amounts of information at a time.

"How is your heart?" Lance asked first. "You pushed it hard last night. Is it hurting today? Is it painful at all to breathe?"

"Not right now," Keith answered, encouraging Lance. That's it, Lobito. "It's just tight." Lance started taking notes, going back and forth with Keith, asking easy yes or no questions. Yes, his head hurt, and it made him dizzy to hold it up for even a few seconds. He wasn't congested despite how he'd woken up sneezing. He still felt cold. No, he was not hungry.

"I know, but you're going to need to eat something," Lance lectured gently. "Especially since I have to try some heavier medication with you today to see about getting that fever down. You'll need something in your stomach." Keith looked really uncomfortable about the idea of eating, enough that Lance thought he should ask about it. "What's up, Lobito? Are you nauseated? Is it that you think you'll throw up if you eat something?"

"No, not really." Ok. Then what? Lance couldn't think of a yes or no question for this.

"Um, Keith," Lance started, wondering how to persuade the information out of him.

"I'm just not hungry," Keith maintained, but then added in a rush, "and my mouth hurts." That was new. Wasn't it?

"Since when?" Lance asked. "Yesterday?"

"No," Keith sounded so pitiful, like his spirit was all twisted up inside having to answer all these questions. "Since I woke up." All right, so it was new, but not on Lance's list of normal flu symptoms. But that's just how Keith was. Something new, intense, and difficult at every turn.

"Let's check what's going on," Lance said, retrieving a flashlight from his medical bag, not missing the look Keith gave him as he turned back to the bed with it in his hand. "It's bigger on the inside," he said casually. No one was ever quite prepared for the sheer amount of random, useful things he kept in that bag. He had about twenty other jokes about it. The one he'd picked seemed to go over Keith's head, so Lance decided to just move on. He was feeling a little better now, in the daylight, with Keith actually talking to him. More like himself, the Lance that knew what was going on, that could handle whatever was thrown at him. Even Keith's newest mystery symptom. He twisted the flashlight on.

"Open as wide as you can," Lance instructed, aiming the beam as Keith complied. It took half a second to see the cause of Keith's mouth pain, but it took Lance another minute to figure out what happened. "Oh."

What most people call fever blisters have absolutely nothing at all to do with fevers and everything to do with the herpes simplex virus type 1. When Lance had learned about it, he'd wondered where the English terminology had come from. The HSV kind of blister presents outside the mouth, usually in a little cluster of fluid-filled sores – extremely contagious. The name had never made sense to Lance until right this second as he was looking into Keith's mouth, but even now he wondered how anyone had confused the HSV sore with this.

Keith's temperature had been so high for so long in the night that it had literally boiled the inside of his mouth and all down his throat. The soft tissues there were covered in second degree burns – fever blisters.

"Oh, Keith," Lance said again, knowing that was not the best way to let him know what was going on. But he had never seen this before. He didn't even know it was possible. "Go ahead and close your mouth."

"What is it?" Keith sounded worried, which was all Lance's fault. He put the flashlight back before answering.

"Burns," Lance explained, shocked, any ground he'd gained in feeling confident completely gone with this new discovery. "Your fever was so high it blistered your mouth and throat. It's going to be . . . it's going to be really painful for you. Lobito, are you sure I can't take you to the hospital?"

Keith had unconsciously raised his hand to cover his mouth. He hadn't answered yet when someone knocked on Lance's bedroom door, opening it slightly at the same time. A typical Hunk gesture.

"Hey, sorry," Hunk greeted and apologized in one, his voice low just in case someone might be sleeping. "Lance, everything ok in here? What's the status?" When he saw both Keith and Lance awake, he allowed himself all the way in. "Aw, hey, you're alive," he said to Keith. Lance didn't think he understood exactly how touch and go it had been as he listened to him saying it like that. But since he and Keith were in a verbal stalemate about hospital negotiations, he just let him continue.

"How are you doing, buddy?" Hunk asked Keith, genuinely concerned, talking to him as if they were best friends. Probably because Hunk had yet to meet someone who wasn't instantaneously his friend.

"Not so great," Keith answered, immediately and honestly, and Lance had to stare at him. What the hell? But then he remembered about Hunk. You'd almost have to make a delusional and extremely dedicated choice about not trusting Hunk. It was like he was made of sunlight or something. "But better. Thanks, you know, for helping me."

Hunk not only looked ready to continue helping, he looked ready to adopt him on the spot. Lance stood by, watching with interest, his arms folded. Maybe Hunk should talk Keith into the hospital stay.

"I did nothing," Hunk said modestly. "Lance is your man. He'll have you back to normal in no time." Lance looked at the floor, weirdly out of his element listening to this, not so certain he deserved the vote of confidence. "But I came to see if I could get you guys some breakfast . . .or maybe we should call it brunch, we all sort of slept in today." Keith covered his mouth again, involuntarily wincing.

"We were just talking about that," Lance brought himself back into the conversation.

"Great!" Hunk went on enthusiastically. "I was thinking oatmeal. Sound good?"

Keith looked pleadingly at Lance, begging him silently to let Hunk know what was going on, let him down easy about why Keith was not going to be eating anything. But he still needed to.

"Actually, Hunk," Lance said, noticing how Keith slumped in relief as he took over. "Keith's not going to be able to handle that." The smooth, no-need-to-chew texture of the oatmeal would be fine, but the temperature would not, and Lance wasn't about to suggest that Keith eat it cold. Yet.

"Okay," Hunk said, already brainstorming but having a hard time coming up with better invalid food than oatmeal. Lance was mentally searching their fridge and cabinets too.

"Got it," Lance snapped his fingers as he remembered something from yesterday. "Hunk, were you able to get ingredients for smoothies when you were grocery shopping?"

"Sure," Hunk answered, nodding slowly as he caught on to what Lance was thinking. "I had to get frozen mangoes, though."

"That's fine," Lance said, looking at Keith. "We'll try it," he told him. "If you can at least drink some calories and we can find a medication that will work, you can stay here."

"Breakfast smoothie – coming right up," Hunk acknowledged, turning to go.

"Don't put any citrus in it," Lance instructed before he left. "Nothing acidic, not even orange juice. Use yogurt and coconut milk. Oh, and spinach, please."

"Sure thing," Hunk said, giving a thumbs up as he closed the door. Keith did not look enthusiastic, but it was this or nothing.

"Hunk makes the best smoothies," Lance assured him. "Actually, Hunk makes the best everything. You should see what he can do with those awful packets of ramen noodles."

Keith leaned back into the little nest Lance had made against the wall for him, looking calm, but uncomfortable, tired even though he'd only just woke up. Lance returned to his position on the bed, wanting to stay close.

There was so much more he wanted to talk to Keith about, more from last night. He wanted to ask about Shiro, wanted to learn more about who he was, why he was so important to Keith. Why he felt so strongly about not contacting him. He wanted to ask who had hurt him and how. Basically, he really did want to learn more about his life. This wasn't just a biography assignment to him anymore.

And then there was the last thing Keith ranted about last night. Words Keith had growled after Hunk and Pidge had left. Words that almost made Lance call them back; it had scared him so much. Frightened him enough he didn't know if he could even ask about it. He wasn't sure he'd written those things in his notebook. It was part of the reason he hadn't really wanted to look. He hoped he hadn't recorded them in any way. He wanted to forget them. He wanted to have Keith confirm that he'd been completely out of his mind, that those things had no true basis in reality.

That had to be it. Lance looked at Keith, sitting there so still, so sick, and he knew it couldn't be real. But then he remembered the bruise on his cheek and felt the chill of uncertainty in his heart. He didn't really know anything.

He jumped when something touched his arm, still thinking about last night and not noticing that Keith had reached over to mildly cling to his sleeve cuff. He was beginning to like that, how Keith would hold on to his clothes, a timid, endearing request for reassurance.

"How are you feeling, Lobito?" He asked, just to hear Keith's voice when it was normal, when he wasn't delirious, pushing last night farther from his mind.

"Like I really don't want to move," Keith answered.

"You don't have to," Lance encouraged, pleased that he hadn't seemed to struggle as much with the answer this time. "In fact, it's a good idea if you don't."

"Yeah," Keith sighed. "But I remember someone threatening me about a 15-hour window and . . . I need to be sure I make it."

"Oh," Lance said, understanding, pleased that Keith had remembered him specifically saying those words, that he was in high enough spirits that he seemed to be actually playful about it, and that his kidneys were still working. "Yeah, you were getting close. Come on. I'll help you."

Author's Note: Kind of intense, I know. It was Really Intense when my husband (my boyfriend back then) did this exact thing to me a long time ago. He showed up in Illinois from Idaho, surprised me with a visit (he actually kidnapped me to go back to Idaho with him, but that's a whole different novel). Anyway! He showed up at my house, and I was so excited to see him, but he was So Sick and tried to hide it all day. Then he pulled a Keith on me when the sun went down. I probably should have taken him to the hospital too. He'd do that breathing thing, mumbled incessantly, and in the morning, his mouth was covered in fever blisters too. He drank Pediasure all the long drive back to Idaho. I felt so bad for him.

He did NOT have the deep dark secrets that Keith seems to. Keith – you want to tell us about that? Soon maybe?