Author's Note: I've been reading this with my husband, who is an expert on all things me, and he pointed out that my normal imagery isn't here this time around. I asked him what he meant, and he had a hard time explaining it, but in the end I realized he's totally right. This work is . . . technical to me (there's a lot of emotion here too, but since Lance is such a systems oriented and medically minded guy, the normal whimsical image stuff I put into my work just . . isn't here. I hadn't noticed, but now it's all I can see. Now I've drawn all your attention to it . . maybe I shouldn't do that.) Love you Lance – almost as much as you love your lists. You know what else I love? You guys! You make my world go around.
Chapter Seven: Bloodwork
With the wall on one side and Lance on the other, Keith was able to make it shakily down the hall to the apartment bathroom.
"No," he said to Lance before he'd even suggested that Keith not go in by himself.
"Are you serious?" Lance returned, nodding to their current position, the only gesture available to him since he needed both hands to help keep Keith upright. "You realize you didn't take a single step on your own to get here, right?"
"Then I'll crawl," Keith shot back, unwilling to yield, his voice many times stronger than his posture, completely serious. Lance didn't see what the big deal was, but he understood it was important to Keith. He had been forced to drop so many defenses to Lance already. He'd seen so much of Keith that he most certainly never shared with anyone – he needed this shred of dignity left alone if at all possible.
"Let me at least prop you up at the sink to get you close," Lance said, watching with worry as Keith clung to the doorframe to enter the room, tightening his grip on him to make sure he didn't topple over. "Take your time," he instructed firmly. "For heaven's sake, sit down, and absolutely do not lock the door. I'll be right outside if you need help."
Keith turned his head just slightly as Lance practically draped him over the sink basin like a towel, giving Lance the tiniest half-smile and a raised eyebrow, looking strangely amused while Lance talked to him. "Ok," he agreed. "And did you want any in a cup or something, Doc?" He asked, sarcasm tinging his voice, and Lance felt instantly conflicted about being teased like this – an uncomfortable mix of relief, appreciation, and exasperation.
"Ha," Lance breathed, uneasily, not sure what to do with a Lobito who was joking with him when he couldn't get over how bad he looked, then paused to think about the offer a little more seriously. What sort of test would he do if he had a urine sample? Not much. What he actually needed was a swab test and maybe a blood draw. . . but urine? When he couldn't think of anything right away, he reluctantly let go of Keith, stepping backward into the hall. "Maybe next time," he said, closing the door against his better judgment.
He leaned anxiously against the wall, waiting, listening intently for sounds of disaster, like a body falling over and cracking its skull open on the side of the bathtub. Geeze, Keith, please don't do that. We've got enough to deal with as it is. He could hear Pidge and Hunk talking in the kitchen, the rumble of the blender, another plow outside. A phone ringing – not his. Not a whole lot coming from the bathroom, though. Nothing outside of the usual stuff. Running water. Maybe Keith was right to tease him. Maybe he was being a little over the top about it; he'd been accused of that before. Lance was just thinking about calling in to Keith, offering to bring him his toothbrush while he was in there since everything seemed to be going so well, when he heard a noise inside that did sound frighteningly close to something heavy hitting the floor.
"Keith!" Lance called, restraining himself from just dashing in since he knew Keith didn't want him to if it weren't absolutely necessary. Better wait a second and get some facts from out here first, just to make sure. It could have been something else. . . like . . no, there was nothing that sounded like that. Damn it, Keith. "You good in there?"
"No," came a grunted response, which oddly soothed Lance's soul a little. At least he was conscious.
Hunk appeared in the hall, smoothies in hand, looking bemused to find Lance standing by the bathroom door. "I might need your help," Lance told him, admiring how Hunk just rolled with that, processing the scene instantly. He slipped inside Lance's bedroom to set down their breakfasts so his hands would be free for whatever Lance might need him to do.
"Keith, I'm opening the door," Lance warned, pushing it carefully just in case Keith had somehow landed in front of it. Hunk waited patiently behind him as he assessed the scene. The faucet was still running, but Keith was crumpled on his side on the floor, eyes closed and hands against his chest, his heart obviously reacting to the physical strain of Keith being up and moving like it had yesterday when he'd followed Lance to his bedroom, upset about the phone call. Lance went to his knees beside him but did not try to move him. "Did you black out or just drop because you thought you were going to?"
"The second thing," Keith answered, breathless, taking one hand off his chest and reaching out toward the sound of Lance's voice, keeping his eyes closed.
"Smart choice," Lance congratulated him, stretching up so he could shut the water off before taking Keith's hand securely in his. I'm here, Lobito, you poor miserable thing. You should have let me help you. He pressed the fingers of his opposite hand against Keith's carotid artery in his neck, not surprised at all to find his heartrate up to full throttle. "Did you hurt yourself? Hit your head or anything like that?"
"No."
"Good, so we can just pay attention to your heart then. Breathe as slow and deep as you can."
"Lance?" Hunk asked, peering in worriedly from the doorway.
"It's ok," Lance assured, even though ok in this instance just meant not as bad as it could have been. The fact that Keith couldn't stand by himself long enough to even wash his hands was not good at all. "But he shouldn't move for little bit until his heart rate slows down. It's pretty stressed."
"What happened?" The commotion had drawn Pidge from the living room. Keith tried to sit up at the unfamiliar voice, but Lance eased him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Not yet, Lobito," he told him before answering Pidge, Incident Commander in Charge voice securely in place. "Just taking a break, Pidge," he said, trying to de-escalate the situation and calm everyone down – mostly Keith. "In fact – Hunk?"
"Yeah," Hunk acknowledged without Lance having to go on. It was getting cramped and tight in the bathroom with so many bodies staring at Keith from the hallway. It wasn't helping. "Pidge, will you help me with the sheets and stuff?"
"Um, ok," Pidge agreed, walking backward to start pulling apart her bed on the couch.
"Pass me those towels," Hunk nodded his chin to the wet pile in the corner, forcing Lance to let go of Keith to shift them into Hunk's hands.
"Thanks, Hunk," he said gratefully. For understanding. For doing the laundry. For breakfast. For being you.
"I'll be back in like five minutes," Hunk promised, knowing Lance would still need his help to get Keith off the floor. He disappeared with the towels to Lance's room to strip the sheets off the bed. Saturday was mandatory sheet-changing day anyway – Hunk's mom had drilled it into him and sometimes she even called to make sure it was happening - but Lance's rule was sick people get clean sheets every day, for extra hygiene and comfort reasons, and he didn't care how many quarters it took to keep it that way.
Lance returned his focus to Keith, who had sort of curled himself around Lance's hip. The hand Lance had let go of was now twisted in the hem of his long-sleeved Tshirt, wrist resting against the pocket of his jeans. "Well, Lobito," he sighed in the aftermath, letting his palm come to rest against Keith's forehead again. "You have officially lost your standing privileges." This statement brought a low growl of frustration out of Keith. "Yeah, I know, but it's better than cracking your head open if you fall down. Here, let's get more comfortable while we wait for Hunk."
Lance shifted them around a bit, leaning himself up against the bathtub, crossing his legs, and persuading Keith to lay his head down on top of his bent knee to help alleviate some strain on his neck muscles. "I hate this," Keith muttered as they moved, and Lance started running his fingers through his hair.
"It doesn't last forever," he soothed, wishing he could say something more encouraging. This illness had Keith held tight and didn't seem at all ready to let up anytime soon. In fact, he was impressed that it had taken this much to bring even this small complaint out of him. "You're doing great, Lobito, really."
"What does that mean?" Keith asked again, voice small and tired, young, and Lance smiled, relieved that things were settling, that Keith could focus on something besides his racing heart.
"It means I'm impressed with how well you're taking all of this, and you're going to be fine, even though I know it doesn't seem that way right now."
"No, I . . thanks? I mean . . .Lobito. What does that word mean? Why won't you tell me?"
"I could tell you. It's not a secret," Lance answered. "But I can only tell you once, so do you really want to know or –?"
"Never mind," Keith responded, making Lance smile wider, the warmth of affection spreading through his chest. Keith refusing Lance's offer to translate his nickname meant he secretly liked it, and liked that Lance wasn't telling him. He'd rather hoped that would be the case.
"Is this ok?" Lance asked, rubbing Keith's head a bit so he'd know what he meant. "Or did you want me to stop?"
"No. . . unless you want to." So Lance kept stroking his fingers through Keith's hair, watching as the movement would change how the light reflected off the strands. Keith's hair was the deep kind of black that was sort of iridescent. Like a raven's feathers. Lance hadn't noticed until just this second. Hair this color meant that his eyes should genetically be most likely black too, or deep brown. They weren't . . .but Lance still couldn't quite tell.
"Lance?" Pidge was back, his phone in one hand, but she stopped dead when she saw them not where she'd left them. Her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs for a second, but she shrugged it off, stepping lightly into the room. "Your phone was ringing. I didn't want you to miss a call from your mom or something." Lance left his hand in Keith's hair, accepting the phone with the other one. Lance's mom called him on Sunday mornings, before Mass, and even though Pidge had mistaken the day, she remembered how important taking the call would be to him.
"Thanks, Pidge," he told her, trying to puzzle her out. She looked nervously out of place all of a sudden in a space that she had assimilated into so much that they all sometimes forgot that she didn't live here with them all the time. It was a little edgy and weird. If he didn't already have his hands full, he'd probably be pushing both hands against her cheeks, pursing her lips out to try and make her laugh and call him an idiot. She looked so tense, eyeing Keith, still obviously disturbed from how he'd been last night.
"Hunk went downstairs with the laundry," she reported, shifting out of the room again in slow increments. "Did you need me for anything?"
"No, we'll just wait for Hunk and then probably move to the couch," Lance said, but was surprised by Keith trying to sit up again. "Take it easy," he warned him, but didn't prevent him this time. Keith kept himself braced on the floor with both hands, lifting his head to consider Pidge, who stared at him as if he really were a wolf.
"Sorry," Keith apologized, talking to Pidge, and it hit Lance suddenly that this was the first time he'd ever seen her. He was sitting up to try and be polite to her, to not be quite so vulnerable on the floor. "For . . ." but he seemed at a loss of what he should be sorry for, or maybe what he should start with, and the simple effort of sitting up had worn him out – he was out of breath again. Lance pulled at his shirt, encouraging him to lean against him for support if he wasn't comfortable lying down while Pidge was there, putting his arm around his trembling shoulders to tug him close and secure. He didn't make one tiny motion or sound of protest, just settled seamlessly against Lance, hot and shaking.
"Don't worry about it," Pidge saved him from having to say anything else. "We're all sort of used to Lance taking care of strays by now." Keith flinched a little at that, and so did Lance, who glared at her over Keith's head, which was resting against his chest. Come on, Pidge, be nice. You were there last night; you know how broken he is. Pidge softened, picking up on Lance's silent admonishment. She dropped to the floor so Keith wouldn't have to keep looking up at her.
"I'm a stray too," she told Keith, her voice free of the chill it had carried a second ago. Lance had never known she thought of herself that way. Hunk had been the one to bring her home at first. "My name's Katie, but everyone calls me Pidge courtesy of this guy here." She jerked her thumb at Lance.
"I'm Keith," he introduced himself quietly. "Which name should I . . ?"
"Pidge," she smiled. "Katie sounds weird to me now. Thanks a lot," she said this last to Lance, a little fiercely. He gave her a dismissive, unapologetic shrug. It wasn't his fault that Pidge fit her so well; he'd just started saying what everyone was already thinking. Even if they hadn't known that's what they were thinking.
"Thanks," Keith said. "Pidge."
"Yeah, well," Pidge stood up again, the sentiment of the situation starting to suffocate her. She hated getting emotional. "Hang in there. Lance will take care of you."
If Lance thought she could have handled it, he would have said something to her as she turned to go, but he knew better. She could take all his emotions when he threw them at her, but her own? Not so much. Once she was past the doorframe, Keith let himself back down to Lance's leg, spent. "So you do this a lot, huh?" He asked.
"Not a lot," Lance answered, feeling a little awkward about it now. "Mostly people come to me for first aid stuff – because they all know I'll have a bandaid or something for a headache and I'm good at popping shoulders back into joint or whatever, but I took care of Hunk and Pidge because what kind of roommate wouldn't? And then there was one of their Geoscience friends whose name I can't remember right this second, and the girl, Genevieve, down the hall. Her roommate came to get me at midnight all frantic but she wasn't in that bad of shape. And . . . it seems like there was just one more this year, but I'd need my notebook to tell you. . .but I usually go to them. I don't bring patients here except Pidge, but she practically lives here anyway." He was rambling, and he knew it, but he felt like he needed Keith to know that he was doing this for him, specifically, that Lance was making a special exception for him. But he didn't know exactly why he wanted him to understand that.
"But why you?" Keith continued with the questions. "Why do you do it?"
Lance had been asked this question before. You're so young; why are you so passionate about this? Do you ever do anything else? This was an answer he knew well. "Because I know how to help," he said without hesitation. "I hate seeing people in pain, so I learned how to fix it. And now that I know – how can I not help when someone needs it?"
"But then who takes care of you?" Keith asked softly, so serious and somber about it.
"Me?" Lance paused, wrapping his head around that, wondering why Keith sounded so solemn asking that. He'd never thought about it. "No one's really needed to . . .I don't get sick. There's this amazing little scientific miracle called a vaccine? Surprised you haven't heard of it."
He felt Keith wilt against him and thought maybe that had been too far trying to make a joke, or maybe he'd misunderstood the question. "I have help," Lance went on, softly. "I do have people to take care of me. I mean, so far so good on staying healthy, but you know, I couldn't do half the things I do if it weren't for Hunk and Pidge. Hunk cooks and does all sorts of errands and Pidge built me this computer so I wouldn't have to go to the library all the time to type things up. She's the one who tracked down your address so I could find you. And both of them came home last night to help me with you without a second thought and they pester me if they think I'm not doing so good taking care of myself . . . So yeah – they're watching out for me. And we'll watch out for you too."
"You asked her to find me?" Keith sounded so lost, like he couldn't understand why anyone would bother.
"You didn't look so good, and I was such a jerk to you and I'm not that way with anyone, ever. I wanted to apologize, and I wanted to make sure you were ok. I thought you might need some help."
"That's why you. . .?" Yes, Lobito. That's why I came. Not because of the assignment. I came to find you because I couldn't stop thinking about you. And now it seems you're all I can think about.
"That's why," he confirmed.
Keith sniffed, tightening up, exhausted, and Lance dropped the conversation to let him process what he'd just said, let the truth of it sink in for him, sad that something so simple as this would make him cry. He decided not to call attention to it so Keith would be less likely to try and stop; he simply kept stroking Keith's hair slowly and steadily, looking at his phone to see who had called him. Coran. "Keep resting, Lobito, while I return this call, ok? It's my doctor friend." Who I consulted last night without your knowledge or consent. Good thing Lance wasn't quite under all the obligations of HIPAA law. At least, not when he was out of uniform.
Receiving no response from Keith, and to be honest not expecting one, Lance dialed Coran's number, wondering what he wanted to talk about. He'd already sent him an update that Keith's fever was down a little this morning and he was lucid again. On the other hand, any advice from him would be very welcome. He still wasn't quite sure how he was going to keep Keith coherent today . . or rather, tonight. He hadn't even managed to get him breakfast yet.
"Lance, there you are," Coran picked up with a tone that suggested some urgency, but Coran was usually like that. "I thought I'd stop by your apartment before I went in to the hospital to see how you're all doing over there. I'm glad you got back with me before I ran out of time for that. Do you, by chance, have a diagnostics kit?"
"Um," Lance thought as he sorted through what Coran had just said. Had he ever had a diagnostics kit? They were sort of a controlled substance. He'd like to have one. Maybe two. Even though he had no way to do anything with them once he'd used them. At least, not legally. "Not here, no."
"No problem – I'll bring one. Remind me of your address. You're by the Museum if I'm not mistaken."
"Right across the street. Stony Island apartment building – that big brick box. We're apartment 316 – third floor; I'll come down to meet you."
"No need; you stay with your patient. I'll see you in, oh, say fifteen minutes or so."
He hung up before Lance could explain about needing a resident keycard to get into the building. Coran's mind was a brilliant, sparking place. He could pull out protocol and string it up like Christmas lights, all dazzling and gorgeous, but like many highly specialized geniuses the consequences for that kind of mind trick meant that he sometimes forgot important details – like keycards or whether or not he was actually wearing shoes. Lance wondered what the trade in clothing would be for remembering the diagnostics kit. Hopefully not his coat.
"Good news, Keith," Lance said, setting the phone down on the tile next to his hip. "My mentor is stopping by on his way in to the hospital to take a look at you."
Keith made a noncommitted grunt in reply and Lance wondered if he wasn't dozing off again. He hoped not because there was no way he was going to stay cramped and cross-legged on the bathroom floor. His back was already talking to him about the position. Fortunately, Hunk had returned from the laundry room downstairs and was ready to help Keith transition to the couch.
"Are we good to go?" Hunk asked, somehow being serious and lighthearted at the same time, reaching up to rest both fists at the top of the doorway, filling it completely with his broad-shouldered gentleness. Lance tested Keith's pulse, content that it was slow enough for a little more exertion.
"Come on, Keith," he said, shifting carefully out from under his head, supporting him with his hands back to a sitting position. "Easy does it, but we're going to the couch. It'll be more comfortable for you."
He could tell it was hard for Keith to stand; he was weak and shifting the elevation of his head made him pale rather alarmingly. He leaned against Lance, panting, as they made their way out of the bathroom and toward Hunk waiting in the hallway – just a few steps.
"Wow," Hunk breathed sympathetically as he watched them move, then reached for Keith. Lance had intended to support Keith between the two of them, but Hunk changed that plan. He slipped one arm around Keith's back and then simply swept him off the floor and into his arms, bridal style. Keith gasped, not used to being carried, especially like this.
"Now wait a second, Hunk," Lance protested, watching Keith as he tightened up in Hunk's arms in mental agony, but Hunk stopped him with a look.
"It's too tight," he explained, indicating the narrowness of the hallway. Hunk was already side stepping toward the living room. "This is easier." Lance wasn't completely convinced about that, but couldn't come up with a good argument in the few seconds where Hunk carried Keith to the living room.
Pidge was already there and had thoughtfully brought Lance's pillow, covered in a fresh case. As Hunk gently set Keith down lengthwise and facing the kitchen, she tucked it behind his shoulders, propping him up a bit against the armrest. Lance watched Keith's muscles release as soon as he was no longer being carried. He'd probably hated every second of that.
"What the hell?" Keith panted, looking hard at Hunk, who just shrugged.
"No big deal," Hunk dismissed what he'd just done, not understanding that while they were all definitely impressed by his ability, Keith's lack of control and warning about the situation had freaked him out. "It's not like you weigh anything."
"Hunk's on the rugby team," Lance explained. "I think they have him bench press small cars. However," he looked at Hunk. "Let's not do that again if we don't have to, yeah?"
"Sure," Hunk agreed, looking slightly confused now, like a mastiff who knows he's in trouble, he just can't figure out why. "Are you guys ok for a while?" He asked, thankfully changing the subject. "Pat from the Museum called me a little bit ago. He didn't let security tow my car, but he'd really like me to come pick it up as soon as I can get over there."
"I think we'll be ok," Lance said, still eyeing Keith as he adjusted his position on the couch, a startled raven smoothing his feathers. "Dr. Coran is coming over."
"Oh, that's good," Hunk acknowledged as Pidge reappeared in the living room again. This time with Hunk's smoothies he'd left in Lance's room. She pressed one against Lance's chest so he'd be forced to take it from her, then headed over to give Keith his – a little more politely.
"I'm walking over there with Hunk," Pidge let them all know, but Lance wasn't surprised. They spent every waking moment together, it seemed like, and he knew that it would drive Pidge nuts to be stuck in the apartment with just Lance and Keith. Mostly Keith. That she'd performed so many small acts of service for him this morning was mostly in respect for Lance. "We'll wait for your doctor downstairs to let him in before we go."
"Thanks so much, guys," Lance told them as they began tucking themselves into coats and hats. "Really."
They paused to give him twin glances of affection. They knew. And they remembered what he'd already done for them. They didn't mind so much the chance they had right now to pay him back a little.
"Text me if you need us to pick up something while we're out," Hunk said.
"I will – be careful." Because the only thing worse than being out in the snow was having to drive in it. Hopefully, most of Chicago was staying inside today. Lance was actually a little surprised that the Museum was even open considering the state of the roads this morning. Sure, the trains exhibit and the U-505 German submarine were particularly neat, but not enough for Lance to brave the elements for when he could just wait for a better day. He experienced an additional pang of thoughtfulness for Coran, who not only had to drive in to the hospital for his normal shift, but was going out of his way to come early and see Keith too. Because he was a good doctor and knew that things happened, illness, injury, babies being born – none of those things cared even the tiniest bit for what kind of weather was outside.
Lance's friends nodded good-bye from behind scarves and coats zipped to the throat and headed out, giving Lance a moment to at last take a drink from the glass Pidge had handed him, appreciating the chemist masterpiece of flavors that Hunk had decided on. He could taste the mango and the coconut milk, as expected, but there was also quite a bit of honey and Hunk had used the blueberry yogurt instead of the plain, and all in all, it was very soothing . . . although the spinach made it that shade of green that required quite a leap of faith to tip any into your mouth to find out how impressively delicious it was.
When he brought his head down again after a second swallow, he noticed Keith staring at him. That unique way of staring that Keith had, sorting out the logistics of the environment he'd been dropped into, wrapping his head around how the world worked within this apartment. It was kind of adorable.
"Try some," Lance nodded at the glass in his hand. "It looks gross, but it tastes good – promise."
Keith considered the glass as if wishing it would disappear. Lance thought he'd have to physically help him drink it like with the soup yesterday, but after a long contemplation, Keith brought it to his damaged mouth on his own. He winced as the cold liquid came into initial contact with the fever blisters, but he got a good three swallows in before taking a break. Bowing his head over the glass, he brought the back of his hand up against his mouth, recovering. Lance took a seat on the armrest at Keith's feet, watching him.
"I'm so sorry," Lance heard himself say out loud when he hadn't really intended to.
"You didn't do anything," Keith returned, a little fiercely. Then, looking ashamed, he tried taking another drink. "This is good," he admitted. And hopefully it'll do some good for you, thought Lance, thinking of the iron in the spinach, the sugar in the fruit, the coating of the honey over his throat, the cold combating his internal temperature. Lance felt momentarily overcome with the wish that Keith could just get over this. He wanted his suffering to be over, wanted to take his hand and take him out of the apartment, take a walk in the snow to the Museum with the others – show him the amazing train setup and the flight display. He didn't want to watch this anymore – feeling so powerless to do anything to help.
"So, um," Lance switched topics to distract himself, to let Keith know that he hadn't been offended by anything he'd said, knowing as frustrating as it was, this would take as long as it had to. Viruses are stupid little jerks that way. Besides, he hadn't asked Keith's permission about Coran and thought he'd better give him some advanced notice about what it would be like when he got there. "My friend, Dr. Coran, will be here in a few minutes, and I think you should be prepared. He can be . . ," he paused, trying to think of a good word for Coran that wouldn't put Keith's defenses up any more than they would be anyway. "He's Australian," he concluded, wondering if that would get the message across. Keith lifted an eyebrow, indicating that it did not.
"I mean," Lance tried to explain. "He doesn't have much of a filter – he just says things – whatever's in his head. I kind of like it; it's pretty efficient for when I'm tailing him on his rounds at the hospital, but some people find him to be a little . . . tiring? He's very nice, though, and he knows what he's doing."
"Why is he coming?" Keith asked, confused and already apprehensive. Yeah, Lance wasn't doing so well at easing him into this.
"I . . . well, I called him last night to get some advice," Lance confessed. "You were a little over my skill set. I didn't ask him to come, but I did tell him about your symptoms and he wants to check you out himself since you don't want me to admit you."
"But I'm –" Keith started, but couldn't finish. You're what, Lobito? Lance thought. Fine? Not even close.
"We're mostly worried about the arrhythmia," Lance told him. "Your flu symptoms are extreme too, but we really need to keep your heart in check." Lance decided not to tell him why, not yet, not if he didn't have to. He also didn't tell him that he was starting to doubt his flu diagnosis too. Hunk and Pidge had been sniffling, coughing, feverish disasters, but Keith didn't have anything like that. Which was actually a small favor wrapped around a big concern. There are so many scary things that start out as flu symptoms.
"This was supposed to help you relax," Lance said, forcing a laugh. "Guess I botched that, didn't I?" Keith gave him a look of long suffering, a look that said he just barely tolerated Lance and his friends doing all they did for him. He didn't want this, but he also knew he wasn't getting out of it now. "I know it makes you uncomfortable to be vulnerable like this in front of strangers." This statement gained him a look of intimidated surprise. Lance went on as if he hadn't noticed. "But Coran is quick and thorough. He'll likely only be here a few minutes, so please just keep breathing and it'll be over soon. Hopefully, he'll have a good idea to help you feel better that I've just overlooked or never knew."
Keith shook his head at that, but Lance didn't know what it meant. And he didn't have time to talk anymore since Coran had started knocking on the front door.
"It'll be fine," Lance promised, setting his glass on the coffee table so he could let Coran in to the apartment – all productive energy and ginger mustache. Coran always looked as though he were one second away from tossing on a poncho and a cowboy hat, leaping onto a horse, and galloping off somewhere adventurous. It conflicted sometimes with how still he could be as he studied something mundane like a piece of paper.
"Lance, my boy!" Coran greeted enthusiastically, making Lance melt a little inside like always. It felt so good sometimes to not be the highest medical authority in the room. "Good lord, son! What have you done to your face?"
Lance couldn't believe he'd forgotten to warn Coran about the bruise on his face – specifically the part where he didn't want him to mention it. That wasn't why he was here. He could feel Keith flinch even though he was across the room and behind him.
"I thought I'd take up boxing," he tossed out, hoping to redirect Coran's attention as rapidly as possible. "But I'm pretty awful at it, so I don't think I'll keep it up."
"That's wise," Coran told him, still considering the bruise. "Your schedule is full enough, though if you wanted – I could help you spar a little. Used to be a bit of fighter myself back in the day."
"Crocodiles or kangaroos?" Lance joked, successfully shutting down all talk of boxing and bruises for the time being. Coran gave him a side eye, rotating his shoulders as if physically changing the subject.
"Who do we have here, then?" Coran asked, noticing Keith now. Lance noticed Keith too. He was putting on a brave face, but Lance could tell he was internally terrified. Taking pity, he went to his side, kneeling in front of the couch.
"Keith," Lance said, introducing them properly. "This is my friend and mentor, Dr. Coran. Coran, this is my," he took just the tiniest of pauses, "my friend, Keith."
"Sorry to meet you under the present circumstances," Coran said, setting down his bag, unbuttoning his coat to reveal his navy-blue scrubs, his ID badge already pinned to the breast pocket. "And for the last-minute notice, but Lance is worried about you and that means so am I. All right if I have a look at you – not as a doctor, mind, just as a friend of a friend who knows a thing or two?"
Keith looked at Lance, who nodded at him. It's ok, Lobito. Coran may be fiery, but it's a healthy sort. Lance rested a hand over Keith's, who immediately flipped his palm over to grip Lance tight.
"Ok," he agreed quietly.
"Wonderful. Take off your shirt," Coran instructed, opening the bag to remove his own stethoscope. Keith's hand jerked in Lance's, a very clear, "is he crazy?" on his face.
"It's fine," Lance whispered encouragingly, used to this. Keith, grudgingly, began pulling it off. Lance started to help him, but Coran had instructions for him too.
"Can I see his chart, Lance?" He asked, assuming correctly that Lance would have written down stats from the start of his care.
"Sure," Lance said, jumping up to do as he was told. "It's in my room. Be right back."
But as soon as he'd picked it up from his desk, he hesitated, taking some extra seconds to finally flip through to the data from last night. He wanted to see what he'd actually written there. There'd been several hours where he had taken a temperature reading every twenty minutes. Liquid intake ratios. Blood pressure. Oxygen level. And the notes on Keith's appearance, the sound of his held breath. The quotes of what he'd said. Lance felt cold remembering this, hearing Keith as if he were still in the bed next to him in the dark. On impulse, he tore that page out, crumpling it in his hand and throwing it into the waste basket next to the desk. It wasn't important for this. Coran didn't need to see that. No one did.
Lance grabbed his quilt off his bed, bundling it under his arm and striding with more confidence than he felt back to the couch. Keith needed him.
"Ah, yes, perfect," Coran welcomed him back. "Go ahead and drape that over his shoulders, won't you?"
Lance obediently handed over the notebook, open to the page Coran needed to start with, and went to wrap Keith up in the blanket. Coran had shifted him to a seated position, leaning slightly forward so he could listen to his heart and lungs from behind, and he was visibly shaking from the chill and the exertion. But even so, Lance couldn't help but pause – looking at Keith. The lumbar puncture scars were clear near the waistband of his pajama pants, but they weren't the only ones.
It was astonishing how much information a person's frame will give up about them to someone who knows how to look. With a few moments of consideration, and a little help from what Keith had said in his fever dream last night, Lance saw immediately that someone had put out cigarettes on Keith's back – his upper shoulders and the back of his neck - many times. No wonder he'd startled so badly when Lance put the ice pack there. The nerves in skin couldn't always tell the difference between extreme cold and heat. There was a weird puckering along his left bicep, a remnant of trauma but Lance couldn't tell what kind. He could see that Keith used to take care of his body. He'd worked out, probably a lot, but recently, possibly the last month or maybe a few more, he'd stopped doing that. It looked as though he'd stopped really eating much too. His vertebrae were extremely visible in a line down his back. Hunk was right; he probably didn't weigh much of anything.
Lance swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and shielded Keith in his quilt, covering his back and pulling it around, wrapping him completely and holding it closed, wishing the blanket could protect him from more than just cold. Coran paused in his reading, giving Lance a knowing look and a nod. He'd seen it too.
"Lance, you'll find the kit in my bag," Coran told him, thankfully giving him something to do. "Could you please do the blood draw for me?"
"Oh," Lance said, shaking his head to clear it of the images of Keith's back. "Of course."
"What?" Keith asked, lifting his head from where he'd been studying the coffee table, as if he'd decided to shrink his consciousness to just the wood patterns there so he could sit still through whatever Coran wanted to do to him. Seemed he drew the line at needles. The tough guys almost always did.
"I'd like to test you for anemia," Coran explained. "Lance and I can both see that you haven't been eating much lately. Lack of nutrients, combined with your current condition, could be the trigger for your heart irregularities, and if that's the case, I'd like to get you on a nutritional supplement as soon as possible. But the only way I can confirm is with a blood sample. And you'll want Lance to take it, trust me. He's better at it than I am. Young eyes, steady hands, all that."
"He's joking?" Keith asked hopefully, holding the blanket tightly closed around him. Lance wasn't sure which part he meant – the part where he needed the blood sample or the part where he wanted Lance to get it.
"It's ok; I work at the plasma donation center," Lance told him, keeping his voice easy, opening the diagnostics box and laying it out on the table so he wouldn't have to struggle with it in a minute. "I do this all the time; don't worry." He patted Keith gently on the shoulder as he went to get some BSI gloves, his eye protection, and wash his hands.
"But . . . seriously?" Keith sputtered.
"Lance is perfectly capable," Coran vouched for him. "I've been trying to get him clearance as the backup flight nurse, but the administrators insist that he has to be licensed first even though he could outdo our current flight nurse with one hand tied behind his back."
"Flight nurse?" Keith asked, his voice raising in pitch.
"The one who goes with the Life Flight helicopters," Lance answered, coming to his side again, goggles in place.
"Anyone and their aunt can get an IV line started in a still and quiet, well-lit room," Coran said. "It takes talent to do it in a moving helicopter with low light, lots of noise, and incredible pressure."
"Have you ever?" Keith asked, staring hard at Lance as he perched on the coffee table in front of him.
"In a helicopter? No. But I've placed thousands of needles and I have yet to collapse a vein. And this needle is actually smaller than the ones we use for donation. It'll be ok. I promise. I'll be gentle."
"That's not it," Keith muttered.
"I just want to help you, Keith," Lance told him, throwing all his concern into his voice. "We can do the swab test first if you want?" He looked behind him at Coran, who was standing slightly to the side, arms folded, monitoring the procedure. "You did want the swab test too, right?"
"Yes. I'm not entirely certain that we're looking at an influenza virus here. I'd like to check that too." Lance nodded, liking it when Coran's thoughts mirrored his own. It made him feel validated and clever.
"Just get it over with," Keith begged, slipping one arm out from behind the cover of the blanket. Lance scooted closer, grabbing his pillow and resting it on his knees, placing Keith's arm on top of it to keep it steady and then took a breath as he saw what he was up against.
For all he'd just bragged, and had Coran back him up, about his skills with needles and veins, he knew this wasn't going to be all that easy. Keith didn't have great veins for this, and they were shriveled from dehydration. It was going to be hard to get a good stick, and he only had the one needle. He had to get it right on the first try. He twisted the piece of elastic around Keith's bicep, to keep more blood in the arm and hopefully fill out the vein a little more. Then he pulled the cover off the iodine swab to clean the area with one hand while slipping two fingers of his other into Keith's limp grip.
"Squeeze and release for me," he instructed, eyes glued to Keith's arm where his antecubital vein was just barely visible to his trained gaze. "Ok."
"Lance?" Keith said, but seemed to not know what he wanted to say after that. Lance settled the tubes into his lap and prepped the needle apparatus.
"Don't move," he cautioned him, meeting his eyes, seeing the need for reassurance there. Seeing that it was all Keith could do to hold still as he'd been asked. "I'm not going to hurt you, Keith." There was trust and pain in Keith's expression, his lips tight. "Are you all right?"
"No," Keith whispered. "But go ahead." Lance felt as though their whole relationship thus far could be summed up in that tiny eight-word exchange.
"Make a fist and hold it. You're going to relax your fingers on the count of three." He expected Keith to turn his head at this point. Almost everyone did, even Allura didn't like watching the moment where the steel pierced through the skin, and she was practically a professional donator. But Keith kept his eyes just as fixed to the spot as Lance did.
"One," Lance lined up the needle with where he'd determined the vein was. "Two," he pressed his thumb against Keith's arm in an automatic, practiced gesture. "And three. Relax." Keith slowly released his fist, not moving his arm in any way as he'd been told, while Lance pushed the needle in and down. His hands and voice had been steady, but inwardly he breathed a deep sigh of relief when there was immediate backsplash against the cupping area for the tubes. Flight nurse, indeed. "Got it," he said, as if it had been easy. As if he hadn't been at all scared that he'd screw it up.
"Holy shit," Keith exhaled as Lance fitted the first tube, watching carefully as it filled.
"Yes, well done," complimented Coran, also sounding as if this was no big deal, though Lance wasn't sure that's what Keith meant. Lance pulled back the first tube to exchange it for the second, feeling the heat of Keith's blood as he held the vial in his palm. In a few more seconds, both tubes were full, and Lance reversed the entire process, settling a white gauze square over the needle, pressing it down as he pulled out.
"Keep pressure on this and lift your arm," he said, cleaning up the biohazards. The needle went into a plastic container, which went into a red, clearly marked sharps bag. The blood tubes were neatly labeled and packed tight and safe into the diagnostics box. The piece of elastic twisted off Keith's arm, and Lance lowered it to apply some tape to the gauze piece. Not a single drop of blood to be found on the white pillowcase. "Doing ok?" Lance checked Keith after it was all over.
"I didn't feel a thing," Keith said, sounding sort of spooked about it, though Lance took it as a compliment.
"That's always the goal," he replied, allowing himself to feel slightly cocky now that he'd succeeded, though inside his soul was shaking. It was harder to do things like that with Coran watching. With Keith not turning away. With only one needle and all that build up about how good he was supposed to be. He didn't want to hurt Keith, didn't want to hurt anyone, but especially not Keith. And he didn't want anyone else to either.
After all the drama getting blood, swabbing the back of Keith's blistered throat was nothing. In another few minutes, Lance had his gloves and goggles off, the box was packed securely into Coran's bag, and Keith was being encouraged to lean back and sip his smoothie some more as Coran did his finishing touches.
He began to ask them questions. How long had it been since the last arrhythmia occurrence? What had Keith been doing at the time? What was in the smoothie exactly? Was there anything else Keith could tell him? When had his symptoms started? Lance, what happened after three in the morning when the notes just stopped – skipping to seven am?
"I fell asleep," Lance said, guilty because he had actually fallen asleep and because he'd hidden part of the notes from Coran. But there was nothing important on that page. Keith deserved at least that privacy. Coran hesitated in his interrogation, as if realizing that he was semi-chastising Lance for getting less than four hours' worth of sleep, and only after Keith had been stabilized.
"All right, you two," Coran said briskly. "I'm going to run some tests and get back with you later. In the meantime, you keep resting as much as you can," he stared hard at Keith, but only for a moment. He returned his full attention to Lance. "I'd recommend benzocaine for his mouth – it'll help with the pain. Keep doing what you're doing – fluids, rest, notetaking. It seems he's holding steady right now, but if something changes, call me immediately."
He put an arm around Lance's shoulders, pushing him several steps away and speaking directly into his ear. "Watch his heart – I'm not happy about it, but it seems like there's no fluid build-up there yet. I'd like to get a chest X-ray and an ECG, but I don't want to move him unless we absolutely have to. It could still resolve on its own, so we're going to just watch for right now. Do you know what happened to him?" He asked in a whisper. Lance could only shake his head. "Well, keep him safe here with you as long possible. It looks like all of the injuries are old, but the signs of neglect are recent. For some reason, he's not being consistent with basic care. Make sure when he recovers that he's not going back to a dangerous situation – whether it comes from an outside source or if it's something he's doing to himself. Right?"
"Of course," Lance promised, hurting inside about it, not knowing what he could really do.
"You're doing very well, Lance, and it looks as though he trusts you quite a bit, so don't sound so unsure. I think you could very well be a source of hope for him. Is that something you're ok with? Being responsible for him?"
"Yes," Lance answered quickly. He found himself being more and more ok with that every minute.
"I thought so." Coran let him go, retrieving his coat and bag and moving toward the door.
"Lance will take excellent care of you," Coran assured Keith, who sat still on the couch, looking a little dazed. "But don't forget to take care of yourself, Lance," Coran said in parting.
"Thank you," Lance told him, hating how inadequate those words always seemed to him for how much gratitude he actually felt.
"Anytime," Coran responded, and disappeared behind the door, leaving Lance and Keith alone again. At the sound of the door closing, Keith looked up to meet Lance's eyes.
"Can I put my shirt back on now?" He asked, making Lance smile tiredly.
"Yeah, you can."
"And can you tell me what you were whispering about?" Oh, so he had been paying more attention than Lance had thought, but he wasn't sure he really wanted to know or talk about any of that. On the other hand, there were some things that Lance wanted to know, and if Keith had brought it up first, why not take the opportunity?
"He asked me if I knew what happened to you," Lance spoke before he really had decided if it were a good idea or not.
"What?" Keith asked, sounding like he regretted bringing it up now.
"You have burn scars on your shoulders, Keith. I'm not sure if you knew that? And you stopped whatever workout routine you had going and you aren't eating right or enough – at least for the past couple months." As he spoke, Lance drew closer, watching as his words shut Keith down. He pulled his shirt over his head and pulled his arms to his chest, staring at the coffee table again.
"How do you know that?" He asked.
"Because I've been trained to look," Lance said. "All EMTs are required to train on and legally obligated to report on signs of abuse and neglect." By the time he got to the part about being required to report, Keith was staring at him in panic. "But I'm not an EMT right now; I'm just your friend with EMT training, so you don't have to worry. I know you don't want to tell me anything, and I don't have any real right to ask, but can you at least tell me if you're safe right now? Is there something going on right now?"
"You have no idea," Keith muttered, but Lance thought he might.
"Was it Shiro?" Lance asked suddenly, amazed at his directness. "Did he hurt you, Keith? Is that why you don't want me to contact him?"
"No," Keith answered quickly and sharply. "No. He never . . .," but his throat tightened around whatever he was going to say. He covered his mouth with one hand, in every kind of possible pain.
"Are you sure I can't call him?" Lance asked gently, kneeling again at Keith's side, putting a hand on his knee. "You were asking for him last night. The whole night, Keith, you were begging for him. He's important to you. Don't you think he'd want to know where you are?"
"He doesn't care," Keith whispered, with the same conviction Lance saw in his eyes when he expected to be left behind, to be lied to. He truly believed it.
"Keith, how do you –"
"He doesn't care," he repeated, trying to sound forceful but just coming off wounded. "No one does."
"No, that's not true," Lance challenged. "Keith, no, that's not even fair. Can you look at me?" He did, reluctantly. "I care," Lance said, with force. "Coran – my roommates – we all care about what happens to you." And even though he could see that Keith didn't doubt him this time, he could also see that it didn't really help. Because this pain was tied to no one but Shiro, and so only Shiro could fix it. "So please, tell me, are you safe?"
"I don't know."
Lance took a deep breath, worried about this answer. What kind of trouble was Keith in? How could he protect him?
"Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"No." But Lance wasn't sure if that was the truth or just what Keith suspected was the truth. He was sitting hunched over, arms folded protectively around him. Very slowly, Lance shifted from the floor to the couch next to Keith, wanting to hold him, wanting to cradle him as Hunk had done with Pidge not too long ago. Wanted to promise him that everything would be ok. He wished they knew each other well enough that he could.
"Is this ok, or are you all touched out?" He asked, gauging how Keith reacted to him sitting so close. He'd had an exhausting morning.
"It's fine," Keith answered.
"How's your heart? Does it hurt right now?"
"Kind of."
"Come here, then." He maneuvered them around on the couch, leaning back against the cushions and helping Keith lie down across his lap. He threw the quilt over him, covering his shoulder with his hand. He felt Keith sigh, felt his heat through his jeans. "Rest a bit." Lance leaned his head back, feeling the tightness in Keith relax in intervals, feeling him twitch as he drifted off, secure enough, at least in this moment, to fall asleep.
"What am I going to do with you?" Lance whispered.
Author's Note: So. Much. Emotion . .. guys. It's killing me to go so slow with this. There's SO MUCH I want you to know, but it's ok. We have time. (Right? No one's going anywhere? You're sticking with me to the bitter end?) My favorite bit of this chapter was writing that blood draw, OH and Pidge. And Hunk just picking Keith up . . .never mind, I loved a lot of this chapter.
