Author's Note: First up, a thank you. Thanks for sticking with me. I'm having the most delightful time and I love hearing from all of you. Now do take a deep breath – I'm about to sucker punch you in the gut. (It's because I love you?)

Chapter Nine: Voluntary Manslaughter

Pidge was waiting for him. And he knew that every minute he remained in his room at Keith's side was just making her increasingly impatient. She was likely sitting with Hunk, bristled and pissed that he was ignoring her. Which wasn't what he was doing, not really. He was anxious to see what was up with her, why she looked so worried, why she was so insistent to talk to him. He wanted to tell her how much he appreciated her, and most of all, he wanted to reset their relationship and get them back on good terms. But he just couldn't bring himself to go yet. He wanted to be sure that Keith was truly asleep, and he wanted to settle his own spirit too.

Lance had successfully slipped off the bed without disturbing his patient and was again kneeling at the side, focused entirely on minutiae and writing down everything he saw. He didn't like what Keith had said earlier about his heart, about how it felt tired and hot, though not painful. He didn't like the lowered blood pressure. And he especially hated that he didn't know what any of it meant. He checked his previous stats for any kind of sign or pattern that he might be missing, looking at the details from a distance.

He saw immediately that Keith was definitely not getting enough fluids because he'd spent most of his day so far asleep. And though it was encouraging that his temperature was holding steady around 103, even going down a little; it was not good for his heart rate to be this elevated for this long. No wonder Keith said it felt tired and hot – it was an overheated, overworked machine at this point. But Lance just couldn't think of any way to slow it down other than breaking the fever. Which actually should be happening soon now if past patients were any indication of the typical timeline for this thing.

Except Keith wasn't typical. Keith pushed all the limits. As unpleasant as it sounded, he should be writhing in pain by now, a little over thirty-six hours in, as his immune system gathered the waste of the destroyed and weakened virus into his kidneys – producing an agonizing backache that signaled the end of the illness, the last thing to happen before each patient had finally complained about being hot and thirsty, the transition to the recovery period that lasted several days. Hunk and Genevieve had hit that point just twenty-four hours into their fevers. The geoscience guy went four hours past that, and Pidge, Lance's worst case before Keith, had taken thirty-two hours.

But it was like Keith was stuck somehow. Not getting better, and while the flu symptoms weren't getting any worse, at least not yet with the sun still up, they were causing other issues that made Lance nervous. Even now, even though Keith was falling asleep again – Lance could see that he was breathing irregularly, too fast, or pausing like he'd done last night for a little longer than he should. He couldn't stand or sit up for very long without messing up his heart rate. It could be simple dehydration doing it, or the anemia that Coran suspected, or it could be something life threatening like a blood infection. There was even the slight chance for sudden cardiac arrest during arrhythmic episodes.

Those were the absolute worst-case scenarios, though. Lance didn't think they were at that point yet and he reminded himself, again, that he was probably over thinking it. Keith's color indicated that sepsis was not something Lance really needed to worry about, and provided Keith stayed as still as possible, kept his head down, his heart rate remained steady, though elevated. He just needed more time, more rest. As much comfort as Lance could give. Which meant he should probably get him the pillow from the couch.

Pidge was halfway out of her chair the second she saw Lance coming in to the room, but he put both hands out to stop her.

"I'm not ready yet," he said quickly, snatching up the pillow and his shirt from the couch. "Give me a couple more minutes. He's almost asleep."

"Lance," Pidge said darkly, warningly, and started a nonverbal argument. Pidge and Lance specialized in silent fights; they'd learned quickly that if they had a disagreement, they had to keep it away from Hunk. He loved them both so hard that for them to have discord with each other was almost physically painful for him. Even now, though they weren't saying anything out loud, Lance could see Hunk tightening up, hunching over a schematic on the table, actively trying to ignore them.

Lance stared openly at Pidge, letting her read him fully. What? His posture told her. What's so urgent that you have to tell me right this second? I'm not avoiding you. I want to know; I really do. Whatever is important to you is important to me too, but unless it's a real emergency, which is doubtful as you're sitting there breathing correctly, sound and well, I think you can wait.

Pidge was one of the few people he knew who could translate all these thoughts from his stance, and he knew he'd gotten through to her as she sank all the way back into her chair, pouting, breathing out a puff of frustration like a furious little dragon. He nodded a thank you to her.

"I'll hurry," he promised, and she shrugged as if it didn't even matter to her anymore how long he took because she was done with him. It was only a defense mechanism, though. He really did have to hurry if he didn't want to truly hurt her feelings.

His room was covered in shadows when he returned to it, the result of more clouds rolling in from the lake. More snow, a sunset that would never be seen from behind the fog that hadn't fully lifted from campus all day. Without the thunder, however, it seemed gentle today, a protective cover, turning the space into a little healing cocoon.

Lance deftly slipped his hand under Keith's head to help him lift it enough so he could rest on the pillow again, allowing his spine to align and his breathing to ease a little. Without really noticing, he set down his shirt on the bed too, close to the pillow, for no reason at all except he wasn't sure what to do with it right at the moment.

"I'm sorry," Keith murmured. "Did you say something? I keep falling asleep."

"That's exactly what I want you to do," Lance told him. "I brought you here so you could rest. I will have to wake you up more often to drink something, though."

"Sure," Keith muttered, noncommittedly, drawing in another breath that he held.

"Keith, why are you breathing like that?" Lance asked, hoping to bring his attention to it enough for him to stop. "You keep taking a breath and holding it. Why?"

"I didn't notice." That was fair enough, though frustrating. Lance spent some extra time fishing out his pulse oximeter from the med bag.

"I'm checking your oxygen saturation level one more time," Lance warned him before picking up his hand and clipping the meter to his finger. Keith didn't even move, and Lance wondered if it was because he was simply ok with Lance touching him now or if it was because he was just too sick to recoil anymore. The reading came back at ninety-six percent – the lower end of normal. Still, Lance would feel more comfortable with a bigger cushion. Say, ninety-eight.

"Breathe deeper, Keith," he instructed. "I'll keep reminding you, but whenever you think of it, take deep breaths, ok?"

"Ok," Keith agreed, mostly asleep. Lance shook his head, knowing that hadn't communicated well, but he could also feel Pidge's impatience now, despite how she wasn't anywhere he could see her, and he felt safe enough to leave for a few minutes.

"I'll be in the other room for a bit," he told Keith. "Pidge needs me for something, but I'll be back to check on you and we need to figure out how to get some more calories into you soon. Is that all right?"

This seemed to rouse Keith more than anything else Lance had said. He shifted, opening his eyes. "You're leaving?" He asked, suddenly anxious, bringing to Lance's mind the polarity of Keith's character. How one moment, he was tough and hard and the next he was no older to Lance than Mateo.

"No," he assured, putting a soothing hand over Keith's after removing the oximeter. "I'll be just outside the door. You're not alone, Keith. We're all here. Ok?"

"You're coming back?"

Lance sighed, hurting for Keith, feeling guilty for something he hadn't even done. "Well, you know," he tried to joke to lighten the mood a little. "This is kind of my room, so yeah, I'll be back. Should I put on some music for you? Would that help if it's not so quiet in here?" He was already moving to the computer, adjusting the sound on the speakers.

"Yeah," Keith agreed slowly, though it was obvious he would prefer if Lance just stayed.

"What kind of music do you like? Or like. . . sounds? Like rain or white noise like that?"

"What do you listen to?" Keith asked, seemingly unable to come up with anything on his own. Lance wondered if Keith had been allowed a preference about anything in his entire life. But Lance had a preference and was ready to share it. He brought up his iTunes, specifically Don Gibson's Piano Cascades album, a calming mixture of natural water and piano, soft and soothing. He set it to repeat and lowered the volume slightly.

"This is what I use to relax," Lance said. He then physically pushed Keith back to the bed, indulging in stroking his hair away from his face, resting his hand on his head for a little longer than necessary. "Respira," he told Keith. "Keep breathing deep now. I'll be back soon."

"Thanks," Keith said, closing his eyes again, his body folding up as Lance took small steps backward toward the hallway. The last thing Lance saw was Keith's hand curling around the shirt he'd left on the bed, bunching it up against his chest as he tucked his arms close to his body. Lance gently closed the door, hoping whatever Pidge had to say wouldn't take too long. He was still worried.

The few steps down the hall were a 180-degree flip from still and dark to bright and frazzled. Again, Pidge bolted up from her chair when she saw him, and this time he let himself feel curious about it.

"Get your coat," she commanded through clenched teeth. "We're taking a walk."

Feeling intimidated despite their height difference, Lance began putting on his shoes, hoping for a compromise. He'd just told Keith he would be in the next room; he didn't want that to be a lie. Maybe she'd settle for the hallway? Hunk watched them quietly, his innate empathy absorbing all the weird energy between them. Lance saw the same question on Hunk's face that was running through his mind. What the hell was going on?

"Can we stay inside?" Lance pleaded, gesturing toward the balcony door at the snow. "You may have forgotten, but it's really cold out there, and I'm a delicate, tropical flower." She stared at him, unimpressed, and he felt his resolve start to crumble. In fact, he was seconds away from picking up his coat as she'd said when she threw up her hands.

"Fine, we'll go to the lounge. Come on."

"Pidge?" Hunk asked, standing now too, wondering why he was being left out of this, why he was being left behind. Lance watched Pidge soften immediately. She turned back to Hunk, nuzzling into him since he was too tall and broad for her to hug around the neck or waist if they were both standing. Instead, she tucked her fingers into his pockets, pressing her forehead against his solar plexus, a posture that Lance had seen many times before but always felt out of place watching. Like he was intruding on something.

"Lance should get out of here for a little while," Pidge explained to Hunk. "But someone needs to stay in case Keith needs something, right? And since you're the only one strong enough to actually lift him, I'm going to take our boy on a walk for a break so he can clear his head and be his brilliant medical self again tonight. Make sense?"

Now Lance felt incredibly out of place, listening to her talking about him like that. Is this how they always discussed him? He didn't need a break; he needed a solution. He needed to sort through what he could persuade Keith to eat, what would even be possible for him to put in his burned mouth. He needed to do some research on his heart symptoms. Needed to be next to him to soothe him in his sleep.

"Yeah," Hunk was agreeing, pacified. "That makes sense." He carefully bent down to hold Pidge a moment, and Lance could see that he did this as often as she let him, but always waited for her to initiate the contact. It looked special and precious, and Lance admired their relationship at the same time he felt a little jealous that he didn't have one like it. That he was "their boy," as if they were a couple who had adopted a puppy. On the other hand, why wouldn't they think like that? They had other social circles. The Geoscience group, the physicists, the robotics club, several employees at the Museum, even those pale, wide-eyed outcasts that came over for anime marathons sometimes. Lance had . . . well. He talked to a lot of people at the training meetings he attended. He worked well with his fellow EMTs when he did the ambulance runs, tried to make conversation with his coworkers at the plasma center and the regulars who came in to donate. Oh, and there was Coran too. But the point was – Hunk and Pidge brought people to the apartment all the time, for dinners, for video game parties, for geeky, engineering projects and stargazing. Lance simply came home to them. Maybe he really was just their boy. Maybe they took care of him more than he originally thought.

"We'll be back soon," Pidge said, pulling away from Hunk.

"Keith's asleep," Lance put in, wanting to contribute to the conversation, feel like he had some control over something. "I didn't tell him I was leaving the apartment, so hopefully he'll stay that way until I get back. But I'll have my phone in case you need me to come right away."

That last comment made Hunk look slightly anxious, like he wanted to ask what sort of conditions would be required to call Lance back before Pidge was ready. Like he wasn't prepared for that kind of responsibility.

"You'll do fine," Lance reassured, really hoping that they would just take a walk to the lounge for a little while and be right back. He suspected that Pidge had more on her mind than simply giving him a break, though. She looked way too worried for it to be just that, and he suspected that Hunk knew that too but they were both going to humor her because even though she was the smallest, she had both of them completely invested in her in their respective ways.

"Let's go," Pidge said again, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him toward the door. He shared a last look with Hunk as he allowed himself to be dragged out into the hallway, both of them wearing expressions of long-standing endurance. They knew Pidge was like this, and they loved her for it.

Lance obediently followed Pidge down the stairs to the lounge, which was even darker than his room. Someone had turned on the electric fireplace and left it running, so there was a cheerful glow to the area, and it was refreshingly empty. Pidge led him to the couch in front of the fireplace, sitting him down in front of her so she could hold the taller position for once. She didn't sit down, but folded her arms, leaving the lights off in the room so she was standing in silhouette in front of the fire. Lance didn't feel all that comfortable about the position. He felt like he was in trouble, but he couldn't imagine why.

"What's going on, Pidge?" He hated being the one to break the silence, but he couldn't take it anymore. Why did she feel she had to bring him all the way down here? Why keep secrets from Hunk?

And even though Pidge had practically dragged him in her hurry to tell him whatever she had to tell him, now she hesitated. She didn't seem to know where to start. He watched her face contort between her need to share whatever information she had and her desire not to hurt his feelings. It made Lance want to help her, somehow, but he was at a loss as to what he should do. He had no idea why they were even here.

"Katie?" He said gently, making her actually cringe a little. They were hardly ever serious enough with each other to require him to use her real name anymore. "You ok?"

"You big-hearted idiot," she snarled at him, which only made his sympathy melt a little more toward her. She only insulted people in that tone of voice when she really cared.

"What did I do?" He invited. "Sit down?" He reached for her, but she dodged him, moving instead to perch on the armrest of the couch, maintaining her height over him with the position, splitting her face between the fire's glow and the shadows. This was obviously really bothering her. He turned toward her on the couch, pulling one leg underneath him and holding onto his ankle, waiting and ready.

"Do you know anything about Keith at all?" She finally asked, rather accusingly, confusing him.

"No," he said simply, shrugging it off. That's what was bugging her? "I mean, I know what I need to know about his medical history, and that's all that's really required for treatment. I didn't know your geo friend either – what was his name again?"

"Evan, but this is not the same." Right, Evan. Now he remembered.

"Why not?" Lance asked innocently.

"Because I know Evan, and I know he's a good person. None of us know Keith."

"I'm still not seeing much difference," Lance said, though there were so many differences between Keith and Evan he didn't think he could list them all. However, from a medical perspective, those differences didn't much matter. The procedure remained the same. It absolutely was not a requirement to conduct a get-to-know-you interview with every patient on anything other than their medical history. And he had made it a point to get Keith's medical history, as much as he was able. "I'm going to be looking after thousands of people I don't know, that you don't know, that maybe no one knows depending on the situation. Keith's no different than Evan."

"Except you weren't falling in love with Evan."

Lance pushed himself against the opposite armrest, as far away from Pidge as possible, his turn to fold his arms. "I'm not falling in love with Keith either," he defended himself, wishing she would just let that go. This crazy theory she kept throwing out there, first teasingly and now with actual concern. And even if it were true, which it wasn't, what difference did it make to her?

He watched her shoulders lift as she took a deep, calming breath, as if seeking patience, pinching the bridge of her nose like she did when confronted with a monumental problem.

"How about we skip the part where I talk you out of your own denial?" She requested.

"Or how about we agree to disagree on that particular point and move on to why you would care so much and why you seem to think it's a problem?" Lance returned, shutting her down again.

"Lance, I'm worried about you," she said, quietly, in a vulnerable tone that she never used. It made the hair at the back of Lance's neck stand up, the shadows of the room taking on a sinister darkness. It made no sense at all when he compared it to what Pidge was saying. "You're like a brother to me, ok? I don't want you to get hurt."

"Then get straight and tell me what you really want to tell me," Lance pushed, off balance, unused to Pidge speaking gently this way, hating the mystery and the edginess of Pidge's demeanor.

"Fine," Pidge almost snapped, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a bandaid, which initiated about the same amount of painful relief for Lance. Finally. "Since you weren't interested in Keith's background, I decided to look it up for you."

This comment brought Lance straight up off the couch. He didn't want to hear any more, didn't want to know more than he already knew, didn't want anything Keith had said last night confirmed in any way. But Pidge anticipated what he'd do and shot for the doorway like a thrown dart, moving faster than he'd ever seen her, slamming both hands on either side of the frame and spreading her feet to each side too, blocking it as much as possible. He'd have to physically lift or push her out of the way if he wanted to leave.

"No, you don't," she challenged him as if she took up the same amount of space in the doorway as Hunk did. Lance hated that she actually might be harder for him to get past than the Samoan rugby player. Pidge lifted her face to glare at him. "And it looks like you do know some stuff after all."

"That's not right, Katie," he told her, angry at being caught like this. Angry at her for invading Keith's privacy, knowing how much it meant to him. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not," she allowed. "But I did it; it's over now, and I'm not sorry because you need to know some things."

"No. If Keith wants to tell me, he can when he's ready. Now please move."

"Keith is never going to tell you," she responded, hard and adamant. "So I am."

"Don't make me pick you up," Lance begged, but they both knew it was an empty threat. Pidge was small, but she was vicious. Lance would have an easier time picking up a honey badger.

"You go ahead and try."

They glared at each other, a silent, intense contest of wills where Lance suddenly realized how tired he was. He felt himself shrinking in submission, hating the part of himself that actually did want to know what Pidge had found out. But he'd made promises. He wouldn't look in the backpack. He wouldn't call Shiro. Technically, he was still keeping them even if he let Pidge tell him everything, but it still felt like a betrayal.

"Does it really matter?" He heard himself asking but his tone was so quiet he didn't know if Pidge could hear him too. "I told him I'd take care of him, and I'm going to do that no matter what. And then he'll be back to his own life and out of ours, and we probably won't even see him again."

"I thought about that," Pidge informed him. "And if I thought it was in any way true, I'd let you go upstairs. But the way you look at each other. . . . the way he follows you, holds on to you."

Lance broke eye contact with her, drained, knowing that she was right, at least partially. Keith did something to him, and there had been something different in how Lance went about treating him. Closer. More intimate. And he liked it. He didn't want Pidge to damage what was happening. He didn't want it to be ruined.

"Did he ever give you a reason why he canceled all your appointments to meet up for that assignment?" Pidge asked, and Lance felt as though he were on top of something high, standing at an apex and about to plummet somewhere deep extremely quickly. He felt Pidge take his hands, taking charge, and he allowed her to pull him back to the couch where they sat together, turned toward each other.

"Lance," she asked again. "Did he ever tell you where he was?"

"In meetings," Lance responded, woodenly, staring at the burgundy paisley patterning of the couch cushions. "He said he was stuck in meetings off campus."

He heard Pidge sigh, preparing to shatter this explanation. He felt his spirit tense up as if she were going to hit him. She kept hold of his hands.

"He was in court, Lance," she told him, ripping off another bandaid. "For the past two weeks, he's been on trial."

"Ok," Lance accepted numbly. That made sense then on why Keith wouldn't know when he'd be finished. On why he had no choice but to miss each meeting they tentatively planned. Why he never really told Lance where he'd been. "For what? Drug possession? Traffic violations?" He threw the suggestions out half-heartedly. Hopefully. He heard Pidge take another breath.

"He's on trial for murder."

Lance pulled his hands back from Pidge, covering his ears but still hearing Keith last night. The ranting after Hunk and Pidge had gone to bed. I'm sorry, he'd sobbed. I didn't mean to. I just wanted him to stop. He wouldn't get off. Please. Shiro. Lance had known that something horrible had happened to Keith, something incredibly traumatic, but he hadn't known it ended that way. With someone actually dying. He didn't want to believe it.

"Maybe it wasn't him," Lance said, but he didn't sound convincing. "Maybe they got the wrong person."

"No, Lance," Pidge went on, her tone so careful. "That's not what the charges are. He's confessed and everything. The court is trying to decide to what degree he should be held accountable – voluntary or involuntary manslaughter. The jury is out right now deciding on the verdict. Keith might be going to prison."

"Might? So there's a chance he might not?" Lance checked, feeling cold despite his proximity to the fireplace. He could see Keith in his memory, standing in their classroom, tight with violence, poised to attack. He saw him sobbing, curled in a ball on his bed. Heard him telling Lance that he didn't know if he was safe, that Lance had no idea what was going on, that there was nothing Lance could do to help. "I mean, it can't be that bad. They let him go to class and stay in his own apartment, right?"

"Lance, you're missing the point. He beat someone to death with his bare hands, do you understand?"

Lance laced his fingers behind his neck, fighting the urge to start rocking back and forth, remembering Keith's hesitant hold on his sleeve, his constant apologies, his tears, his scars. His fear.

"He . . . didn't mean to kill him," Lance heard himself defending Keith. "It was probably an accident. Or self-defense." It might have been that Keith stood up to the person who had hurt him, putting an end to it in the most extreme way possible unintentionally. He'd said that he just wanted him to stop. That he wouldn't get off. Didn't that mean that this could be justified?

"Are you kidding me?" Pidge squeaked. "That makes it even worse! It means he can't control himself. And this wasn't an isolated incident. Keith has a long history of violence. He's been suspended for fighting, kicked out of about three different schools. He's been in the foster system since he was four, but it doesn't seem that any family could handle him for very long – he's changed hands a lot, then ran away and disappeared for a while after getting a driver's license. He tried to get into the Air Force when he turned eighteen, but they wouldn't take him because he spent some time in a juvenile correctional facility for assault. Do you hear what I'm telling you?"

Lance didn't respond. He didn't know how.

"You needed to know," Pidge went on. "Before you get in too deep. He's just not safe, Lance. I don't want him to hurt you."

"He's not going to hurt me," Lance said automatically.

"He already did," Pidge replied. Lance found himself looking up at her questioningly as she cupped a careful hand over the bruise on his face. "He hit you, didn't he?"

Lance felt his breath catch, shocked that she'd figured that out on her own, even though he shouldn't have been all that surprised. "No," he said immediately. "That really was an accident. It was all my fault – I startled him and he was-"

"Don't. Stop it," Pidge broke in, shaking her head harder and harder through the whole explanation. "Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?" Lance watched, amazed and hurt, as tears rolled down Pidge's face. "You sound like every abuse victim in the history of forever. He punched you in the face, Lance! You! And you're going to blame yourself for that?"

Lance cowered before her, not knowing how to explain. It had been his fault. He'd totally brought that on himself, because he'd thrown that textbook down right next to Keith's head. He'd started it.

"Please," Pidge begged, crawling unexpectedly into his lap, wrapping trembling arms around him and burying her face into his neck. He clung to her, wishing they could come to some understanding just by being physically close. "Please don't let him . . . if something happened to you. . ."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," he whispered, not knowing how he found the words, or his voice. "I'm just trying to heal him, Katie." Because you're worried over nothing. There's nothing between Keith and me.

"Please, let's take him to the hospital," Pidge pleaded, still crying. "You've done enough."

Lance held still, drowning in thoughts. There had to be more to this. He didn't doubt Pidge's facts, just how they'd been presented. Because there was more to Keith than violence. There was a frightened boy who had been consistently abandoned. He was begging for someone to listen to him, to believe him, to stay with him. Lance knew, without a doubt because he'd been there, that he was responsible for the bruise on his cheek. He'd provoked Keith, on purpose. Maybe it had been like that before. Maybe it had always been like that. The scars on Keith's body were real; someone had done that to him intentionally. Someone had taught him about pain. Someone had shown him violence to the point where he probably didn't know how to handle situations without it.

"I really haven't," he said, feeling the truth of it through his whole bloodstream. There was so much more he could do. That he meant to do. If it were true, and Keith was on the verge of being sentenced to prison, then there was plenty that Lance was going to do.

Pidge pulled back, detaching herself from him so she could look at his face. She was a mess. Lance tugged his sleeve over his hand so he could begin wiping her eyes, her cheeks, chin, and neck.

"Lance," she began, but he continued before she could say anything else.

"No," he countered. "It doesn't matter. I'm an EMT; it's not up to me to make judgments. Keith's not on trial with me. I promised him I would take care of him until he's better, and I'm going to keep that promise."

"But . . he killed someone."

Lance cringed in spite of himself. "He was set up," he said, meaning it. From the time he was four years old, Keith had been set up for failure. There was no doubt in Lance about that.

Pidge was staring at him, her mouth open, as if she couldn't understand a single word he said.

"How can you be so stupid?" She asked, and Lance was surprised how much it hurt to hear her say it. He didn't know how he could get her to see what he meant. He turned away from her, sitting still and stubborn. "I hope Keith does go to prison," she went on, fiercely. "Just so you can get away from him in one piece."

"That's awful," he said, horrified, surprised at how eager she was to cast Keith aside. Just like everyone else. "Why would you even say that?"

"I just want to protect you," she protested. "Since you don't seem capable of doing it yourself." He wanted to argue that point. He wanted to tell her that he knew what he was doing, knew what he was getting into. But the truth was he had no idea. The truth was that Keith could be every bit as bad as Pidge suspected. He didn't have enough information. He didn't have Keith's side to this story. And he really couldn't fight Pidge's logic. Or that she was doing this because she cared about him.

"I appreciate that. I appreciate you," Lance emphasized. "I love you, Katie."

"Then listen to what I'm saying to you," she tried one last time.

"I am listening," Lance affirmed. "I heard what you said, and I'm thanking you for telling me, but I'm not abandoning him. If he's going to prison, then I want to give him some kindness before he goes. He's so sick, Pidge. Worse than I've ever seen anyone, and I think part of that is because he is so alone. Because no one has ever taken care of him before. Didn't you hear him last night? How many times did he say he was sorry, huh? How many times?"

"Someone is still dead, Lance, no matter how sorry he is. There's still a bruise on your face. Sorry doesn't fix it."

It does for my part, Lance wanted to say, but he knew better.

"You're right," he said instead. Pidge's favorite words. His best bet if he wanted to get anywhere in this conversation. "I'll be careful, ok? He's in no condition to hurt anyone right now; he can't even stand up on his own. He'll . . . he'll be out of the apartment soon enough, right? You won't have to worry about it."

"Too late."

"I'm going upstairs," Lance said, signaling the end to their stalemate. "We're not saying anything to Hunk, right?"

"Of course not," Pidge snapped. "But what are you going to tell him?"

"Do we have to tell him anything? I brought Keith home to get well, and once he's better, he'll be gone. End of story."

"The only person who believes that is you."

"Are you coming with me?" Lance invited, standing and holding out a hand to help her up too. But she was closed to him, cross-legged and cold on the couch. She wouldn't turn her head to look at him, completely disgusted with his choice. He let his hand drop, sad and disappointed. "Suit yourself."

"You're an idiot."

He nodded, doing his best to keep his face expressionless. He'd been told that before too. Though he didn't want to, he left Pidge alone in the dark lounge, heading slowly back to his apartment, but he couldn't really see where he was going. His mind was reeling, and despite how sure he'd made his voice sound to Pidge, he was almost completely undone.

Damn it, Keith! Just when he'd started to think that there was something happening between them. Keith had asked him to recite the poem again. He'd followed Lance to his room to make sure he was ok; he listened as Lance poured his homesick heart out to him. He'd put an ice pack over the bruise on Lance's face. He kept . . . he kept reaching out to hold onto his clothes. He'd cuddled up to Lance's shirt on the bed. How? How had he beaten someone to death? What pushed him that far?

Lance felt a burst of pain in his throat and chest at the same time he heard himself sob in the stairwell. He'd given up his chances with Allura for this? He'd stayed up all night and got into a fight with Pidge for this? Pidge was right; he was an idiot. He plopped down on the stairs, emotionally paralyzed, hiding his face in his hands, hating that he cared too much. Every time, he cared too damn much. He'd tried to help a wolf and got bit, and then had the nerve to be surprised about it.

"Lance?" Pidge's voice at the bottom of the stairs. "Oh, no, hey, come on. I'm sorry," her voice broke as it came closer. He didn't pull his hands away from his face to look. Her scent touched him first, followed by her hands as she enveloped him, draping herself over his back. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," he choked out.

"I didn't want this," Pidge said, petting his hair. "I just thought it would hurt less if you found out sooner."

"Nothing ever hurts less," he said, rather bitterly. Pidge held him tighter.

"There is someone out there for you, Lance," she promised him, a rather empty thing to say given their current situation. "But it's not him." Lance hadn't even realized how much he'd wanted it until Pidge had taken it away. Except she hadn't. She'd just delivered the message. Lance should have known from the beginning. He'd done this to himself, just like he'd practically punched himself in the face. He folded his arms around his knees, tucking his head into the hole, an ostrich in the sand. As small and tight as he could make himself.

"What about Genevieve?" Pidge suggested, kind of desperately, trying to help. Trying to put the bandaid back on the gaping, bleeding wound she'd torn open in Lance's soul. "I know she's interested."

"You said yourself she's a superficial disgrace to the university," Lance challenged, looking at Pidge sideways from the curtain of his arms. But the new topic had given him a chance to breathe again.

"I. . . did say that, didn't I? Well, maybe . . ."

"And that she couldn't keep up with a conversation unless it happened on Sesame Street."

"Ok, wow, geeze, how do you remember all that?"

Because I listen to you, Pidge. Because I respect your opinion. Because you really are the smartest person I know. I just wanted you to be wrong. Just this one time.

"Anyway," Pidge went on, stroking his back now. "You have Hunk and me. We love you." Yeah, but for how long? Lance started pulling himself together; he didn't want Pidge to be upset about this anymore. It wouldn't help, and she couldn't help. He wiped his face, careful of his bruise, and then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"That's all I need," he said, wishing it were true.

"I'll help you," Pidge offered. "With Keith, I mean. I know promises mean a lot to you. Just please," she hesitated. They were in such a fragile place here and she didn't want to ruin it.

"I'm not falling in love with him," Lance assured her, tried convincing himself.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Pidge kept hold of his arm as he stood from the stairs. She kept it all the way to the apartment, and just as he touched the doorknob, she gripped him extra tight, making him turn to look at her.

"You're not mad at me, right?" She asked.

"No," he replied, honestly. "We're ok, Pidge."

She seemed satisfied with his answer, though neither of them were happy at the situation. But Lance was a systems man, which meant that he was going to continue following protocol, his routine, something he could do without thinking too much, something he could perform without being emotionally invested. He felt his heart cool and close as he opened the apartment door, felt the skin of his face smooth into a calm mask for Hunk's sake. He hadn't meant to bring them into the nightmare that this was turning into. He'd had good intentions asking Pidge for Keith's address. He'd just been trying to help.

Hunk perked up when he heard them coming in the door, but his face fell immediately when he saw them.

"Uh, what happened?" He asked. Pidge and Lance exchanged quick, alarmed glances.

"We took a walk, Hunk," Pidge shrugged, recovering faster than Lance did.

"To where? You guys look exhausted. This feels like one of those time travel movies where you walked out the door, got sucked into some sort of spontaneous wormhole, spent like three months in medieval Europe fighting the crusades and teaching them how penicillin is made and then came back a half an hour after you left because Pidge did something astronomically clever. So is that it?" He stared hard at Pidge. "Did you invent time travel without me? Because we had an agreement."

Lance felt himself tearing up again listening to Hunk's innocent little story, loving how Hunk made it seem completely plausible. As crazy as it sounded, Lance really wished it had been what they'd done when they walked out the door. It kind of would have made more sense to him in a way. He would have much rather invented time travel with Pidge than find out that Keith was a murderer. He had no idea how long that was going to take to really sink in. Maybe never.

"We'd never fight the crusades without you, Hunk," Pidge assured him, so casual about it that Lance wondered how often they talked about this. "Everyone knows you're the best with a sword in Age of Kings." He loved them both so hard in this moment that it hurt.

"Lance?" Pidge called to him, waving a hand from across the room to focus his attention. He'd taken one step into the room and frozen. He hadn't even closed the door. "Aren't you coming?"

He nodded, pulling the door shut, joining them once again at the table.

"So can you," he paused to clear his throat and take a breath. "Can you tell me what this thing is for?" His voice almost abandoned him before he finished the question, and he kept his eyes fixed on the project on the table that had kept them both busy for the past couple weeks. He didn't want Hunk to see the tears still in his eyes, which was silly because he knew that Hunk would pick up on his tattered emotions almost instantly, probably without even having to look at him.

"Lance," Hunk said his name gently, and he knew what was coming. He was going to ask him what was wrong, which would make him fall apart, and he didn't know how he was going to rescue the situation after that.

"It's a radio," Pidge saved him. "Kind of based on the BaoFeng BF-F8HP dual band, but we amped it up, of course." Lance nodded like he understood every piece of what Pidge had just said.

"Um," Hunk cut in softly, but Pidge continued to talk right over him. She was probably staring at him too, letting him know that they were all going to completely ignore Lance's odd behavior. He'd been up all night; he was stressed out, and they were going to give him a pass.

"If it works like it's supposed to," Pidge went on. "We'll be able to talk to the space station, but we need to work on bouncing the signal off a repeater so we can broadcast far enough."

"No, we need to work on the dial mechanism so we can tune in to the right frequency," Hunk protested, and just like that, they went off again, ping-ponging ideas and suggestions off each other with Lance sitting silently in the middle. Before long, one of them made a heated comment that resonated somewhere in the brilliance of the other and suddenly they had a new strategy that was sure to work. Lance rested his head on his hand, calming himself watching them do their thing as the afternoon passed softly under the snowfall, doing his best to let his attention focus completely on what they were doing, deliberately ignoring his time with Pidge in the lounge. He didn't want to think about it. Wished he didn't know.

But his heart kept tugging him towards his room. He had to check on Keith, had to wake him up to drink something, maybe eat something too. He had to, but he was afraid. He didn't know how to act around Keith now, how to keep him from suspecting that Lance had invaded his past so completely. This was something he was going to have to learn, though. If he was going to be a doctor, he'd have to keep his own feelings out of it somehow. He had to be professional. Warm but emotionally distant. Damn it, Keith, why?

Hunk didn't look up when Lance stood to make his way to his room, but Pidge did. They had a moment of mutual understanding, of secret, and she gave him a small nod, acknowledging that even though she didn't agree, she wasn't going to stop him from doing this. The increasing dark as he walked away from the setting sun felt like he was stepping into quicksand instead of into shadow. Not even the soft music of the continued cascades album soothed him. What was he going to say? What was he going to do if Keith grabbed to his sleeve again?

He let himself in, feeling like a stranger in his own room, feeling uneasy and defeated. But then he saw Keith on his bed and all of that stripped away in an instant. He suddenly didn't care what Pidge had said or even what Keith had done. Lance felt that he'd been punished enough already. He'd suffered so much.

"Keith?" He called to him gently, kneeling at the side of the bed and reaching over to shake him awake. Keith was shivering under the quilt, still burning up, his face tight with pain. He was doing the held breath thing again, a disquieting length of time between shaky inhales. "Keith, wake up."

Keith's eyes opened, then almost immediately rolled back into his head for a moment before focusing with difficulty on Lance's face. Lance felt the muscles in his back tighten in preparation for an emergency. Keith winced, trying to sit up, gasping.

"Wait a minute," Lance soothed, not liking what he was seeing. "Just stay down."

"I can't breathe," Keith panted, scared and desperate, which spurred Lance into motion. He took hold of Keith's arm, helping to ease him upright, while he maneuvered himself behind him on the bed, leaning against the wall and pulling Keith down against his chest in a reclined position to open his chest cavity, noticing that Keith was breathing, just shallowly. Somewhere under normal but not quite as fast as hyperventilation.

"Lay your head back," he commanded. "But not too far, just enough to keep your airway straight. You can breathe; you're just doing it too fast. Slow it down. Deep breaths like we talked about before."

Keith struggled with his breathing, trying to do what Lance said. Lance reached around to test his pulse, which he couldn't really feel in his wrist so he switched to his neck. It was thrumming, speedy as a hummingbird. Was this because he'd woken him up? Lance had never seen anything like this before. . . . outside of a heart attack.

Just as Lance was opening his mouth to call for some help, he heard Keith take what sounded like a double inhale, as in he could actually hear a second pull that seemed to inflate Keith's lungs properly and completely. It made Keith give an involuntary exclamation of relief. His next breath seemed more normal. Lance felt Keith's heart rate begin to slow under his fingers. He rested his head against Keith's neck.

"What the hell was that?" Lance whispered.

"I was hoping," Keith panted, "that you could tell me." Lance unconsciously pulled Keith closer to him, hardly noticing when Keith reached a hand up to cling to Lance's wrist as he moved it from Keith's neck to his chest.

"That's the problem," Lance murmured. "I don't know." He hated admitting it, but it was true. They stayed still together for a while longer, both of them breathing hard in the aftermath. Lance's brain was sparking, flipping through pages, switching through lectures at the speed of light. He knew what he needed. He needed another oxygen reading, another blood pressure test. He needed to compare the numbers to what they'd been an hour ago. He needed Coran to call him with the test results. And he needed to listen to Pidge and take Keith in to the hospital. It no longer had anything to do with what Keith had done and everything to do with his condition. But first, Lance waited. Waited until Keith's breathing matched his own, waited until he could feel Keith's pulse in his wrist again. Waited until he was calm and relatively still under his hands.

"How are you feeling, Lobito?" He asked quietly, noticing a quick spike in heart rate when he spoke. Keith groaned.

"Like shit," he answered, the first time he'd ever not held back about it. Lance would have been proud of him if he hadn't been so worried.

"I'm sorry, Keith," Lance apologized. For failing him. For not being able to do what he said he would do. For everything that had happened to Keith before Lance met him and everything that could happen to him after he left this apartment. "Listen. . . I know it's not how you wanted it, but I think it's time we –"

He never got to finish. Hunk rushed into the room without knocking, surrounded by a sense of urgency. He didn't even pause to see Lance supporting Keith on the bed. It made Lance tense. What now?

"Lance?" Hunk called, as if he expected him not to be there. "You need to come. The Resident Dean is here looking for you."

The what? The Resident Dean? The guy whose e-signature came on every official notice for the building regarding rent rates and policy changes? Craig . . .something or other? Lance couldn't even remember if that was his first or his last name. What could he possibly want with Lance? They'd never met each other.

"Can he come back later?" Lance requested. "We need to get Keith –"

"Sorry, Lance," Hunk interrupted. "You really need to come. Like right now."

Keith fidgeted, trying to get off Lance so he could get up. Something that Lance absolutely did not want to do.

"Take it easy. You don't have to move," Lance told him. If the Dean wanted to talk to him, he could come in here. Lance was busy. This was important. Vital maybe. But it seemed he was the only one who thought that. Keith continued to shift away, and now Hunk was helping him.

"Go on, Lance," Hunk demanded. Something he rarely did. He was sitting on the bed, easing Keith into his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "There's a police officer with him."

Lance stood up, drenched in sudden apprehension. He locked eyes with Keith for a second, staring at him hard. Could this have anything to do with . .. no, how could it? Still. Keith shied into Hunk, terrified. This was too much. Everything was moving way too fast. Lance's talk with Pidge, Keith's scary breathing episode, the Dean. The police? When had this become his life? How was he going to sort it out?

"Keith, you ok?" Lance checked, unwilling to leave him for any reason.

"I've got him, Lance," Hunk assured, and while Lance didn't doubt his sincerity, he did doubt his ability. If Keith did that again, or something worse, Hunk would panic. He would have no idea what to do. Lance didn't even know if he knew what to do anymore.

"Go," Keith seemed to be begging him to see what was going on rather than giving him permission. "It's ok." But it really wasn't. None of this was ok.

"I'll be right back," Lance promised. "You keep calm. Keep breathing."

Keith nodded weakly as Hunk shielded him in his arms. Lance backed out of the room, keeping his eyes on Keith until he had no choice but to turn. He wiped his hands down his hips, as if he could brush off anxiety that way. He tried to breathe in some sort of calm. You're the Incident Commander in Charge, he reminded himself. Start acting like it! He straightened his spine, lengthened his stride, and marched purposefully to the door.

Author's Note: Everyone ok? I know – it's really not ok. I confess, I . . cried writing this chapter. And I'm a hardened, embittered old woman who hardly ever cries while reading. . . and certainly never while writing my own stuff. I blame Lance. (Because I cannot blame Keith, not for anything, the poor lamb . . er . . wolf.)

Let me know how you're doing, yeah?