Author's Note: Again my apologies for the delay. This chapter was delicate and a struggle. I like where it's going, but it wasn't in the original plan. I like it better than the original plan, however, so we'll move forward. I also took some time to start the audio version of this story. I've recorded through chapter eight so far. I'm not the best at it (I can't do accents), and my cat likes to chime in quite often, but it's So Much Fun. Unfortunately, I only have it accessible on my Google Drive, but let me know if you'd like for me to try and make it available or if you'd like the link.

Or maybe I should just shush and let you get to the newest chapter. Yes, good plan. Let's go.

Chapter Twelve: Aftershock

Lance felt tossed and battered, helpless in an emotional hurricane, his only safety the hand he kept gripped tight to the quilt covering Keith. That had been so close. Way too close. Lance knelt on the triage room floor, hand over his mouth, reliving in graphic detail how Keith had collapsed in his apartment and every hideous moment after that. He watched the scenarios play out, over and over, each one different, each a clear traumatizing version of all that could have gone wrong at every critical point. Lance tightened and chastised himself for all the poor decisions he'd made regarding Keith and his treatment, every risk he'd taken, every moment he could have done better. Then he mentally beat himself again for how he'd dealt with the police officer at the door, how he'd handled his conversation with Pidge upon learning about the murder trial, the clumsy phone call with Allura. How basically everything he'd done since he'd slammed his textbook next to Keith's head at the end of class yesterday morning had been a mistake.

And now he couldn't stop shaking in the aftermath, powerless and paralyzed by images of things that hadn't even happened. Oh, but they could have. The difference between the reality and the what if was as thin and fragile as a butterfly wing, the quickness of a single heartbeat, and the realization of that, knowing that it would have been his fault, made Lance tremble through all his limbs, robbed him of the strength or energy to stand up from the floor. He couldn't even lift his head. It went on and on, much longer than before. Lance was usually shaky for a while after certain emergency calls as his body managed the remnants of extra adrenaline, but not like this. Because damn it, Keith. Lance cared about him, despite everything, more than he should, and it was creating additional stress in an already stressful situation. It wasn't just the adrenaline making him shake this time – Lance had been terrified. He was still terrified even now. It might be the first time it had struck him so hard that he had literally held someone's life in his hands. And not just anyone's life. Keith's. The boy who through some miracle had started looking to Lance for reassurance, for answers, for help, even though that kept turning out to be a bad decision. Lance didn't hear the door to the triage room open over his own shuddering, horrified breathing.

"Lance? Fritz would like to. . .what happened?" Shiro's question startled him, crashed him back into reality, into the present. He cowered, embarrassed and frightened by the alarm in Shiro's tone, but Shiro kept talking, making Lance quickly realize that Shiro was misunderstanding why Lance was on the floor. "What's wrong? Keith!" Shiro's footsteps rushed to the bedside. Lance was too far down to see anything, but he could feel Shiro's shadow covering Keith, guessing from Lance's posture that Keith had relapsed somehow while he'd been out in the hallway talking to Officer Guist, that Lance was kneeling in grief.

Lance did his best to pull himself together. Understanding that his position was giving Shiro the wrong impression about Keith's condition, he forced his trembling body up, hunching over the bed, his head still hanging down to hide the tears on his face. He hadn't meant for anyone to find him on the floor.

"Quiet," Lance cautioned, more clearing his throat than requesting silence. He put his hand on Keith's chest. Shiro's sudden attention and raised tone was causing him to stir in his sleep. "It's all right," Lance assured all of them at once. Then he tried to make eye contact with Shiro, not quite managing it. "He's just sleeping," Lance explained, his tone pitched low, even his words trembling. "He's . . he's going to be fine." He spoke quietly, his voice ruined by crying, eyeing the patch on his quilt made from his mother's dress, knowing he should lift his gaze, knowing he should look at Shiro. Knowing that he was being ridiculous.

"Then what were. . . oh, I see," Shiro stood straight, realization and tender relief in his voice. Lance hunched lower, ashamed. He normally did this in private, hiding until his hands steadied, until he could wash his face and present himself to the world again as though nothing had phased him. He felt weak and exposed standing here with Shiro staring at him. Pathetic. He should have kept control of himself for just a little longer, shouldn't have held still so long that the memories and their fabricated echoes had overtaken him. It shouldn't affect him like this anyway. "I was wondering when it was going to catch up to you."

"What?" Lance asked, hating how his voice sounded like he was ten again, like he had never been capable. Like he had no idea what he was doing.

"You look like you're having a panic attack. Come on, come over here and sit down," Shiro spoke carefully, gently, walking around the bed surprisingly lightly for such a large man, placing a hand on Lance's shoulder to guide him to the chair near the door. His soft touch did not help – it almost buckled Lance's knees again. "It's all right," Shiro assured, but it just made Lance feel worse. They should be focused on Keith right now, not him. There was nothing wrong with him; he was just being dramatic and weird. This wasn't panic; it wasn't even close. Wasn't that bad.

"I'm fine," Lance protested, pressing his shaking hands tight under his arms. He clamped his teeth shut before he said anything else. Things like how this happened all the time or how he was so pathetic he shouldn't even try to be a doctor if something like this afternoon was going to bother him so much. How it was going to stop in just a minute. If only Shiro had waited one more minute to come in.

"You're not fine; you're amazing," Shiro said, emphatically. "But trauma needs to be processed at some point. Sit down now. Can I get you some water?"

Lance shook his head as Shiro physically turned him around and pressed him gently into the chair. He didn't want anything except for his body to obey him again. He scrubbed his sleeve across his face in an attempt to wipe it dry, aggravating his bruise, deliberately not looking at Shiro. When was this going to stop?

"Hey, Takashi," Guist's voice from the partially open doorway. Lance didn't look at him either. "Everything all right in here? I thought you were sending Lance out? I need to get going."

"A couple more minutes, Fritz," Shiro answered, standing directly in front of Lance, staring down at him. "He's –"

"No, it's ok," Lance said, jumping up, more than willing to focus on something, literally anything else. "Stay here with Keith. I'll go."

Before anyone could say anything to him, before any soft, kind word came from Shiro, or worse an explanation to Guist about what he thought Lance was experiencing, Lance ripped the door all the way open and slipped past the police officer, forcing him to back up awkwardly fast. Lance kept his arms crossed, hoping to hide the ridiculous shivering if he kept all his muscles clenched tight. Hopefully, this wouldn't take very long. He leaned against the door as he closed it, keeping his eyes very carefully on the tile, noticing how the overhead lights reflected off it, noticing each scuff from shoes and wheels. And he waited for Guist to yell at him. It couldn't be any worse than the stuff he was already telling himself.

"You all right, boy?" Guist asked him, and he nodded in painful exaggeration. Yes, now please just get on with it. Please don't look at me anymore. Guist sighed and Lance watched him shift his weight, staring at his boots.

"How much trouble am I in?" Lance blurted out, not able to wait any longer.

"Trouble?" Guist repeated, a little surprised but Lance didn't know if that was from what he'd said or how he'd said it. "Probably a lot, but nothing on my end."

"Huh?" Lance asked, the second time he'd been confused in less than five minutes.

"I understand why you did what you did," Guist said, words Lance never thought he'd ever hear from him. "You knew he was sick and wanted to protect him, but it would have been better to just say so when I asked you the first time. I'm not that much of a jerk. I would have listened to what you had to say, and we would have taken care of him."

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized quietly, sheepish. That seemed so obvious to him now. "What's going to happen to him?"

Guist sighed again. "That's up to the jury," he dismissed. "They may have to postpone for a while due to all this, but he will still have to appear in court for the verdict and possible sentencing."

"But –" Lance began, but Officer Guist held out a hand to stop him.

"Listen," Guist quipped. "You're an incredible young man. I've never seen anyone without a badge do what you just did. You're going somewhere. And that's why if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll go home now and let Takashi deal with this. Keith will have to answer for the crimes he's committed. That's nothing you can protect him from, and you'll only hurt yourself if you keep trying. Take my advice and stay away from him. He's trouble."

Lance leaned hard on the door, tired and weak, even his soul felt shaken. Pidge had said basically the same thing, and now he was hearing it again. And the words sounded true if he were looking at the case file. His growing loyalty to Keith made him do things like break medical protocol and lie to police officers. He might have already damaged his future career. But there was what looked right on paper and what felt right inside him. Abandoning Keith now, even leaving him with Shiro, was wrong, and he didn't think he could live with himself if he did that. No matter what it cost him.

He covered his mouth with his hand again, thinking about the consequences waiting for Keith. The hospital stay might delay his sentence, but it wasn't going to go away. Keith had still killed someone, beaten someone to death according to Pidge. Maybe it really would be better to go home. Maybe Lance wasn't thinking about this clearly. Maybe he'd confused his feelings. He couldn't love a murderer; that was just messed up. But how could Keith be a murderer? He just didn't seem . . . but then again, Lance didn't know him, did he? He had no idea what Keith was like when he was well and functioning. He could be every bit as dangerous as Pidge tried to tell him. No, he couldn't . . .. yet, the proof was undeniable. Lance had probably just saved Keith's life only for him to go to prison. For murder.

His chest hurt, filling with repressed anguish, and the shaking intensified again. Without meaning to, Lance sank down to the floor, overwhelmed and so tired. Trying not to cry was taking all his energy including the strength to stand up, though it made him feel so pitiful and weak. Why was this taking so much out of him? Just get up, Lance. Go home. Do the smart thing for once.

"Hey," Officer Guist exclaimed, surprised to watch Lance crumple in front of him. "What's the matter with you? It's not the end of the world. Stand up." He crouched in front of Lance, putting a hand on his back, putting pressure on the almost forgotten scrape from the coffee table. Lance cringed away from him, hearing himself make a wounded yelp of pain, wondering if this could possibly get any worse.

"Kid," Guist started, rather impatiently and Lance couldn't blame him, but then something changed in him very suddenly. Lance had his eyes closed but he felt him pause next to him, then felt him stand up. "I'm going to find that doctor," Guist offered, and Lance heard his boots marching away. It took several more seconds for his words to connect into meaning in Lance's head. He was bringing Angelique over here.

That actually would be worse.

Shaky, miserable, and weighted, Lance forced himself upright using the doorknob and the wall. No matter what, he could not let her find him out here in the hall on the floor. His hands were shaking so hard now; he could barely let himself in to Keith's room. Stop, he commanded them. Stop doing that; it's getting weird. But it was like Guist had touched every exposed nerve in his body and now they were all tingling and firing at once. Keith had almost died. Keith had killed someone. Dr. Delacroix was going to be here any second.

"Lance!" Shiro whisper-shouted to him as he staggered through the doorway and dropped onto the chair. He left the door open, letting his face fall into his hands, feeling them tremble all the way through to his elbows and knees. He couldn't look, but he knew Shiro was near him before he touched him or said anything. "Geeze, look at you. It's . . you're getting worse. What happened? Fritz promised he'd go easy on you."

"He . . I'm sorry," Lance managed. "I can't stop."

"Take your time," Shiro invited, but he didn't know that Lance really couldn't do that. He didn't want to. He wanted to stand up, go to Keith, wanted to ask him so many questions. "Is there anything I can do?" Shiro also put a hand on Lance's back, beginning to rub it in comfort. Except it hurt, so again Lance cringed away.

"Please don't," he begged, shuddering. Don't touch me. Don't look at me. I don't want to be here; I don't want to think.

"You and Keith," Shiro muttered, frustrated, but then he too paused. He shifted the hand from Lance's back to his shoulder, taking another step closer to him. What was he doing? Lance felt his shirt lift away from his back, felt it unstick in tiny painful tears from his skin in a couple places as Shiro plucked at it. He twitched in irritation under Shiro's hands. "Oh, that's right," Shiro continued talking to himself. "You crashed into that table, didn't you?" Since he didn't really seem to be talking to him, Lance felt it safe not to try and answer. He wished everyone would just leave him alone, yet his wish remained unfulfilled as more people starting coming in. First Angelique followed by Officer Guist. Perfect.

"Lance, what's going on?" Dr. Delacroix demanded, sounding put out that she'd been pulled away from whatever she'd been doing. Lance wanted to tell her that it wasn't his idea for her to come. That she didn't have to stay on his account. "Oh," he heard her exhale the word, hearing how she stopped short as soon as she saw him. Why did everyone keep saying that? Just go away.

"He hurt himself on a table corner," Shiro offered when Lance couldn't speak. "Looks pretty scraped up, but I'm not sure about the shaking. Panic attack, do you think?"

"No," Angelique said, a sting of disappointment in her tone. "No, that's not what this is." She sounded disgusted, and Lance knew exactly why. He was disgusted with himself too. "Lance, get up. Come with me."

The firm command soothed Lance slightly. At least someone was in control here, someone was solid on what should be done. It didn't have to be him anymore. She also sounded like she knew what was happening to Lance, which meant that she had probably seen it before. She sounded like it could be something that might even have a name, possibly a treatment. She might know how he could make it stop. He obediently got to his feet, ready to follow her without question.

"Where are you taking him?" Shiro asked, sounding unsure as to what his role should be regarding Lance.

"My office," Angelique quipped, her strong fingers circling around Lance's arm to direct him in front of her, stilling Lance's spirit despite her ferocity. "We have a lot to talk about." Oh, they were going to do that right now. Lance had no idea why, but he was secretly relieved. She was taking him to her office where she would sit him down and hopefully rip him to pieces. He knew he deserved it, knew it was coming. Having it over and done with would be such a release. When she started walking, he docilely allowed her to lead him.

"Now wait a minute," Officer Guist blocked the doorway, starting a power struggle. Lance admired his courage, but his bets were on Angelique. "Son, you want me to go with you?" Angelique arched an eyebrow, somehow making such a tiny gesture the elegant equivalent of spitting in his face. Her fingers dug deeper into Lance's arm. Lance didn't dare say a word.

"I don't think a police escort will be necessary, Officer," she told him impatiently.

"I disagree. You've been nothing but vicious to him since he got here," Guist challenged, and Lance suddenly took back most of what he'd thought about him. "If I were in his place, I wouldn't go anywhere with you without an escort and a witness. Why can't you take a look at him right here?"

"Lance, you want all these people staring at you with your shirt off or do you want to come with me?" Angelique smoothly asked, never taking her eyes away from Guist in the most extreme alpha contest Lance had ever seen. Lance didn't really want either option. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay near Keith, but she was right about how he also didn't want anyone to look at him anymore. Except that included her.

"You," he almost whispered to the floor, deciding to just get it over with. He couldn't handle the waiting anymore – waiting to see when Keith would recover, what his sentence would be, what Angelique was going to do about Lance acting outside of his scope of practice this afternoon. Might as well cross something off this terrible list since there was no escaping any of it.

"Excuse us," Angelique followed, triumphant, and Guist reluctantly stepped aside to let them pass. Lance lifted his eyes only enough to keep a final image of the room in his mind. Guist and Shiro, both standing near the door, both looking awkward and out of place. Shiro especially looked torn between guarding Keith and Lance, and Lance felt grateful knowing that Shiro had decided, consciously or not, to include Lance as someone who he would be willing to guard. Meanwhile, Officer Guist was glaring at Angelique, his expression shifting subtly between admiration and anger. Lance felt oddly grateful to him too. Their afternoon had certainly deterred remarkably far from their intentions. Lance could commiserate with that one hundred percent.

Lance then looked beyond them, to where Keith slept on, unaware. Lance found that moderately satisfying. If something happened in the next few minutes that shut him outside the hospital, never welcome to return, he thought he could accept that he'd done all he could. Shiro was there now. Keith wouldn't need him anymore. Guist and Pidge had both made compelling points for this to be the time to leave Keith. Lance just . . . The door closed behind them.

Angelique kept her hand on his arm, pushing or pulling him appropriately as she guided him through the emergency room corridors and then onward to her own office. Her fingers lightened in pressure as they went, and by the time they reached her door, she was hardly touching him at all.

"Sit down," she ordered after she'd swiped her key card through the lock, allowing them to enter. "Let me see your hands." She kept an efficient clip in her voice, not exactly sharp, but definitely not tender. Lance was sort of glad about that. If she'd been too nice to him, if she called him any of the pet names she'd used with Keith, he'd probably lose the tenuous control he was currently clinging to. It was easier to just do what she said, not think too hard or too long on any one thing. He sat in the very same place he had when he'd visited her four months ago, holding his trembling hands out for her inspection as he looked around her office. It hadn't changed.

There were several cardboard boxes stacked randomly about the space, haphazardly full of manila files. She had pictures on her desk of her family, her doctorate degree hanging as expected behind her chair. It looked comfortingly like almost every doctor's office Lance had ever been in. Piles of organized random that emphasized clearly that her priority was in her patients and not in her paperwork. He was a little surprised to see the coffee cup he'd brought her still on the desk, though, his own name written on the side of it bearing testament that it was indeed the same one. Why was she keeping that?

She focused his attention by taking hold of his outstretched hands, squeezing them in her own as if trying to still them. She'd removed her mask and gloves while he'd been staring around him and now stood in front of him, the definition of authority and powerful grace. Lance didn't know how it was possible to be so full of fear and reverence, but that's exactly what he felt.

"How often does this happen?" She asked him, jerking her chin toward their hands. He wasn't sure how to answer her. There wasn't an exact system to it. He hadn't taken notes on himself, and he couldn't always predict when it would strike. "Is it every time?"

"Every time what?" He asked, unclear what she wanted. Every time he set an IV? No, he did that fifty times a shift at the donation center, to the point where sometimes he caught himself not paying as much attention as he should. After every ambulance run? Again no. There just wasn't a clear pattern and he didn't know what she was referring to. She rolled her eyes to her ceiling, dropping his hands.

"What do you think?" She snapped, and he flinched. She tilted her head at his reaction, backing off and visibly gentling herself before going on, her patience spread thin in her voice. "But it's happened before?" He nodded. "A lot?" That made him shrug. He didn't know what either of them considered a lot, and he was growing afraid of giving any answer as her frustration with him became more and more apparent.

"Ugh, you're such a mess, Lance, honestly. Here, make yourself useful." She unceremoniously picked up a coffee mug full of pencils and thumped it on the desk in front of him. He almost asked her what he was supposed to do with it when he spotted the electronic sharpener near his elbow. She wanted him to sharpen pencils? Ok. Whatever. He selected a plain yellow one first, struggling a little with the trembling in order to connect the tip with the tiny hole in the sharpener, leaving gray smudges around the edge.

"Does it always last this long?" Angelique tried a different question, thankfully one he did know the answer to.

"No," he replied, listening to her carefully over the grinding of the sharpener but keeping his gaze fixed on the pencils, weary through to his soul. "It's never gone on this long."

"And what do you normally do to handle it? Does Dr. Coran know?"

"I don't . . ," Lance stammered, never believing he'd ever have to talk about this and not sure how to start now. "No, he doesn't. I don't usually let anyone . . . Dr. Delacroix, do you know why I'm like this? What's wrong with me?"

"Who said that? What makes you think there's something wrong with you?" Angelique's questions came out of her so quickly, like gunfire, sharp and hard. Lance felt tears sting his eyes again. There had to be something wrong with him. Some weakness or fault in his system that rendered him helpless after certain emergencies. He couldn't imagine it happening to other doctors – not to Coran, never to Angelique.

Dr. Delacroix sighed, rather dramatically, snatching a box of tissues from under what looked like an oatmeal-colored cardigan and handing them over to Lance. "Here," she said, as close to gentle as Lance had ever heard her talk to him, though it was still a far cry from being actually gentle. "Lance, you're going to have to figure this out."

He nodded. He knew that. He'd been trying. Nothing he did seemed to make any difference. He'd sort of accepted that it was just how he was and he should get used to it. Plus this whole thing with Keith was way out of his league.

"It'll be a goddamn shame to lose you," she finished, almost too quiet for him to hear, making him pause.

"What?" He checked. Lose him how? In what context? From the med program? Was she going to kick him out?

"Keep working," she changed direction again. "You think those pencils are going to sharpen themselves?" Lance jerked at the abrupt switch in her tone and topic, taking another from the cup, unbalanced again just like before. He did not know how to have a functional conversation with this woman.

"It's not common," Angelique continued to talk, though they weren't looking at each other. She was leaning against her filing cabinet, arms crossed, mask dangling at her throat. "People like you." Like him? There were other people who went through this? Doctors? How did they control it? "Give me one of those tissues. Have you gone over the three methods of processing mental trauma in your classes yet?"

"No," he told her, standing immediately to comply, watching her intently now, as if she held the key to his future. She pointed to the pencil mug again, reminding him that he hadn't finished that assignment yet. He absently picked another from the group, hardly looking at the sharpener anymore.

"Let's say this tissue is an experience," she began once he'd started working again. "Something that requires you to think on your feet, have intense physical and mental focus. Most people's minds force them to process everything at once, in the moment, which overwhelms them to the point where they mess up, slow down, or become incapacitated. In some ways, that's protective, and it's healthiest as you can deal with each situation as a whole, a unit, though it can be limiting to someone with your career goals – someone who needs to make rapid, sure decisions and then act on them. I admit, I thought you were like this when I had you in here before; I mean, you were so nervous you couldn't keep your hands still enough to hold a cup of coffee." She paused, pulling the tissue into its two separate layers, leaving them connected at only one corner.

"Seems I was wrong," she admitted. "There's no way a person with that processing style could have threaded that IV like you did. Even I couldn't have done it in the back of an ambulance. But the extreme reaction you're having to that is what puts you in the second group. You can separate experiences as they come at you, dealing with them compartmentally and at different times. But they are still connected for you, and you have no choice but to deal with them all at some point. It lets you perform astonishingly well in the moment, but then afterward you have to handle the stress repercussions. This might be the hardest group to fall in – it's a bit like having dissociative identity disorder."

Lance jerked his head up from the pencil he'd just replaced into the mug. Yes, that was it! That was exactly it. One part of him performed the actions while a different part felt the stress of them.

"You know what this type of processing is good for?" Angelique asked, the separated tissue still in her hands. Lance didn't even try to come up with an answer. He chose another pencil.

"People who process this way make excellent surgeons," she continued. "Also they do well in the chaos of emergency rooms. You'll see a lot of them in the military because they work so well under incredible pressure, but Lance, listen carefully now. It's important. You have to come up with some method of handling the aftershock. Since you're processing it outside of the experience, your mind can't figure out a clear stopping point. It doesn't have an ending. Without one, you'll keep going over it in your head, your system will continue producing cortisol and adrenaline in excess – that's what makes you so shaky, but it does other damage over prolonged periods. Your memory will even start to show you all the ways something could have gone horribly wrong in an infinite loop, and you'll start second guessing yourself and your decisions. This is a cycle that will start building one experience over the other until it crushes you."

"Like burnout?" Lance asked innocently, tuned in to every word Dr. Delacroix was saying. He'd never before heard his own feelings explained to him so clearly before. Never knew anyone else could even understand it enough to have a clear explanation. Never had it make so much sense.

"Like suicide," she corrected, her voice cold. This was the first time since she'd started talking that he recoiled from her. She'd had it correct right up until this point. That was so far from his mind; that was something he was certain he'd never do.

"Well," Lance stuttered. "That's not. . .I'm not going to . . I would never. . ." She pushed away from the cabinet, disturbingly quickly, suddenly inches away from him, slamming her hands on her desk, leaning down to stare fiercely into his face.

"Shut your mouth. That's the easiest thing to say right now; you're just starting out. I'm not talking about a gun in your mouth kind of suicide. I'm talking about drinking too much after work, taking prescribed medications for too long without cause. The slowest most painful kind. You'll be able to do it for years because when you're in the moment no one will even be able to tell. You'll destroy yourself in private. You can't sit there and tell me that you know it won't happen to you. Not a single person who has done it, or come close to it, thinks that's how it will go for them. But it is a pattern, and you are falling right into it. Coran isn't doing you any favors either, pushing you faster than your classes can keep up, trying to get you cleared for life flight service. It's nonsense. What are you? Second year of pre-med?"

"Y. . yes," Lance replied, completely rattled, surprised she even knew that, shocked that she seemed to know so much about him at all. Frightened by what she'd just said.

"You shouldn't be doing what you're doing. You shouldn't even know how. I don't care how good you are at it; you're going too fast and too far without building the proper coping mechanisms for dealing with it and it's going to break you."

Lance swallowed hard, intimidated by how passionate she had become over his training, how forcefully she was trying to make him understand. Why did she care so much? But even if she were right, about some of it, definitely not all of it, how could he stop now? The people he'd helped. What would they have done if he hadn't rushed his learning? He wasn't going to kill himself; she was overreacting. He knew better than that. So he shook a little sometimes after doing hard things. It usually resolved quickly and more often than not, it seemed worth it. He'd never thought about doing any of the things she'd just said.

"But what about Keith," he protested, not knowing how he found the strength to contradict her except that he felt he had to make this one point for himself. "He could have died if I hadn't gone ahead in my training. If I didn't know what to do for him."

"No, you would have brought him to the hospital sooner like a sensible pre-med student, and he could have received treatment before he got critical. I'm disappointed in Coran; if he examined him this morning, he should have known to bring him in. The responsibility for that should have never been yours."

Lance curled up a little at her words, how she'd so quickly and firmly put him in his place. How she was so right, and he'd even known that before she'd told him. He'd had red flags about it almost from the very start. He shouldn't have kept Keith at the apartment. He had thought it was up to him, stubbornly, even after so many others had told him that Keith wasn't his sole responsibility. Pidge had tried to tell him. What had he been thinking?

"So what do I do?" He asked, hoping she wouldn't say something like 'quit medicine' or anything like that.

"How are those pencils coming?" She returned, frustrating and confusing him simultaneously. What the hell was with the pencils? He needed some guidance here. He picked up the mug, tilting it toward her so she could see that every single one now had a sharp point – unlike her lecture. "And your hands?" Again, he humored her, hoping that if he did they could get back to actually answering his question. If it was as serious as she seemed to think it was, then he could really use some input on how to prevent his own destruction – or prevent him from screwing up another patient.

Setting the mug carefully on top of a pile of notes, he spread his hands out so she could see them, though he ended up studying them more than she did, amazed at the change. She smiled in self-satisfaction, standing straight again, watching him as he turned them over incredulously. The tremor had stopped. He was back to normal – at least where the steadiness of his hands was concerned.

"I suggest you learn to knit," she told him. He shifted his gaze from his hands back to her face. Learn to what? "Or some other small, repetitive, portable task. I like knitting since it produces theta brainwaves, has distinct start and stop points to anchor your mind to, and if you get good at it, you'll have a coping mechanism and socks all in one." Lance let out a breath, feeling as though he'd just staggered off a wildly spinning carnival ride. Knitting? Really? Though. . .she seemed to be correct about that too. Sharpening pencils was also a mindless, repetitive task, and that had obviously worked.

"I also strongly suggest you slow down," she went on, taking his hands in hers like before to return his attention to what she was saying. "You're so young. You have a very promising career ahead of you. There's no need to rush it. There's also no need to ruin it," her voice gained volume and speed, shifting topics again before he'd had a chance to wrap his mind around the last one, before he'd finished being astonished at how she'd worked such an effortless miracle with his hands. Something he'd been struggling with for years.

"Obviously, you can't unlearn what you already know," she told him, releasing him again. "But I am going to insist that you stick only to procedures that you are cleared for. You're only allowed to cannulate donors at the plasma center during your regular shifts and nowhere else."

"So . . . you're not going to revoke my EMT credentials?" Lance hesitated to ask, but he wanted to be clear about it.

"I should, but no, I'm not," she replied, reluctantly. "You should be focusing solely on your classes right now, but then again, you are very talented, Lance, and the program is better because you're in it. Your skills have been crucial in saving lives, including your friend's today, but unless you get yourself balanced, you won't be an asset to anyone for every long. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Lance agreed, though he was internally resisting it. Despite her heavy warning, he was still certain he'd never take anything that far.

"All right, now let's take a look at your back."

"It's superficial," Lance dismissed, feeling lighter after their strange, scary, and yet somehow productive conversation. He wasn't being kicked out. Dr. Delacroix had spun him around mercilessly, but it seemed that it had been to centrifuge some emotional weight from him. Despite the confusion, he felt a little better. More resolved and focused. "I'm fine now. We can go back to the emergency room so you can do your real job."

"My shift ended half an hour ago," Angelique informed him, surprising him yet again. She'd been talking here in her office with him on her own time. Lance felt humbled; he hadn't known that she'd thought him worth so much effort. "Now take off your shirt, please."

Lance didn't really want to; he'd already taken enough of her time, but there was never a point in trying to do anything but what Dr. Delacroix told him to, so for the second time that day, he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his damaged back.

"Oh, honey," Angelique breathed at once, and Lance realized that he was now, without a doubt, no longer a student to her. He'd become in that one instant a patient. . . .and he thought he was okay with it now. He didn't think it would cause him to crumble for her to be caring towards him anymore. "That's a little bit more than superficial. Still, not too bad. Let me get it cleaned up for you. How did it happen? Something about a table?"

While Angelique gathered some first aid supplies from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, Lance started talking. He told her about taking care of Keith and how he'd collapsed in the living room. How Lance had tried to catch him but ended up falling over onto the coffee table. He winced as she started cleaning it, blinking curiously at the small pile of antiseptic wipes she dropped into the waste basket at the side of her desk. They were bloody. Which would explain why his shirt had been sticking to him.

"There's some deep bruising here," Dr. Delacroix told him as she worked. "It's going to be tender for a few days, but the bleeding's all done if you're careful. There's just the one scrape, almost the entire length of your back. Have someone help you put antibiotic ointment on it twice a day to keep it from getting infected. What about this one? What'd you do here?" Angelique sat him up straight with pressure on his shoulders and lightly touched a spot on his chest – the place where Keith had flung his textbook at him. There was a bruise there that he hadn't noticed yet. "And here?" She brushed the back of her hand, gloved again, against his cheek. Lance looked down at the desk and the pencil mug, replacing his shirt, wishing he could hide all his wounds inside the fabric. He already knew how those injuries would be taken out of context, and he wasn't sure how to explain them. Unfortunately, Angelique had the same training he did and picked up on his hesitation to answer immediately.

"Who has been hitting you, Lance?" She demanded. "How often does it happen?"

"It was Keith," Lance heard himself confess. Somehow, this tiger of a woman was drawing the truth out of him. Somehow, she was going to demand all of his secrets before letting him go. And somehow, he was ok with that. "Only the one time. And I know what it looks like, but it really was my fault."

He watched her struggle to keep her face neutral, not believing him, but trying not to judge without his explanation. "I'm listening."

She meant it, and because she was so still, focused on his every word, he found himself telling her way more than he'd intended. He spoke of the English assignment, the textbook, the punch to his face and then following Keith home to his apartment. He told her how empty it was, how broken Keith was, went into perhaps too much detail about how hard Keith could stare at a mug of soup. His desire to help Keith poured out of him, rushing and raw, ending with the consuming helplessness he felt about what would happen to Keith now, the outcome of the trial. How Lance felt that somehow even that had been taken out of context like the bruise on his face, but he didn't know how to get anyone to see it that way, didn't know how to save Keith from the system that had ruined and abandoned him. He didn't even know what he should do now. It seemed so obvious he should go home. It seemed so obvious that he shouldn't.

He hadn't noticed he was crying again until he felt Angelique dab at his face with a tissue. He hadn't noticed that she was holding his hand again. He hadn't known that his emotions were so twisted up around Keith, this boy he had only just met, until he began verbally untwisting them out loud . . . to Dr. Delacroix of all people.

"I should go home, shouldn't I?" Lance sniffled as he finished, hoping that she also had a clear answer for this problem the way she had for everything else so far this afternoon. She smiled, shaking her head.

"Now what's the point of asking me a question like that when you've already made a decision? You don't want me to tell you what you should do. You want me to confirm that the choice you want to make is the right one."

Lance tilted his head toward her curiously, feeling a little guilty. She was right . . . again. But so what? What would be so hard about doing that?

"But I can't do that; I don't know what the right choice is," Angelique confessed, though by this point Lance expected no less. It hadn't even been fair to ask her. This was still his problem. "But I know what you're doing to do, and I know what I saw."

Lance didn't know what to make of that. He'd been continuously surprised since he'd come into her office by all the things she knew about him. Some he'd told her himself the last time she'd interrogated him here, but there were other things he hadn't said. There was the coffee cup still on the desk. He wondered if she'd been watching him. But for what? He waited to see if she'd explain what she meant. What did she see?

"I need to head home," Angelique said, rather abruptly, standing and gathering her coat from the back of her desk chair. Wait, Lance wanted to say. You can't leave yet. I still don't know what to do. "My next shift starts tomorrow morning at eight, but Keith will still be here then."

"You're admitting him?" Lance asked.

"Not yet. I need to see the data from the EKG before deciding how long he needs to stay."

"So he's going to be stuck in triage all night?" Lance checked. The emergency room turned into a surreal sort of place after nightfall. It was never perfectly quiet, but the stillness it did have possessed a physical weight. Lights were turned down until everything glowed a sickly sort of yellow. Haunted and strange. Lance didn't like the idea of Keith staying here without him. Not in triage. Not in the negative pressure room they had stashed him in due to his potential communicable disease. Not connected to an EKG machine. It was creepy.

"I don't have much choice. It's hospital policy, but I think it'd be good to have a friend stay with him," Angelique gently suggested, pulling a faux suede purse from her desk drawer, fishing in it for keys. "At least until I come in tomorrow."

"Right," Lance acknowledged what she'd indirectly said. "Um, Dr. Delacroix? What did you mean . . . what you saw?" Angelique raised an arm, indicating he should head out toward the hallway.

"Well, I didn't see two strangers who just met yesterday," she told him as they walked slowly side by side, the office closed and dark behind them. "I actually thought he was your boyfriend."

Lance abruptly stopped walking, felt heat rise in his face. That had been something else Pidge had brought up that wasn't true, but now that the idea had been introduced, it didn't seem possible for it to disappear again.

"Forgive me," Angelique apologized, a few steps ahead and noticing the effect her words had on Lance. "Don't forget I apparently specialize in making incorrect assumptions about you."

"No, I . . . " Lance trailed off, feeling more awkward in this moment than he had with his shirt off. She'd thought they were together. Why? "I'm just trying to help him get better."

"Well," Angelique said, moving on. "Bringing him in was a good start, and now you have some time. Maybe you two can talk tonight. I think maybe there are some answers you're looking for that only he could give you. Maybe you should think about asking him instead of asking me."

"Dr. Delacroix?"

"Take care of yourself, Lance," she said, shifting into the hallway that would take her to the staff parking structure. He would go the opposite direction, back to the emergency room. She was gone before he could thank her.

Lance didn't see many people on his way back to Keith's room. There was Reggie, the security guard at the door, who knew Lance and had seen him leave earlier with Angelique. He made Lance pause long enough to get a proper nametag sticker before he let him back in anyway, as was required by all visitors entering the secured area. Lance tried to think of something teasing to say about it, but found he didn't have the energy.

The emergency room was curved like a horseshoe that had been pulled apart at the edges – the entrance for the ambulances on one end and the entrance for civilians on the other. The center of the U housed cabinets and the nurses' station. Along the other rounded wall were curtained doorways leading to small treatment rooms, carts and machines parked between them, seemingly at random. Down near the ambulance side were the three negative pressure rooms, different in that they had their own air supply and firmly fitted doors. They were larger than the others to accommodate more equipment inside. Beside the clipboard rack near each of those doors was a hand sanitizer station and two boxes secured to the wall. One for gloves and the other for masks. Whoever entered one of these rooms was usually required to wear both to prevent disease transfer and there was a sign posted indicating that. But since Lance was only here for Keith tonight and he'd already been more than exposed, he didn't feel the need to put on any protective gear. He paused before going in, peering inside the window.

He didn't have a good grasp on how long he'd been gone; it felt like a very long time, but the only thing that had really changed in the room since he'd left it was that Officer Guist was nowhere to be seen. He'd said he needed to leave before talking with Lance, so that wasn't so surprising. Shiro had remained. He stood guard over Keith's bed, his back perfectly straight, head reverently lowered, eyes fixed on Keith's sleeping face. His remaining hand held tight to Keith's, his fingers closed over his as if he were afraid that Keith could disappear at any moment. He looked as though he could maintain that position, never moving, never shifting, for all of eternity, his face a mask of duty and devotion.

The scene felt so special and closed that Lance hesitated at the door. They were finally together; he shouldn't intrude. Angelique had said Keith should have a friend with him, but Lance didn't think it mattered too much which one. In fact, Keith would probably prefer Shiro. They had a longer history and probably had more to discuss. They probably wouldn't want Lance listening in on their private conversations tonight. If his backpack and coat weren't inside the room on the floor, he would have left them without their ever knowing he'd been there. Actually, maybe he'd just come back later and get his stuff. Yeah, that'd be fine. He turned to go, but his movement across the glass windows of the room must have caught Shiro's attention because he hadn't made it very far before he heard his name called behind him.

"Lance, there you are."

Lance paused, turning awkwardly to see Shiro beckoning him from the doorway. He hadn't meant for that to happen, but at least this way he could have his coat before going outside. With his hands in his pockets, he slowly obeyed Shiro's summons.

"I was getting worried," Shiro told him, opening the door wider to let him in. Lance paused. Why would Shiro be worried about him? "Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine," Lance murmured dismissively. "How's Keith?"

"I think you'd know better than I would. He hasn't woken up since you left, but he's been talking in his sleep. He's asked for you a few times."

"He did?" Lance couldn't believe it. "That's strange."

"Oh, he's always been like that. Ever since I've known him," Shiro responded, misunderstanding what Lance meant.

"No, I know," Lance clarified. "It's just . . last night he was asking for you."

Shiro stared at him, as if his mind were short circuited by the information Lance had just shared. He looked touched, remorseful, hurt. Lance wondered if telling him had been a good idea. They stood looking at each other, Shiro just inside the room and Lance just outside of it, held together by Keith.

"Did you need to leave?" Shiro asked, noticing how Lance wasn't coming inside. Yes, Lance thought. While I still can. Except he already knew he couldn't. "Can you stay for a while?"

"Sure," Lance heard himself agree, no longer able to fight the invitation, the insistent pull he felt coming from where Keith was sleeping. It may be another poor decision, but what was one more added to his already impressive list? Keith had asked for him.

"Where's the doctor?" Shiro kept on with the questions as Lance woodenly submitted to a long night in triage.

"She went home; her shift's over," Lance answered, glad these were still easy questions. He couldn't imagine what else Shiro might want to know. The things Lance wanted to ask himself. "She'll be back tomorrow at eight to read Keith's data and see what to do." As he spoke, he noticed the bulk of the EKG machine resting on a cart pushed close to Keith. Saw the twelve lines connected to the electrodes and the growing printout of lines, all detailing how effective Keith's heart was being at delivering oxygen-rich blood to his body. Lance had no idea how to read it.

"Keith has to stay here until then?" Shiro asked, surprised. Lance doubted he'd ever hung out in triage like this before if that shocked him. Once a patient was stable, it could often take hours and hours to decide what to do with them. Sometimes, especially for someone who probably hadn't needed to come to the emergency room in the first place, they could almost be forgotten in the wake of incoming emergencies.

"That's what Dr. Delacroix said," he replied, shrugging. "He'll probably need to stay even longer depending on his condition." Most patients who had heart episodes like Keith's were kept for at least three days, with regular doses of medication to keep their hearts beating regularly and a steady monitoring of how it was performing. Lance was more surprised that Keith hadn't been admitted already than that he would be staying at all.

"Lance?" Keith twisted on the bed, as if trying to turn toward the sound of his voice. His hand lifted weakly, as if searching for him, and Lance was powerless not to go to him. When he got close he saw that he wasn't awake. He'd been talking in his sleep just as Shiro said. Lance took his hand anyway, watching as Shiro returned to his position on Keith's other side.

"I'm right here," Lance assured in a voice little more than a whisper. "Duerma."

He felt Shiro studying him curiously, felt the pressure of question as heavy as the snow-laden clouds outside. With Keith between them, Lance raised his eyes to meet Shiro's.

"Can I ask you something?" Shiro began at the same time Lance said, "I have so many questions."

Author's Note: Hi again – did you like it? Not a whole lot of Keith and Lance time in this chapter, but I think everyone could use the break. Angelique remains a pillar of strength and wonder to me (I love her so much) and I'm looking forward to the fight she's going to have with Coran later about wrecking Lance. (ooh, sorry Coran) Though, Lance has every tendency to wreck himself if he thinks someone needs him. But before we go into that – there's a long night ahead. Lots of things to figure out in a quiet, lonely triage room.