Author's Note: Nothing but gratitude from me guys. Thanks for reading and writing to me. Thanks for staying with me as we slog slowly and slowly towards the hearing and the verdict. And all that will come afterward. I love writing this story, and I love hearing from all of you. Let's go.

Chapter Twenty-One: Neuroscience

Lance found himself admiring Hunk more and more as he sat pinned to the corner by Keith. Once situated in Lance's arms, it had taken Keith less than five minutes to fall asleep, all his weight leaning into Lance, who tried to match Keith's slowed breathing, tried not to fidget underneath him. Hunk had been able to sit completely motionless with Pidge for hours, all his muscles trained on the effort to make her as comfortable as possible. Lance felt disappointed in himself that this was so difficult for him to do. His back hurt, a deep ache from the position and the weight and the aggravation of the wound from the coffee table; it kept him anything but motionless. Keith was unbearably hot under the quilt, stifling Lance, dragging the minutes ever longer as Lance desperately tried to find something to focus on. He looked around his bedroom, the med bag on the floor, the screensaver on his computer, the dresser, the tiny bookcase. The beach photos and postcards that he'd collected over the months and plastered all over his walls. The piano music he'd selected to be soothing did nothing to distract him, though intimately studying Keith as he slept seemed to do the trick – at least for a while.

Lance looked carefully down at Keith's hands, curled gently on his chest, noticing each tiny scar, the length of the fingers, the minute bruise at the wrist from the IV. He watched what the dim light did to Keith's hair as he stroked it, curling his fingers through and around the strands in a method that he would have never tried if Keith had been awake. He pulled everything off the back of Keith's neck so he could look at the burn scars, wondering if they were the reason Keith kept his hair the length it was. He rubbed Keith's back, whispering to him in Spanish, reassurances, favorite nursery rhymes of his youth, things he'd like to show Keith after this was all over. If Keith didn't disappear.

Through it all, Keith rested still and silent, reminding Lance that there was a purpose to the discomfort of the position. It was helping Keith be calm; it was keeping at bay the dark dreams and traumas that haunted him in his sleep. Despite knowing this, Lance wished he could move. A guilty, almost constant thought that made him cling to Keith every few moments as he remembered, again, that this may be the last night Keith would be with him. He should enjoy this while it lasted because everything could change tomorrow. Keith could be gone.

Lance didn't know why that hurt him so much. The few days of his life where Keith had been present had been so tumultuous that he was actually surprised how he didn't want them to end. He tried to tell himself that it was only because Keith needed him, more than any of Lance's other patients. Once that aspect of their relationship was removed, Lance hoped that it wouldn't be quite so hard to think of Keith being somewhere else. Provided that somewhere else wasn't prison. But even thinking of Keith being completely happy in his new life with Shiro didn't sit well with Lance either. He couldn't really be jealous of Shiro? That would just be wrong. But then again, so was the reason that Lance didn't want Keith to leave.

He didn't want to admit to himself that Pidge might have been right, though she was so often right, and he sort of hated that she had put the thought into his head. Or that she'd brought it more to his attention; he was no longer sure what had come first, the emotion or the suggestion that it was present. How it had started wasn't as important as how much he couldn't keep it out of his mind right now. That he might be falling in love with Keith. He didn't want to think about it, but Lance indulgently pressed a small kiss on one of the burn scars, forced himself to be still a few more agonizing minutes, and couldn't help but think about it. He shouldn't do things like that, though. Even though he no longer had to worry about starting a relationship with a murderer; there were several other huge and heavy obstacles to this. There was no happy future here. He couldn't do that to his mother, for one thing. His sweet, sacrificing, devoutly Catholic, widowed mother who expected him to find an equally sweet, devoutly Catholic girl to marry and give her those ten grandchildren he'd been promising her his entire life. What would that do to her if he told her that he was . . . Lance was fortunate enough that he didn't have to pretend to be attracted to girls for his mother's sake. . . but he'd known for a long time now that he was just as attracted to . . .

But even if he were attracted to Keith, like actually attracted to him and this wasn't some weird symptom of Keith's illness all on its own, and even if his family would be perfectly all right with it - how likely was it that Keith could even return his feelings? It was a bad idea, such a self-destructive bad idea; he should try and talk himself out of it – what would be the point of falling in love with someone who probably couldn't love him back like that? A relationship he couldn't even imagine how he'd tell his family about. A relationship with someone who was just barely figuring out how to be proper friends, who could barely muster the trust for a basic, unromantic friendship. Who would probably disappear in the morning, leaving Lance's life as unexpectedly as he'd entered it. It was a huge disaster in the making. Lance was just asking to be emotionally shattered if he dropped his guard too much, allowed himself to consider the possibility. And yet . . he held Keith closer. He smelled like Lance's soap, and heat, and misery.

Lance sat there conflicted in the lamplight of his room, worried about the morning, listening to the wind blowing outside, listening to the piano and the artificial rain, listening to Pidge in his mind as she teased and chastised him about Keith then screamed and pleaded with him about Keith. He held Keith tight in his arms, nuzzling his chin over the nape of his neck, rubbing his back and pretending that it had everything to do with keeping Keith comfortable and nothing to do with how much Lance wanted to stay near him, to touch him. . . . even at the same time it tormented him on a variety of levels, physical and otherwise.

"Mi vida era tan fácil antes de que vinieras," Lance whisper / sighed at Keith. Well, maybe that wasn't quite fair. His life wasn't easy, but it had made more sense before Keith. He'd been accustomed to its challenges and moved easily within them. "Pero no quiero que me dejes."

Through it all, the back and forth frenzy of Lance's thoughts, the uncomfortable twitching and shifting underneath him, Keith remained peacefully unaware. Lance figured he should be grateful that at least one of them could rest, but he was even more grateful when his phone rang, giving him the excuse of finally disengaging from Keith and the bed to answer it. Keith groaned a little as Lance carefully settled him on the pillow, but he surprisingly didn't wake up. Lance congratulated himself on improving his new sneaking-out-from-under-sleeping-Keith skill, surprised at how often the need for it was coming up. It took a while, though, so by the time Lance was free to pick up the phone he'd left charging on his desk, he'd missed the call. Predictably from Shiro – who had sent Lance a series of text messages when Lance didn't answer.

I hope you guys are sleeping, the first text read.
Call me if you need to. Hearing is still on; no way to change it. I'll be there around 8 to pick Keith up. Get some rest. Thanks.

Lance noticed the time, surprisingly not even eleven yet, though it felt like he must have been trapped on that bed and within his own thoughts for hours. He checked Keith, pleased that he still seemed peaceful lying there without Lance holding him. He thought he'd take advantage of that and started moving. First, he replied to Shiro to let him know that everything was fine at the apartment, that Keith was resting at least, and promised to keep him updated if that changed. Then he took a shower, a very quick one since he didn't want to leave Keith alone too long, but he also wanted to clean the hospital off of him too. He knew he should probably get some sleep, but it just seemed such a waste of the time he had remaining. He didn't want to sleep. And as much as he wanted a future, the uncertainty of what it would bring to him made him wish that the night would never end.

When he returned to his room, it seemed that Keith had somehow subconsciously noticed that he was alone. He'd curled up again, tight, his features no longer quite so calm but not distressed either. Lance dressed, wrapped himself in the couch afghan, and sat at his desk, keeping an eye on Keith as he started typing. Because as much as he wished, the morning was coming, and he needed to prepare for it.

The first time he'd attempted the biography assignment, he'd been forced to make up everything about Keith. He didn't know a single thing about him apart from his name. Now he knew more, so much more, but the information felt too special to share. Prof. Gibbon didn't deserve to know the truth, not for something as unimportant as this assignment. Or at least not all of the truth. Still, Lance felt he should turn something in, so he typed a new crisply-MLA-formatted version of Keith's life, still almost completely fabricated, though much softer in tone than the first rage-filled draft. Keith had been orphaned at a young age, but he'd been raised by his older brother. He'd moved around a lot. His favorite sport was racquetball. He loved planes and planned to join the military. He was pretty open for adventures – new experiences, new food. He was not afraid to do what was right, even in situations where he could be hurt for it. Lance barely made the word count, but felt satisfied by his attempt. Felt that he'd presented a decently credible portrait of Keith while still protecting him.

He attached both the Word and PDF files of the document to an email, where he let his teacher know that he probably wouldn't be attending class in the morning. He'd be helping Shiro get Keith ready for court somehow, but he didn't say that either. He went on lying to all his Monday class instructors, and his supervisor at the donation center, in four separate emails and in two different languages – he told them all that he wasn't feeling well. Please find attached the assignment. Can I please reschedule my oral presentation? I hope to be back to normal by Tuesday; sorry for leaving you short-handed. He wondered if his dance teacher would even notice he was missing, but he sent the email anyway.

Because he knew that tomorrow he'd be absolutely worthless. He may not actually be coming down with anything, but the part where he didn't feel well was not a lie. His emotions were twisted around Keith and what would happen to him. Lance didn't know what he would do if Keith were found guilty. He didn't know what he would do if he were found innocent either. But he did know that either way, tomorrow was going to be one of the hardest in his life.

He finished the emails and was just beginning to wonder what he should do now to distract himself from his own exhaustion when his phone chirped again, another text message. It was after midnight now, closer to one, so Lance was surprised that Shiro would still be awake and sending him messages. But this text wasn't from Shiro.

Can I come up?

"Pidge," Lance breathed, and tossed the afghan aside to hurry down the stairs to the front entrance, not bothering to take the time for a reply or to even put on any shoes. She'd come back after all, though she'd picked an unpromising time for it. How had she known that anyone would even be awake to let her in?

Or maybe she had just taken a chance on that. Maybe she thought that she'd come to the door and then have to go back home anyway. It seemed that was the case, since she had already started walking away by the time he got down to her. He threw the door open, leaning out into the cold, the snow still falling.

"Pidge!" He yelled after her, not being able to chase her down since he had to keep hold of the door or let them both be locked out. She paused hesitantly, as though she didn't believe she'd heard anything over the wind, but she did check over her shoulder and he waved wildly at her, beckoning her inside. Please come back; the apartment got so dark after you left it. Her face crumpled into pained relief as she returned to the entrance, though she walked as though forcing herself forward, like she wasn't quite sure she would be welcomed, like she was preparing for a rebuke or another argument.

"Hey," she greeted, dedicatedly nonchalant, as though this were normal, just another day. "I saw your light on. Everything ok up there?"

"It's better now," he said, physically pulling her into the lobby, sealing them from the snow outside. It seemed she'd been out so long that she didn't notice the cold anymore, didn't notice how it had stiffened all her limbs. Or maybe that had nothing to do with the cold. "Pidge, for heaven's sake, what are you doing wandering around in the snow at one in the morning? I thought you'd gone home a long time ago," Lance decided to give her a tiny fragment of reproach, though for something completely unrelated to what she thought she was in trouble for. He couldn't bring himself to be angry at her; she looked too forlorn, cold and lost. Their argument must have shaken her hard to force her out into the elements in the middle of the night, checking his window to see if he were still awake or not – miserable enough that she'd seek his company even after he'd shouted at her.

"I did go home, but I couldn't sleep and I couldn't sit still. I figured if anyone else was still awake, it'd be you," she said, unable to look at him, seeming frozen to the spot he'd left her, as if blocked by some barrier between them that only she could see.

"Yeah, I . . . I've got stuff to do," Lance excused himself, knowing that no matter where they were, opposite sides of a debate, she would understand what he meant and how it had more to do with how he felt than what actually needed to get done. "Did you want company? Because I could use some, if it's ok."

For the first time since they'd started talking, Pidge looked up into his face, eyes large and hurt and a blend of wanting to be forgiven but not before she'd taken some sort of verbal beating that she felt she deserved. Not something Lance wanted to give to her, though. He wasn't one to hold grudges, and he was too happy to see her to pick at emotional wounds that might send her away from him again.

"Lance, I'm sorry," she apologized in a rush, lowering her head. Her next sentence garbled up in her mouth, which meant she was probably trying to tell him that either he'd been right or she'd been wrong (both versions were difficult for her).

"Come on," he told her, taking her hand, ignoring her apology. Because it wasn't necessary. "Come upstairs; the couch is free for you."

"Lance, I -" she tried again, but he shook his head, pulling her toward the elevator. He didn't need her to say it, not even the first time.

"We'll talk inside," he half-promised. He didn't want her apology and he didn't know if he could continue their conversation if she still thought she needed to drive some points home. "After you warm up. How long were you outside looking at my light anyway?"

"I don't know," she confessed, having a hard time looking at him again. "An hour? Maybe a little more."

"You were outside my window for an hour? Why didn't you call me sooner?" Lance chastised gently, pushing the elevator button and tugging Pidge close to his side, forcing them to behave as they normally did. Because it seemed she needed physical permission at every step to be next to him, to go to the apartment where she practically lived. She had an extra toothbrush there; a section of Hunk's closet held her clothes. But now she was acting like they were strangers. . . . all because of what? Guilt? Rage? Had Keith cracked apart their friendship that much?

"I needed to sort some things out first," she told him, her voice edgy. Not mad, or at least not at him. Yet. "I guess I'm so used to things being a certain way, and you being a certain way, but then nothing was like that and it was this huge shift and I . .needed to wrap my head around it." She shrugged while Lance tried to figure out what she meant. "I didn't really notice what I was doing or where I was, but when I woke up, I was standing under your window. Guess your apartment is my default setting."

"You didn't have to leave," Lance reminded her, opening the door to the dark apartment and dragging her back into the warmth.

"No, I did," she denied, though there was no longer any heat to her contradiction.

"Well, I'm glad you came back then," he said, unzipping her coat as she looked around the quiet living room, as though it had changed somehow during her absence, as though she'd never seen it before. She seemed so delicate all of a sudden, which was strange because Pidge never seemed all that delicate. She was not fragile; she was fierce and determined and set. She wanted to talk, but he didn't know if that was a good idea. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened between them, but knew she'd never allow it. He just hoped he wouldn't be the only one making conversational compromises.

"I did some more research, Lance," Pidge started talking, not even noticing that he was taking her coat off for her. She stood rigidly right where he'd let go of her hand, just inside the door, her eyes downcast. Obviously, she wanted to talk more about Keith and what had happened, but he wasn't sure if he could handle getting into another argument about that right now. Or hearing any more details about it. He just wanted to be here with her, together in the apartment, comfortable the way they used to be. He just wanted this last night to be as normal as possible before tomorrow changed everything all over again.

"It doesn't matter, Pidge," he told her firmly. And he meant it – he didn't care what new details she may have uncovered. He was staying loyal to Keith, so there was no point in talking about it, getting frustrated with each other again. Not now. He was so tired, and so was she, and if neither of them could bend on their stances, they needed to just avoid the issue. At least for tonight. Please, just for tonight.

"Let me get you some tea," he continued as he set her coat on the camp chair, turning to light the stove under the kettle and then get the afghan for her, but she grabbed onto his arm, her fingers still icy through his sleeve.

"No, Lance, it does matter, and I don't want tea," she contradicted emphatically. He opened his mouth to stop her, but she shook her head at him, eyes large and betrayed. "I looked up the assault instead of the murder case, and there was a girl that Keith was protecting. The guy had a knife and everything; he sliced open Keith's arm, cracked one of his ribs too. This isn't murder – it's a justifiable homicide. Keith's being profiled; it's the only explanation about why this has been taken so far. You . . . you were right, Lance."

"I know," he said, sad even though she was now agreeing with him, removing her hand so he could at least get her a blanket if she didn't want a warm drink. He decided not to go into how it wasn't really either – not murder or homicide at all, just an extremely unfortunate coincidental death. Because again, it just didn't matter at this point. "Hopefully the jury knows it too."

"I don't know about that; that's the worst place where it doesn't seem to matter," Pidge murmured, her eyes scanning the floor as if she were rereading something she'd found and not liking it. "How is he doing?" She asked, changing the subject. "You know, apart from being wrongfully accused, almost dying, and me being a complete brat to him."

"His fever came down a little bit," Lance reported the small pieces of good news, deciding not to acknowledge most of the self-degradation she'd slid into the conversation. "And his heart is steady, but he's obviously worried about tomorrow, about the hearing. It's taking a lot out of him."

"It shouldn't even be like that!" She almost sounded close to tears about it, and Lance knew that she was mostly berating herself for believing whatever lies she'd found about Keith online. For automatically thinking the worst about him. For not trusting in Lance, for yelling at him for it. She seemed ready to almost overcompensate for that now, defending Keith at all costs. "If their positions had been reversed . . ." she cut off, too mad to speak.

But Lance knew. If it had been Keith trying to force a girl into a car with a knife, and David had stepped in and sent him to the hospital – David would have been called a hero. He'd be interviewed by the news, celebrated, congratulated. Because David's upbringing made everyone think the best of him. And Keith's upbringing did the exact opposite.

"Lance?" He heard his name faintly from his bedroom, and he winced. He'd left Keith too long. He'd woken up alone, perhaps dragged from sleep by Pidge's emphatic outburst. Pidge stared down the hall like the apartment were suddenly haunted, looking as though she'd like to see Keith, but wasn't sure about it.

"Come on," Lance invited, wanting to reintroduce them to each other now that Pidge could see Keith for what he actually was instead of what had been presented to her.

"Wouldn't it be better if just you go?" She hesitated as he stood near the couch, hand out to her as if he would help her cross some emotional bridge into his room.

"I figured we'd take advantage of your apologetic mood while it lasts," Lance said casually, though he knew his statement was anything but casual, knowing it was actually a little cruel, but he also knew that it was just the sort of thing Pidge needed right now. If she didn't feel properly scolded, they were never going to move forward. And if Lance didn't do it, she would do it to herself much worse. "But for your information, he's angrier with himself than with you."

Pidge closed her eyes as the tragedy of that comment struck her psyche. But she did take Lance's offered hand and allowed him to again pull her in a direction she no longer felt she had a right to go. Though she paused at the doorway, unable to cross the threshold into Lance's room ahead of him, needing him to go first. Lance allowed this, one thing at a time, letting go of Pidge and leaving her in the shadowed hall.

"It's all right, Keith," Lance assured, coming back to his side, ready to assess the damage he'd done in leaving him by himself. "Sorry I had to leave you for a minute."

"What's going on? Is it time to go?" Keith asked the questions in rapid succession, looking around, looking worried. He was sitting on the edge of the bed as though he were in the process of trying to get up, eyes rather wild, and panting with effort and fear.

"It's nowhere near time to go; it's the middle of the night," Lance told him gently, even though he could feel the minutes slipping away from them. There wasn't really all that much time left to them. A matter of a few hours. "Lie down now. You should be sleeping."

"But where were you?"

"Oh you know," Lance said lightly, trying to calm the souls on both sides of his door. "Just making sure all my strays are safe and warm for the night." For a second, Keith looked confused, but his face softened into partial relief and understanding.

"Pidge," he said to confirm. "Did you talk to her? She made it home? She's ok?"

"She's home the way I see it, and I think she's ok?" Lance said, unwilling to answer for Pidge. He looked pointedly at her, again reaching out a hand to bring her closer. She narrowed her eyes at him, guilty tears all over her face, clearly visible even in the dark. "Pidge?"

"She's here?" Keith asked another question that he also just wanted confirmed. Lance watched as Pidge jerked herself forward, almost as if the shadows had pushed her from behind. He stood to assist, throwing the afghan around her shoulders and using it to swing her around into his desk chair.

"Presto," Lance said, as though he'd conjured Pidge from the snowstorm; the new and uneasy tension in the room forcing him to be a little weird to counterbalance it. He knew Pidge would notice. He figured Keith wouldn't, but he was unprepared for his true reaction to having Pidge basically slingshot in front of him. The way Keith gazed at her in wonderment, Lance would have thought that he truly believed Lance had performed some sort of summoning spell. They stared at each other in silent discomfort. Both looking hurt. Both looking guilty. Lance was at a loss for what to say to break the pained stalemate. He thought perhaps the best way was to help Keith get his head back down, though like before, Keith seemed set on staying upright in Pidge's presence, forcing an appearance of strength that made no sense to Lance.

"Hi Keith," Pidge was the first to speak, as Lance expected. He stood a little apart from them, retreating to bystander status, or referee status? He leaned against his doorframe, wondering if this is how Hunk felt all the time. He could almost see the unspoken emotions in the room, the broken trust, the silent accusations, the burning apologies, rippling back and forth between Pidge and Keith, hesitant but rapid, a strange and wobbly weaving.

"Hi Pidge," Keith returned, hand on his heart, entering a verbal chess match – pawn meets pawn and suddenly neither can move anymore unless another piece comes from the side. Something Lance wasn't sure about doing yet. Pidge clung to the afghan, holding it also tight against her chest.

"You look terrible," Pidge commented, and Lance prepared to intervene. Or translate? Keith didn't know how Pidge communicated friendship – how most times it sounded like the exact opposite.

"Strays usually do," Keith returned capably, impressing Lance and making Pidge smile, though her lips trembled alarmingly.

"I don't know who I hate most," Pidge confessed, speaking faster as though it would steady her voice. It didn't. Keith struggled to pay attention, to remain sitting up and facing her, understanding that this was important. Lance held his ground, though it was hard to not interject, his insides tangling in the shredded emotional ribbons between his friends who were not friends. Yet. "I hate that jerk for trying to force himself on that girl, and I hate his parents for trying to blame you for him being an asshole. I especially hate her for dating him in the first place and for now just living her spoiled simple little life unbroken and carefree without ever thinking about what happened to you for stepping in and fighting her fight for her, and I hate . . I hate myself for hating you. For thinking I knew everything about you when I really had no idea at all."

"Maybe that's too much hate," Keith suggested wearily after it became obvious that Pidge had run out of things to list, giving Lance the fastest side look, as though he were checking for his approval on how he was handling the conversation. Or maybe he wanted Lance to help him end it? The glance was over before Lance could give him any sort of silent feedback, though Lance wished he could let him know that he was doing very well.

"Maybe," Pidge agreed, quietly, fizzled out. "But there are some things I don't hate."

"Hopefully Hunk made the list," Keith supplied her helpfully, and Lance watched her slump a little, though not in sadness.

"It's not possible to hate Hunk," Pidge admitted. "Or Lance, even though he's a frustrating piece of work most of the time," she continued, twisting her head toward him with one of her normal expressions just under the surface of worn out pain. "And I don't hate you either," she finished, addressing Keith again, somber. "Not anymore."

"Same," Keith accepted, gracious and breathless, hand still covering his heart. Pidge's smile lingered as she gazed on Keith with new affection tinged with concern, but then she toughened up unexpectedly.

"But if you ever mess up Lance's pretty face like that again, or hurt him in any other way, at all, I will eviscerate you, got it?" Pidge slammed the threat between them like flipping on a switch to an electric chair. Lance wondered if Keith knew what that word meant – because he didn't, though he figured it was something unpleasant and potentially lethal.

"You won't have to; I'll do it myself," Keith promised, calmly, solemnly, as though he were making an actual vow of some sort. He settled his mystery eyes on Lance, startling him with their sincerity. Lance shrugged to hide a shudder – though it wasn't a cold feeling that trembled down his neck. Right. Time to end this.

"All right, that's enough," Lance stepped in, hands lifted to push through the abrupt heaviness of the conversation. He drew the line when people started laying down their life for his sake. Particularly since it wasn't clear that Keith hadn't done that already for a girl he didn't even know in a parking lot. Lance half glared at Pidge for even bringing it up. "And you say I'm dramatic. Keith, lie down; this isn't helping."

"You are dramatic," she said, though she was smiling at him again, their friendship a disconnected joint snapped back to its correct place. Something that would ache for a while and would need to be treated tenderly, but worked properly, almost as good as new. "Better do as he says," she instructed Keith as she stood up, leaving the afghan on the desk chair.

"Where are you going?" Lance asked, a little cautiously, before he allowed her to trade places with him in the room. He didn't want her to think she had to leave again.

"To see Hunk," Pidge answered, though the way she said it made Lance wonder why he'd even thought to ask. Of course she was going to see Hunk. She acted on Lance's behalf, gently pushing Keith back down into the bed and pulling the quilt over him, proving to both of them that she was completely on his side now, that she would also defend him as best she could. They didn't say anything else to each other, but Lance knew just how good Pidge was at letting her eyes and face speak for her. For all he knew, she could be reading Keith a silent, encouraging bedtime story in the last few seconds before she left him. Keith looked at her with undisguised relief, though he closed his eyes when she bent down to kiss him along his temple.

She didn't touch Lance on her way out, but that actually made it feel more normal and not less. There was more familiarity in her footsteps than finality. Lance sighed as his world came together again, a little closer though it was slightly larger.

"I guess the truth does matter," Lance emphasized again to Keith, kneeling on the floor next to him on the bed, reaching out to cover his shoulder with his hand and allowing Keith to run his fingers along Lance's sleeve cuff. "Now sleep."

"You too," Keith ordered.

"Soon," Lance promised.

Similar to the last time Keith and Lance had spent the night together in this bedroom, Lance found himself waking in a befuddled heap on his floor, half covered in the afghan, not knowing what was going on. Again like last time, he hadn't meant to fall asleep and couldn't pinpoint exactly when or how it had happened. He remembered Keith drifting off again not too long after Pidge had left, his arms folded oddly near his hips, across his stomach rather than his chest this time. He had heard Hunk's deep rumble through the walls as Pidge joined him in his room. They'd talked in a hum that grew quieter and quieter, like the wind outside. The piano album finished and Lance did not ask it to repeat. His phone remained silent. Keith remained silent, maybe, for a while, though now that Lance was trying hard to think about what had happened in those strange hours of the very early morning, he seemed to remember comforting Keith, that he'd been whimpering, his muscles tight and trembling in the low light of the faithful lamp, murmuring frightened phrases about his frightening future. Then simply moaning – a painful, lonely sound, twisting in distress on the bed. In fact, Lance was rather shocked that he'd been able to fall asleep with Keith moving so much.

Lance pushed himself up so he could orient himself to his surroundings. Figure out the time. See how Keith was doing; he couldn't hear him right now. He hadn't made it very far before he paused, shifting his attention instead to the door, which was being opened in a soft and careful way. Come to think of it, the knob being turned might have been what had woken him up to begin with.

"Great, you're already awake," Pidge greeted him, moving faster now that she'd confirmed she wouldn't be startling him by coming into his room. But why would she be doing that? Why was she happy he was awake?

"Something going on?" Lance whispered, hoping Pidge would lower her voice when she responded. He didn't want to wake Keith up.

"Yeah, I need to go get something, but someone needs to help Keith and Hunk can't do it, so that leaves you." She spoke quickly, tugging at Lance, trying to get him on his feet. "We didn't want to wake you up, but," she finally paused, which was good since Lance was in no way keeping up with her. He looked behind him at the bed, amazed to find it empty. Keith wasn't there? Then where was he? How had he gotten up and out of the room without Lance waking up?

"Where is Keith?" Lance asked, untangling himself from the afghan in a rushed attempt to stand up. And he really did want to stand up, confused and inexplicably alarmed. What kind of help did Keith need and how long had he needed it before they'd decided that it was something that required Lance?

"He's in the bathroom puking his guts out," Pidge responded with a simple sort of efficiency to it, though it rearranged everything in Lance's brain. Now he knew why Hunk couldn't help.

"What?" He hissed, though he did it in motion, taking long strides down the hallway, on his way to assess the situation. "How long?"

"He just started," Pidge answered, half explanation and half excuse for not coming to get him sooner. "I heard him moving in the hall a little while ago so I got up to check on him, and he said he needed to use the bathroom but he didn't want to wake you, so I helped him get in there, but then he started throwing up, and I think there's blood in it, so I figured I'd better come get you anyway." Pidge also spoke as she moved, rapidly filling in the details in the couple of steps of hall. Lance could hear loud music from Hunk's room, his friend's attempt to drown out any noise from the nearby bathroom. Hunk couldn't handle blood or vomit, so Lance was glad that he knew enough to keep out of the way of this one. Pidge seemed to be doing ok, though her face was startlingly white.

"I'll be back," she said in parting, retreating down the hall, but this time she turned toward the front door. Lance didn't have time to even ask her where she was going, but he couldn't blame her for wanting to scram. She obviously wasn't as bad as Hunk, but most people experienced some degree of sympathy nausea in the presence of someone being sick. Even Lance wasn't completely immune, though he could suppress it enough to be helpful. It did mean that despite being in a hurry, he took one last deep breath for himself in preparation for what was waiting for him on the other side of the closed bathroom door.

He came in as Keith was wiping his mouth on a wad of toilet paper, and Lance noticed immediately that there was indeed blood. Keith dropped it in with what must have been last night's dinner and then dropped himself, helpless and limp, on the towels that were still covering the floor, panting with his eyes squeezed shut. Lance felt vindicated in what he'd thought of as a lazy decision to leave them there when he'd finished his shower last night seeing now that they were still serving their purpose. Keith groaned, not even noticing that Lance was with him yet.

"Lobito," Lance alerted him of his presence as he dampened a washcloth for him, kneeling down next to him on the towels, ignoring for the moment what was in the toilet basin, though it was impossible to ignore the scent of it, heavy in the room.

"Just let me die," Keith begged, a plea that staked Lance through the chest as it was so pitifully adamant. He hadn't been sure what Keith would sound like when he'd finally hit the end of his endurance, but now that they seemed to be there, he wasn't all that surprised.

"Sorry, already too invested in not letting that happen," Lance told him, as undramatically as possible while pressing his washcloth on the back of Keith's neck.

"Lance, I can't –" Keith gulped, but then clamped his hand over his mouth and desperately hauled himself over the bowl again. Lance kept his cloth carefully in place and added a supportive hand to Keith's bicep, staying close to him despite how he'd really like to follow Pidge out of the apartment. Something with a ton of bass started thundering in Hunk's room to the point that Lance wondered if their downstairs neighbors were going to start pounding on the ceiling in a minute. As if being woken up early on a Monday morning were the worst thing that could happen to a person.

Keith's dedication to not making a mess on the bathroom floor seemed to be unnecessary; there wasn't much left in his stomach to come up, just some blood-tinged bile. Lance squinted at it, puzzling out its source. He knew Keith didn't have any internal bleeding because that would have come up looking like coffee grounds while this seemed to be a tiny amount, brighter in color, actually more pinkish. Lance realized that it was probably coming from the blisters in Keith's mouth, that they were breaking open and bleeding from the force and acid. Still completely unpleasant and likely excruciatingly painful, but not dangerous.

"I can't go back," Keith panted, hanging his head over the toilet, the most pathetic posture that Lance had yet seen in him, worse than curled up in the hospital bed, worse than unconscious on his living room floor. Worse because he had no solution for this, no medication, no training for how to get Keith's fear under control. No way to reassure him that it would be all right. But he did have to figure out something because this . . . this was going to mess everything up. All the progress they'd made to get Keith rehydrated was going to be for nothing. Lance could almost see his racing heartbeat in his neck and the vein in his forehead, but how to get his heart medication into him if he couldn't keep it down? Lance figured just telling him to calm down wasn't going to work, but what was he doing to do? And how much time did he have left to do it in? He hadn't been able to see what time it was when he got up, but he figured it had to be somewhere between six and seven. Or maybe after seven?

No wonder Keith was sick to his stomach; the court appointment was so close now, and he was so sure that he'd end up back in prison in a matter of hours. Lance pulled slightly on Keith's clothes when he was certain he was finished for a minute, offering Keith whatever solace he could find in his arms, and Keith collapsed into him with absolutely zero resistance, twitching and distressed.

Lance didn't know what to say, so he communicated in touch only. Keith felt different this morning, still hot, but also a weird sort of clammy that happens when you're throwing up. Sweating, not the sort caused by a broken fever but by a different kind of sympathetic stress response that Lance used to know the name for, but it still made Keith's shirt stick to him in twisted, uncomfortable ways. Lance relocated the cloth from Keith's neck to his forehead, pulling him down so his head rested heavy on Lance's lap, reaching around with his other hand to rub his chest in small circles, slowly working his way down to his stomach the way Lance's mother had done for him a long time ago. Keith kept his eyes closed, his breathing feathered, groaning every so often.

"Please," Keith pleaded, though Lance was unable to give him anything he needed or wanted, despite every wish he had that he could. "I can't." Lance opened his mouth to say something, but stopped before getting out a single word. There were no words. There was no time.

The morning dissolved out from under them, new but softer songs beginning and ending on the other side of Hunk's closed door. Lance helped prop Keith up several more times, though he was only dry heaving at this point, his nausea more in his mind and his heart, places that Lance didn't know how to heal. Between episodes, Lance moved his hands over Keith, up and down his arms, over his chest and stomach, down the side of his face, somehow treasuring and abhorring these moments. How they were so special. How they were so awful.

"Lance," Keith whispered, on his side on Lance's thighs, weak. Lance didn't trust himself to answer, so he squeezed Keith's shoulder in response instead. Still here, Keith. As long as I can. It's going to be ok. He wiped Keith's mouth and ran his fingers through his hair and thought desperately hard on how he was going to fix this, keep Keith safe, how he was going to keep him from being taken away.

Lance heard the knock on his front door, but he didn't move right away to answer it, though he knew that Hunk wouldn't hear anything over his music and wouldn't come out until Lance gave him the all clear that it was safe. The knock came again.

"There's someone at the door," Lance notified Keith, knowing he wouldn't care much, couldn't really expend any energy on anything outside this room. Lance cared only marginally more than Keith, and honestly, the only reason he was going to go answer it was because he thought it was most likely Pidge. "I'll be right back. I'll bring some water for you."

"No," Keith answered, though Lance wasn't sure what he was saying no to. He smoothed his hair back one more time before sliding out from underneath him, leaving him broken and crumpled on the floor to go and see the culprit who had forced time to start again in the apartment.

It was Shiro, not Pidge, who stood in the hallway, and Lance almost slammed the door closed on him in frustrated protest. If Shiro was here, it meant that it was eight in the morning already. It meant that Keith had to put on whatever clothes Shiro held on a hanger, dangling from his fingers, draped across his back, and zipped up in a garment bag to protect them from getting dirty before they could be worn. Lance stared at Shiro, at the suit he was already wearing – all completely black, even the dress shirt and the tie he wore underneath the coat. Everything such a deep black that Shiro stood an astrophysical marvel in the hallway; he had his own gravity, dragging Keith out the door.

As Lance stood there, blocking the way in, staring and motionless, Shiro reached forward with his robotic hand, circling it around the back of Lance's neck and pulling them together as though they were comrades rejoined after a long night battling a separate, yet common, enemy.

"It's almost over," Shiro spoke the comforting things that Lance hadn't been able to say, holding him secure, powerful and patient and somehow getting through this so much better than Lance was. "I'm sorry this has been so hard on you; I can't thank you enough."

"Shiro," Lance began, his voice croaky and wet with tears he'd swallowed instead of shed. He didn't know what else to say, though. Don't take Keith away from me. Don't let anyone hurt him anymore. Say we don't have to go, that the whole thing's been called off. There's too much snow. There's too much pain.

Shiro let him go, checking his face for the report of how the night had gone and seeing that it had been more rough than restful, the faintest wonder in one of his eyebrows about how it could have gone so poorly and Lance had not thought to call him.

"How's Keith?" Shiro asked, a pointed, should-be-easy-to-answer question. And as though Keith had decided to answer for himself, Lance could hear the familiar half-cough, half-retching noise starting again from the bathroom. Shiro's head jerked that direction, something in his shoulders collapsing, the garment bag slipping off his back to his side.

"Bad," Lance said, but Shiro was already moving. He tossed the bag in a seemingly careless way, but it must have had some control to it since the bag settled perfectly over the armrest of the couch. Shiro didn't spare it a second glance because he was following the gut-wrenching sound through the apartment. Lance gave him a few seconds head start as he filled a glass with more Gatorade from the fridge. He left the heart medication on the counter, knowing it'd just be a waste to try and get Keith to take it right now.

Shiro stood helplessly watching in the doorway as Keith finished. Keith had one of his hands up, blocking Shiro from coming in, as though he wanted to spare him from seeing this. Lance ignored the hand, slipping tidily past Shiro to join Keith again on the floor, waiting with the glass for Keith to stop gasping, to stop spitting ineffectually, for the moments of calm on the other side of this, however few they may be.

"Lance, can you tell me what I'm looking at," Shiro requested, voice gentle, mild as always, almost, but not entirely stripped of dread.

"Stress," Lance answered promptly, understanding what Shiro wanted to know. There was nothing physically wrong with Keith outside of the problems they already knew about. Though if this kept up, it would cause some, starting with dehydration and possibly putting Keith right back in the position he'd been in on Saturday afternoon. "You're looking at anxious nausea."

"Please shut up," Keith requested, moving to return his head to the towels, but Lance prevented him, catching him one-handed to keep him semi-upright, handing him the glass.

"Sip it," Lance ordered.

"No point," Keith shot back, miserable.

"I don't care if you swallow it. Use it as a mouthwash if you want, just take a damn sip," Lance returned, angry all of a sudden, but not at Keith, who looked rather wide-eyed at Lance's abrupt break in attitude, though he took the glass, suddenly meek. Lance sighed, knowing he'd have to do something else with his anger, so he turned on Shiro instead.

"Does he have to do this?" Lance said rather snappishly to Shiro, who he also wasn't angry with, but he figured he could handle Lance's fury better. "Isn't there something we can do? I mean, look at him!" He was so sick, so weak, so emotionally battered. To force him up, into a suit, and out into the weather to the courthouse seemed a definite violation of the Eight Amendment. Cruel and unnatural punishment. For something he hadn't even done.

"He just has to sit there," Shiro returned, infuriatingly calm. "And then it will be over."

But what if it wasn't? Or what if over meant that Keith would be taken into custody? What would they do to him? Would they be gentle with him? Take care of him? Or would they push him into a corner and forget they'd ever seen him? Leave him to suffer alone. Lance tried to remember Krolia's voice on the phone yesterday, tried to imagine her standing in the courtroom fighting for Keith, wishing he could have heard what she'd said. Wishing he had a better guess as to what the jury had decided about Keith.

Lance continued to glare at Shiro, though it wasn't his fault. In his peripheral vision, he saw Keith take extremely slow and tiny amounts of Gatorade into his mouth, though he was right, he didn't keep them down. Lance took the glass for him so he would have his hands free, one to support himself on the rim as he leaned over, and the other pressed tight against his churning stomach. It was such a hopeless place.

That's where Pidge joined them again, returned from where ever she'd had to go and letting herself into the apartment. She took in the scene instantaneously, giving Lance an exasperated sort of look that he couldn't figure out.

"Lance, what are you doing?" She sort of barked at him, her hands emphasizing her question. "Where's your rubbing alcohol? I thought you would have taken care of this already."

"My what?" Lance asked her, confused, another avalanche of weird and terrible closing in on him. Taken care of what? And how exactly? He kept one hand on Keith's back, on his knees on the floor, switching his gaze from Shiro to Pidge as she started dismantling the tiny hall closet where they kept their extra bedding and some cleaning supplies.

"Don't tell me you don't know this trick," Pidge continued, successfully pulling a small bottle of clear liquid away from the dusting stuff, the hydrogen peroxide, and an extra container of dish soap. "Excuse me," she said politely to Shiro, stepping past him into the crowded bathroom.

Lance tried to think of something snippy to say to her, but he was at a loss. His head was too full of other things, bigger things. He exchanged a final look with Shiro, who was watching Pidge with baffled interest, not knowing much about her. Or really anything about her. Their only exchange had been her offering him a cookie yesterday.

"Here, Keith," Pidge instructed gently, leaning down with the open alcohol bottle since there wasn't any more room for her to get properly on the floor. "Deep breaths; it should help. I brought you something that'll help even more, but it's something you have to swallow so we need to get this under control first. I thought Lance knew about this, but I guess not, so I'm sorry it took me so long to get back."

At first, Keith tilted his head back, as though he thought that she meant for him to drink it or something. But as Pidge held it close to his nose, swirling the contents so the scent would waft up, he stopped trying to lean away. He lifted a hand to hold onto Pidge's wrist, looking ready to just douse himself. Apparently, it was doing something helpful.

"How does that work?" Lance asked in spite of himself, in spite of being angry and worried and helpless.

"I don't know; that's neuroscience," Pidge dismissed, still leaning over Keith, who was now breathing heavily in and out of her offered bottle. "I just know the scent somehow shuts off that need-to-puke reflex. It doesn't work if you have food poisoning or something, but for anxiety stuff, it's a miracle. Huh, Keith?"

Keith only moaned in relief, and Lance felt guilty. If he'd known that, as Pidge seemed to think that he should, he could have spared Keith a lot of painful heaving. He was also curious. How did Pidge know about it? But when he looked at her to ask, she just shook her head.

"How's it going out there, guys?" Came Hunk's sudden question from behind his door. Lance hadn't noticed that the music had stopped. He'd almost forgotten that Hunk was still trapped in his self-quarantine in his room.

"Better give us a few more minutes, Hunk," Lance called to him, considering Pidge and Keith. It wasn't clear yet if Pidge's alcohol thing was working or if it was just because Keith was between bouts. "Can you try another drink?" Lance asked Keith.

"That's a good idea," Pidge agreed, encouragingly. Lance noticed Shiro checking his watch and realized that no matter what, Keith was leaving soon.

"Pidge, you got this?" Lance checked as he stood up, eyes still on Shiro.

"If you aren't going far," she allowed, taking his place on the floor, helping Keith alternate between sips of Gatorade and deep inhales of alcohol. Lance nodded, pulling Shiro down the hallway a little bit, out of earshot so they could talk without Keith hearing them.

"I'm sorry, Lance," Shiro apologized again. "We just don't have a choice."

"I know," Lance acknowledged, contrite. "Sorry I snapped at you. I just wish he didn't have to do this."

"Hopefully, it won't take long, and he can get back to just recovering very soon. From all of it."

"I'll give you some of the bags that they use in the hospital, in case he gets sick again," Lance began planning for the rapidly-approaching separation, giving Shiro as many details as possible for taking care of Keith when Lance couldn't be with him anymore, hating that this was really happening. "And some alcohol pads since that seems to be working pretty well. Please make sure they let him have water; he really needs to be drinking. His meds are in the kitchen; he hasn't had any yet this morning, obviously, but he will need to-"

"You know I was planning on you coming with us, right?" Shiro interrupted. Lance swallowed his next instruction.

"Really?" He double-checked; this was news to him. "But I thought they wouldn't let me?"

"I really think Keith needs an EMT escort. You have a uniform, right?"

"I . .. sure, of course, I do," Lance stammered, rearranging his day.

"Go put it on," Shiro said, pushing him a little toward his room.

Author's Note: Yeah, guys, I'm sorry. I wanted these scenes and this was the time to put them in, and I know that means that we have yet Another Chapter before court and Krolia and all that good stuff. Does it make it better if I tell you it'll be worth it? Possibly?

Does it help knowing that next chapter will have Keith and Shiro in a suit and Lance in his EMT uniform?