Author's Note: Thanks so much for your patience, guys, as I work so slowly through these updates. I've been waiting for this chapter almost since I started writing this story. The scenes in it have been in my head for so long – it feels great to get them out and down and documented. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Twenty-Six: Liability
For the next hours of darkness, Lance found himself waking up repeatedly. His conflicted emotions, weariness, and worry tangled together in a manner that was hardly conducive to rest. All through the night, he struggled to find a position of comfort on his bedroom floor, though it got better after he tossed the contents of his clothes hamper out, making himself a wrinkled laundry nest. But even after he'd settled physically, he found himself shaken awake continually in fifteen to thirty-minute intervals. Like something was wrong. Like the emergency pager was going off. Like he was still on call and shouldn't be sleeping. Like he was missing something important. He'd jerk awake, unnerved to find he was shrouded in dark, neither in his bed nor in the ambulance, taking longer each time to figure out why. Once he was oriented, he'd look to Keith, trying to remember if he were in the same position he had been the last time Lance had checked on him, reassuring himself that he was there. Then, satisfied that Keith was still sleeping and hadn't disappeared in the middle of the night, he'd put his head down and close his eyes, frustrated that he couldn't just fall asleep and stay that way.
You're being dumb, he'd remind himself, shifting to accommodate the slope of his shoulder, the angle of his hip, rearranging his clothes underneath him as his constant moving would slide them out from under him. Everything's over. Still, every tiny thing woke him. A car driving outside the window. Soft murmurings or stirrings from Keith, every twist that he made on Lance's bed. Images of the night before that kept floating to the surface of his subconscious. The driver. The failed suicide. The lights of the ambulance, the burning ache of his back. Shiro's words.
It was almost a relief when morning came and Lance could stop trying to rest. He got up a little before he needed to, stiff and heavy, gathering his laundry mattress and shoving it back into the hamper. Then he slogged into the kitchen to see if Keith's coffee would be as amazing this morning as it had been yesterday. The strong scent of it lay thick in the apartment, just the smell doing the job of easing Lance's muscles, helping his senses turn on again. And somehow, it even seemed to taste better, so Lance gratefully guzzled half of it as he got ready for his biology lab, and selfishly poured the rest in his travel mug. Then, feeling guilty, he cleaned everything and started a fresh batch for Hunk and Keith when they woke up. If Keith could even drink coffee yet.
Lance began writing another note for Keith, which was full of words that actually had nothing to do with what he really wanted to tell him. Instead he wrote most of the same things as yesterday. A reminder for his medication. A recap of some lingering symptoms he should pay attention to. A plea for him to try and eat. And an apology for not being home much the last couple days. Though Lance confirmed that Thursday would be the last busy day. He'd be home a little after eight. Unless Keith needed him. Lance really wished that Keith still needed him. Not that he wanted him to still be sick, scared, or hurting, but there were other ways to be needed. Better ways. He wished he had time and ability to talk to him about it, though he wasn't sure if that was something he had strength to discuss.
He wasn't quite finished when Keith once again surprised him from the hallway. Lance never heard him; it seemed that Keith never made much noise when he moved. He just appeared in the early morning shadows of the apartment, standing where he had yesterday, at the junction where the living room split into two halls, one that went to the bathroom and Hunk's bedroom and the other that led to Lance's room. Keith leaned there in Lance's pajama bottoms and hoodie, his hands hidden in the front pocket, the light from the kitchen illuminating only parts of his face, putting an interesting sheen over his black hair. Lance felt an urgent tug deep in his stomach, both from the start of seeing Keith somewhere he hadn't expected him to be and from how much better he looked. Taller, not shaking. His skin was no longer flushed or mottled. It was pale and perfect. Though Lance was too far away to see if he could determine his eye color yet.
"We're going to have to get you a bell or something," Lance said, forcing himself not to stare, trying to hide all the emotions that Keith had stirred up in him. The surprise, several different varieties of fear, a painful longing. He crumpled up his note in his hand, no need to finish writing it now that Keith was awake and standing in front of him. "Are you feeling ok?"
"Lance," Keith began, a crease appearing between his eyes, his tone full of wearied patience. He shook his head, as though changing his mind about whatever he'd been about to say. "I'm fine." There came another pause as Keith studied the coffee table. "Not so sure about you, though," he murmured to the floor.
"Me?" Lance tried to scoff, but discovered that his voice was sticking on something in his throat. He cleared it, trying again. "I'm good. Running a little late, but –" he trailed off, unable to continue because Keith was staring hard at him again. "What?" He asked. What is it, Keith? Why are you looking at me like that?
"What are you late for now?" Keith asked him combatively, and Lance smoothed out the note between his hands, walking over to pass it to Keith. The way their conversation was going, he might not have time to give him all his instructions verbally anymore. How come it made Keith so mad to talk to him anymore?
"Biology lab," he disclosed, trying not to falter under Keith's glare. "It lasts all morning. Then early child development and chemistry. I'll be home for a couple hours after that, but then I have the last shift at the donation center." He heard his tone drop as the list went on, noticing that there was new pain in Keith's face, deepening as he talked. Was he sure he was ok?
"Are you always this busy?" Keith repeated the question he'd texted Lance a couple days ago. Or was it yesterday? Lance wasn't even sure anymore.
"This week is kind of special," Lance started, but then realized that his answer was going to be misunderstood when Keith stiffened.
"Because of. . . ?" Keith ventured, the question sharp.
"No," Lance assured quickly, wanting Keith to understand that Lance's intense schedule had nothing to do with Monday. Though he would keep to himself the part about how he hadn't even started trying to catch up on anything he'd missed by accompanying Keith to court. Somehow he felt that would just make Keith more furious. "Hunk's birthday is on Saturday, so I changed my ambulance run. That's all I meant. But my Thursdays are always long."
Keith mumbled something else, this time too low for Lance to hear, looking with hostile shame at the floor again. Lance took a small step nearer, close enough to feel Keith's heat, making Lance wonder, again, just what Keith's natural temperature was. Wondering if it would annoy him if Lance asked to check. But first Lance wanted to hear whatever Keith had muttered, though his posture made him a little apprehensive.
"What'd you say?" Lance asked him to repeat himself, noticing that Keith had shifted away from him as he'd stepped closer. That he didn't want Lance close to him anymore. "I didn't hear you."
"Just that I get it now," Keith answered tersely, pulling his shoulders back, though he didn't quite stand straight. "Why you'd get so pissed when I couldn't meet up with you for that assignment."
"I'm sorry about that," Lance apologized immediately, hating how he'd behaved. How uncompassionate and inflexible he had been. "I had no idea what you were going through. I was being -"
"Would you shut up," Keith snapped, and Lance obeyed, closing his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. Keith sighed, leaning moodily against the wall. "I'm the one trying to apologize," he finished, soft again.
Now they both stood quietly. Keith fidgeted with the note Lance had given him, just moving it around his fingers, not looking at it yet. The space between them filled completely with unasked questions, unspoken and confusing sentiments, undeserved desires on Lance's part. He felt he had to break the silence, needed to put his coat on and leave.
"Tell you what," Lance offered, voice as level as possible, easing the situation. Humor as always acting as his best defense. "Tell me how you've been making this amazing coffee and we'll call it even, deal?"
"Oh," Keith didn't sound very sure, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, as though he were fighting a smile. The tiny change in expression snapped something loose in Lance, though not in a helpful way. "I just . . make it? Like everyone?" The systems part of Lance that was ready for a recipe, or at least a measurement, slumped a little at this explanation. Apparently the method for preparing Lance's new elixir of life was going to remain one of the many mysteries that made Keith who he was.
"In that case," Lance said flippantly. "I'll just have to keep you here forever."
"Lance." Keith's eyes met his, full of question and tolerance, a glimmer of a future that Keith knew but wasn't telling. Which was good because Lance wasn't sure he wanted to know, didn't want to hear yet how Keith was done with him. Thanks for everything, but I'm out now. Lance felt his mouth fall open, realizing what he'd just said. Out loud. No wonder Keith was looking shocked.
"I've . . got to go," Lance changed the subject, dragging himself away from Keith, from his heat, from his eyes. Had to get away before Keith put any finality to their relationship, such as it was. "R-read that note. Text me if you need me."
"Lance?" Keith called him as he busied himself with separating his coat from Keith's on the camp chair, pulling it on, hiding his embarrassment at what he'd said, at what he'd wanted Keith to say back.
"Keith?" Lance returned, forcing himself to stand still, to hear with Keith wanted no matter what it was. He stood where Lance had left him, note held gently in both hands, but he'd shifted his grip against his chest. The way he did when his pulse was racing. "Is your heart all right?" Lance checked him, monitoring the posture. Keith's face hardened, tensed into something that looked like annoyance.
"Would you just –" Keith broke off, deliberately lowering his hands. "Do you ever stop? You can quit worrying about me, all right? You're the one who looks like hell."
For some reason, likely the lack of sleep, Keith's words stung. He wasn't ready to stop worrying about Keith. Wasn't ready for that to be over, even though he knew it was messing with him. Lance knew he looked as bad as Keith said. The healing bruise on his face had merged disturbingly with the bags under his eyes. His whole demeanor had some slack in it, a droop in his posture and his spirit. He knew that he was wearing his weariness like a too-heavy bag, but if he stopped, if he lightened his pace, he'd fall so far behind he would have no hope of catching up. He could already feel it, the shadow of a wave bearing down on him. He also knew that he was on the verge of something that would change his life drastically, that Keith might just be sticking around because he was waiting to tell Lance good-bye, and he just wasn't ready. Even though he knew it was probably for the best.
"It's my thing," Lance quipped, trying to deflect what Keith had said, ignoring the comment on his appearance. "Ask anyone." If Lance didn't leave in the next two minutes, he was going to be late. Still, he hesitated at the door, looking at Keith, pleading silently with Keith. I'll stay if you want me. If you ask me to stop everything, I'll make it happen. But somehow, he needed Keith to be the one to ask. He needed Keith to give him permission to break from his routine, to give him permission to want something he knew he shouldn't. He needed Keith to want it first.
"You're something else," Keith huffed, almost as though he'd meant to say something different.
"So you've said," Lance's replied, disappointed, but keeping his voice light. Like he hadn't spent last night tossing around in his dirty laundry, hadn't chased trauma throughout Chicago the night before, hadn't stayed the previous three nights at Keith's side, trying to soothe his sleep. Like it wasn't ripping him up inside knowing that if he left right now, Keith might not be here when he got back. Hating how he said all sorts of things except what he was actually feeling about that. "Take it easy today, all right? Keep the meetings short."
"Sure, Doc," Keith muttered, shoving his hands and Lance's note back into the hoodie pocket.
"I'll see you tonight?" Lance said, more question than farewell.
"I guess," Keith answered. Lance nodded, as if that answer had been in any way satisfying. He put on his backpack and picked up the warm travel mug.
"Thanks for this," Lance said in parting, holding up the tumbler. "It really is the best coffee ever." Keith just shrugged him off, looking as though he were headed back to Lance's bedroom as Lance shut the door. Lance would watch Keith turn away from him in memory for the rest of the day. And he would hate that it would be all he could remember.
His concentration was so damaged by Keith wearing his hoodie and his own growing exhaustion that he spent most of his time forcing himself awake or reorganizing his focus. He mangled the pig fetus he was supposed to be dissecting to the point where the lab TA declared it a lost cause and took it away from him, joking harshly that it was a good thing the poor animal was already dead.
"This isn't like you," the TA declared, scrutinizing Lance.
"I'm sorry," Lance apologized, a theme that began at lab and would continue for the remainder of the day. "It was a rough weekend."
"It's Thursday," the TA said dryly, sighing and shaking her head, as though the weekend were so far in the past that it was no longer a valid excuse. "Now come to my station and identify the main arteries of the heart so I don't have to give you a zero on this."
And so it went all day. He dozed off during child development. He gave an answer in chemistry that was so wrong his professor kept calling on him, torturously, as if trying to give him a chance to redeem himself that absolutely was not working. And then there was the other question that went on and on, no matter what classroom he found himself in, no matter who he was with.
"Are you all right?" Chelsea Wheaton asked him as she poked him awake in child development.
"Lance, you good?" Simon Daines, who sat next to him in chemistry, after he'd physically reached over to open Lance's book to the correct page for him since Lance had spaced out and missed the instruction.
"Wow, Lance, you getting better or worse?" The last was Brett as he held the door open for him upon his arrival to the donation center. By this point, Lance was sick to death of being asked this, so he growled something almost unintelligible in response. Not only was he tired of making the point that he was fine, he was nursing his own disappointment that the apartment had once again been empty when he'd gone home after chemistry. He'd known it would be empty; he'd received texts from Hunk and Keith telling him where they'd be. Hunk and Pidge were picking up their results from taking some amateur ham radio licensing test, and Keith was once again with Shiro and Krolia, going over crazy financial stuff like annuities and something called an IUL, whatever that meant.
What it meant was that no one was there. It meant that Lance switched out his books in solitary silence. Looked at how Keith had made his bed with his mouth sealed shut because no one was there to talk to. It meant that he'd tried to do some of his homework but ended up falling asleep at his desk and waking up excruciatingly groggy with just enough time to run across campus in order to not be late for work. And no one knew he had been home at all.
"Seriously, are you still sick?" Brett pressed him without any kind of social grace.
"No," Lance denied, donning his lab coat over his scrubs, moving over to the sink so he could wash his hands for the first time tonight, wishing he'd never told that lie, never knowing how it would come back to irritate him. But Brett stopped him, one of his huge hands blocking Lance at the shoulder.
"Well, you still look it," Brett told him, and Lance bit back several responses to this. He wanted to tell Brett that he could still outwork him. He wanted to snarl that at least he knew how to shave. But he swallowed all those words because Brett was looking at him with friendly concern, without any sort of rivalry or malice, that the only information he had was what he could deduct from Lance's appearance. Brett's not a bad guy, Lance told himself, and then felt even more guilty about his angry thoughts when Brett offered him one of those tiny 5-hour energy shots from his backpack.
"I better not," Lance declined. "I don't know what those would do to me and now's probably not the time to find out. But thanks."
"Ok," Brett accepted Lance's decision, but let him know that it was available in case Lance changed his mind. Lance pushed against the venipuncture that Brett had performed on him on Tuesday morning, pressing hard against the bruise there to wake himself up for what felt like the hundredth time today. He just had this one last thing to do. Just three more hours until he could go home. And by that time everyone else would be home too. Keith would be home.
But then what was he going to do? Sleep on the floor again? That wasn't working so well. He'd have to figure something else out; he couldn't keep going like this. It was hurting his schoolwork; it was making people ask him annoying questions. And honestly, Lance knew he wasn't sick, but he didn't feel great either. He felt heavy and slow and inexplicably angry. He felt like he was crumbling around the edges. He wanted to snap at people who were asking him things out of innocent concern. The TA from this morning was right; this wasn't like him at all. But the alternative to getting his bed back was for Keith to leave, which somehow seemed worse.
Lance decided it was better not to think about it. Not for the next few hours at least. He had to hold onto the whirlpool of his focus here. For the first little while, he stationed himself at the main entrance as a test of his competence, much to the confusion of his coworkers. He never ran the front desk, that was for newbies, but Brett shut everyone up about it by reminding them all that Lance had seniority and could do what he wanted, and who really cared so long as someone was volunteering. Up there all Lance had to do was weigh donors and prick their fingers to check their hemoglobin levels. The risks were low if he screwed up, but for the first time today, he felt himself relaxing into the comfort of routine. Surprisingly, this seemed to be something he could do without all his attention. Lance could run the donation floor almost literally in his sleep, so when Bethany came in almost an hour later, Lance felt confident turning the front desk over to her. She liked it better, and he was sure by this point that he'd be all right in the back.
He went through the motions, deliberately not thinking about anything other than what was right in front of him. It was easy to do, most everything in his periphery was hazy, like he physically couldn't see anything that wasn't directly in his line of vision. So he carefully cannulated donors without ever making eye contact with them, without speaking anything other than what was legally required at the beginning and ending of donations. He tightened his procedures so he could stay pretty much on autopilot, and it surprisingly felt pretty good. Despite everything, this was the most mental rest that Lance had gotten in almost a week.
Lance pulled the next chart from the wall, again without looking at it, enjoying a comfortable sort of numbness in his chest, flipping the folder open as he walked toward the waiting area, scanning the top for the name he should say to call the next person back with him. But as his eyes focused on the words, he found himself stopping dead in the doorway, all the numbness sharpening like the spike of an icicle. He almost dropped the file.
Allura Lyons.
But that wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not today. He wasn't ready for her today. Not knowing how he dared, Lance lifted his head from the file and there she was, on a Thursday, sitting primly in one of the plastic chairs, her coat and bag on the floor at her feet. Her long white-blonde hair covered her shoulders in soft waves, almost obscuring the Nordic patterning on the yoke of her navy-blue sweater. He fought off a shudder. He'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. How much he'd wanted to date her.
As he stared, her folder open in his hands, she turned towards him as though she'd felt the weight of his gaze on her. Their eyes met, and then Lance watched, wounded, as her face contorted into shock and dread, into embarrassment. She looked away almost immediately, her hand nervously clawing her hair behind her ear, fussing with her stuff as though she were seriously considering just picking it all up and running for the door. And that's when Lance knew. Before this second, he could have thought up a dozen different reasons why she'd needed to break her tradition of coming in on Wednesday. So many excuses for her to come in on Thursday instead this week, but upon watching her reaction to seeing him, Lance dismissed them all. The truth was obvious on her face, in the sudden tenseness of her body.
She hadn't come yesterday because she'd been trying to avoid him.
Lance heard footsteps behind him, a heavy, long stride, and he calmly closed Allura's folder, watching as she peeked painfully at him from under her extraordinary lashes, watching to see what he would do. She looked like she wanted to leave, like she'd rather be anywhere but here with him. For some reason, it made Lance think of Keith and how he'd leaned away from him this morning, how he'd flinched from under his hand the day before that. The icicle in his chest wedged deeper, colder, the weight of rejection. It hurt so much that Lance forced himself furious in defense. It was going to be like that, was it?
"Hey Brett?" Lance addressed the Texan as he also came into the waiting area, a different folder in his hands, his voice chilled. Lance let his gaze shoot back and forth between Brett and Allura as he deftly and unapologetically switched folders with the less experienced tech. "Trade me on this one."
"Uh," Brett floundered, taken off guard by Lance's behavior, wondering if it had something to do with him, if Lance was demoralizing him with this action. Brett didn't know about Allura; he'd never worked a Wednesday. He had no idea all the nuances happening here. But Allura knew. She met Lance's eyes one more time, realizing what he was doing. She didn't exactly soften, but she stopped fidgeting, a different expression rearranging her face, though Lance couldn't figure out what it was anymore. Was it relief? He tried to hold on to his anger.
"Why?" Brett asked, still trying to figure out Lance's angle, though now the concern had returned to his face. He was wondering if Lance were ok.
"Just take care of her for me," Lance quipped, no longer able to look at her. At her gorgeous inaccessibility.
"Ok," Brett agreed, though Lance hadn't given him a choice about it. Lance nodded, wounded, and then he called the name in Brett's folder, leaving Allura in Brett's choppy, ungraceful hands. He noted as he started toward the back with the traded donor that Brett couldn't even say Allura's name correctly.
By the time he'd seated his new patient, Lance regretted what he'd just done. That's not like you, the TA repeated in his head, and he knew it. He wasn't petty like that. Was he? He wasn't really going to let Brett hook Allura up to the centrifuge, was he? She was strong and not in the least bit squeamish, but since when had Lance wanted her to get hurt? No matter what she'd done to him or thought of him. And yeah, it was obvious that she hadn't wanted Lance to be the tech assigned to her, but that was because she had zero experience with anyone else. She had no idea about Brett or any of the others. Lance had never let anyone else touch her.
But she'd learn very quickly. In just a few minutes, Allura was going to understand that not every lab technician at the donation center was as gentle as Lance, as careful as Lance. That part was something that Lance could live with. The part that was bugging him was how Allura would realize Lance had given her to Brett on purpose. He'd hurt her on purpose. And somehow he didn't think she would see it any other way. She'd forget that she was here on Thursday to avoid him, that she had almost left rather than donate if it meant that he would be hooking her up. All she would remember was that Lance had her folder in his hands and then given it to someone else who was probably going to stab her.
Lance swore suddenly under his breath, causing the donor in the chair, a young man named Jonathan, to startle, as though Lance had screwed something up on him.
"I'll be right back," Lance told him wearily, holding up a hand. Jonathan looked confused, but he didn't have time to say anything as Lance pivoted away from him, hurrying across the floor to where Brett was violently ripping off pieces of tape and sticking the ends to the top of the centrifuge. Good. He hadn't got to the venipuncture part yet.
"Brett," Lance joined them quietly, holding back, knowing that this was going to look psychotic and weird, but he just couldn't let this happen. Allura physically shrank into the chair at his approach, but since Brett had already secured her blood pressure cuff, she couldn't really go anywhere.
Brett turned, abruptly as usual, and now Lance had both his hands up, thinking of how he was going to do this without hurting anyone's feelings. Somehow telling Brett that he'd changed his mind about letting him punish the girl he'd fantasized about for months didn't quite seem the way to go about it.
"Lance?" Brett prompted him when he didn't say anything, studying him up and down. "You ok? Change your mind about that shot?"
Brett, you big, dumb hero. That's perfect. "Yeah, I did," Lance lied. "I'll finish up here if you wouldn't mind grabbing it for me?"
"Sure thing," Brett said, looking pleased to be of service, glad that he was helping Lance with something instead of the other way around. Lance managed a partial smile for him, sorry that he was sending him away because he didn't trust him. "Be right back."
And that's how Lance found himself alone with Allura, a little faster than he'd wanted to be. He still didn't know what he wanted to say to her. He was still hurt, still angry. It didn't help that she looked horrified and trapped, eyes following Brett desperately, as though she wanted to call him back. Lance pulled out a donor kit from the drawer on the centrifuge cart, thinking he'd just get this over with.
"Lance," Allura fumbled, starting to force some kind of conversation to banish the awkwardness of this. Hearing her talk to him made something inside his chest twitch. Her accent. The lilt in his name.
"You don't have to say anything," he told her, surprisingly terse, but if he didn't keep things tightly reined in, it was likely to get messy in a hurry. He was just here to hook her up safely. "I'll be done in a minute."
She stopped, her lips coming together in a straight, convicted line. Lance focused his attention to her arm, though he did notice her turning her head away from him. There was a tenseness in her this time; Lance could feel it in her muscles.
"Relax, Allura," he commanded. "Loosen up. I'm not going to hurt you." I came all the way over here specifically so I wouldn't be responsible for hurting you.
"Why did you send him away?" Allura asked, harshly, and Lance paused in his prep work to glare at her. You don't want him, he thought. Except she did. Her entire demeanor, her face, her arm, her drawn up knees, all told Lance that she actually did want Brett to come back. That everything was different between them now. There was no trust anymore. She had the audacity to look frightened of him.
"I'm doing you a favor," he heard himself hiss at her, furious that she didn't understand this, that she didn't understand anything about him. That he'd spent all that time reading all those books for her and she still knew nothing about who he was. Pointless.
"A favor?" She repeated, with some of her typical strength. It almost sounded like a challenge.
"Yes," he almost snapped. "Not that you deserve it."
He watched her eyes go huge before he let his gaze slide off to the floor. Don't be so bitter, he lectured himself. It's not her fault that you're a mess.
"What makes you think," she started again, but he really meant the part where she didn't have to say anything. He wasn't going to defend himself anymore. Especially since this was just like last time where Allura was making assumptions about what Lance was doing without having all the information.
"Don't," he said, unwilling to hear anything she might have to say. "Keep still. You'll feel a sting here." She clamped her mouth shut again as he inserted his needle in one smooth motion, quick and painless as usual. Instead, he took his frustration out on the centrifuge, jabbing the buttons to get her started. Then he left without looking at her again, disliking that his conscience didn't seem all that clear.
Brett caught him on his way back to the patiently waiting Jonathan, handing him the five-hour energy bottle. Lance thanked him, taking it. He still had no intention of drinking it. He sensed Brett staring at him as he walked away, but he offered no explanation about what he'd just done. In fact, he thought it would be easiest to go back on autopilot. He had less than an hour before he could go home.
He and Brett walked past each other across the floor, engaged in their various tasks. Each time Lance felt he had to give him something. So he would nod to him, tell him he was doing a good job, but please keep it slow. No need to rush. In return, Brett blossomed under the praise, took it upon himself to do the low-ranking restocking and cleaning jobs that no one really liked, and he kept up his vigilance on Lance, popping up at his elbow from time to time when Lance had truly zoned out for a minute to make sure he was doing ok.
Lance wasn't sure. Something hurt inside him but he couldn't tell if it was a physical or emotional wound. Though he suspected it had something to do with Allura and with Keith, how both of them were distancing themselves from him. It made him feel unwanted and misunderstood, and he hated it.
"So Lance, is that your girlfriend?" Brett asked him when they found themselves at the sink together, washing their hands again. Lance shook his head, more to clear it than to answer.
"No," he said, voice more bitter than he'd wanted it to sound. "She's not interested."
"You sure? She's been watching you the entire time. She looks worried about you."
"Brett," Lance began, but he had no hope of explaining the situation. There was too much. And despite how cool Brett had been this shift, how he was just such a friendly person to begin with, Lance just didn't feel like being that open with him. He was relieved to hear an alarm go off, a clotted line. He grabbed a paper towel, grateful to leave this conversation, but Brett once again stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"I'll take care of that," Brett offered. "Go talk to her."
"She doesn't want to talk to me," Lance dismissed.
"I think you've got it backwards," Brett contradicted, giving him a small shove in Allura's direction. "Go on and straighten it out. Whatever it is. Because if you slump anymore, you'll be dragging your knuckles on the ground."
Without giving Lance another chance for protest, Brett headed off to the station where the alarm was going off. Lance watched him for just a second, watched him sidle up to the cot and start pushing the buttons to get things quiet first before he started in on the problem. Lance recognized the donor – Makayla Walker, a good-natured girl who made extremely hesitant attempts to shyly practice her Spanish with Lance sometimes. Her face looked up to Brett questioningly. She'd never had a second's trouble with a donation before and obviously didn't understand what had happened. Lance hoped Brett would explain that clots just happened sometimes and that it wasn't a big deal.
Brett caught him still standing there watching, so he jerked his head over to Allura, lifting his eyebrows in a not-so-subtle command for Lance to get on with it. Lance looked across the walkway from Brett and locked eyes with Allura, who apparently had been watching him just like Brett had said. As soon as she'd been caught, Allura quickly turned away, embarrassed. There was no book on her lap today. What was that about?
Fine. Maybe this would be good. Maybe they could get everything straight, have one real and final conversation in this weird, quasi-friendship they'd kept going for months. Then maybe Lance could get some closure about her. Maybe this could be the warm up for the conversation Lance had to have with Keith later.
"Everything ok over here?" Lance began with a question he always asked her, those days when all he wanted was to have an excuse to come to her station to talk to her. Across the walkway, Brett smiled as he worked on Makayla, pleased that Lance was taking his advice.
"I don't know," Allura admitted, her voice hesitant. Her answer made Lance check the machine, her blood pressure, her color, finding them all normal. The donation was going perfectly, just like it always had for her. Whatever she wasn't sure was ok, it had nothing to do with plasma.
"Then what's up?" Lance asked her honestly. He didn't know what he was doing standing here when he knew she didn't want to see him, when she thought that he was capable and willing to lie to her. But then why was she staring at him? Not reading?
"How – how is your friend?" Allura asked, picking at an invisible piece of lint on her jeans. Lance didn't know what she meant by that. Was she checking his story, or had she changed her mind about believing him?
"He's getting better," Lance answered, a little easier now that he was speaking about Keith, about events he was sure on. "But it was rough. I ended up in the emergency room with him." He stopped short of saying the words 'he almost died.' That seemed too much to tell Allura and not enough to do it justice, so he just kept that detail to himself.
Allura licked her lips nervously, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for something to say to that. Lance didn't even know if she believed him or not, but he found it didn't matter anymore. He knew what had happened. He knew why he'd done everything he'd done last weekend. Knew he wouldn't really change anything if he could do it over again.
Lance was still waiting for what Allura would say next when a lightning strike of emergency hit the donation center. It happened so fast that it took several seconds for Lance to even register what was going on. His first clue was Allura. Her mouth dropped open and she uttered a harsh "oh!" of shock. She lifted her hand, covering her face for just a second before she began pointing across the walkway, trying to get Lance to look over there. It wasn't until Lance started turning to see what she was doing that he could hear the screaming.
Confused, Lance stared, taking in the scene at the station opposite Allura, where Brett had been clearing Makayla's line. It had changed in a dramatic way that didn't make sense at all. Brett now stood helpless, his head jerking around, trying to see in all directions at once. The alarm from the centrifuge was shrieking in cadence with Makayla, who was staring at where the needle had once been secured in her arm. Where it no longer was. Where blood seemed to be gushing out, splashing on the floor, dripping from the plastic mattress. Shit.
Lance took one more second to lock eyes with Allura, and they communicated better in that one look than they had in all the previous months of Lance trying to talk to her. In that second, he let her know that he was leaving her side, right now, that he had something to do that was important. And in that second, he saw that she understood. That she was frightened and shocked, but she understood that he needed to go.
"Out of the way," Lance directed Brett, who was too overwhelmed to be of any help here. As Brett tried to take a step backward, Lance saw what had happened. Somehow, Brett had gotten tangled in the tubing, and when he'd tried to walk away, probably too big and too fast, he'd ripped Makayla's catheter out, at the wrong angle, tearing open her vein and the skin of her arm. Damn it, Lance growled in his head, but knew better than to say anything out loud. Makayla was screaming, terrified at the blood draining out of her arm. What's worse, she'd been on a return, so her filtered blood was also draining at an alarming rate from the centrifuge, spilling messily onto the floor from the unsecured line.
"Shut off the machine!" Lance shouted at Brett, who still stood motionless, not knowing what to do. But for Lance, this was the first time all day he'd felt absolutely, perfectly awake. He ducked down to pull an absorbent pad from the bottom of the cart. Instead of throwing it on the floor, he wrapped it tight around Makayla's arm. Stop her bleeding first.
"Lift your arm," Lance directed her, no longer shouting, but keeping an authoritative clip to his words, knowing that Makayla's mind needed firm instruction as it was reeling right now. Her normally calm face was full of panic and losing color. She was almost hyperventilating, though her screams had turned to little moans of terror. By this time, other techs were swarming toward them, as many as could be spared from the other donors.
"Get her feet up," Lance told Bethany, who had closed the front desk until this could be dealt with, as protocol required. She moved immediately to do as he said.
"Lance, I'm sorry," he heard Brett beginning to apologize.
"Not now," Lance growled at him. "Go get cleaned up. Get out of the way." Someone put a hand on his knee and he realized that his other coworker, Ian, was crouched at his feet, trying to put more pads down to cover the blood on the floor to minimize the risk of slipping. Lance took a careful step to allow him to get at it before turning all his attention to Makayla.
"You're ok," he told her, hugging her blood drenched arm tight to his torso, keeping pressure on the tear, his fingers clamped down into the inside of her elbow, making sure that she wasn't using any of her own strength to keep her arm lifted. "Grab a trash can," he said urgently to Bethany because even though he was telling Makayla she was ok, her shock response was behaving otherwise. Bethany stood ready in case Makayla started throwing up as Lance tried to talk her out of it.
"Look at me, Makayla," he encouraged her, keeping calm for both of them. "It's not bad." Ian was back with warm wet towels, and Lance once again shifted out of his way so he could lay one across Makayla's forehead and across her throat. Lance paid attention to the wound under his fingers. He could no longer feel it throbbing, couldn't tell if more warm blood was pumping out of it in synch with Makayla's heartbeat. He wondered how much she'd lost. The centrifuge pulled out a pint at a time, but she'd been on a return. She might need to go to the other side of the hospital and receive a transfusion. Or maybe there was less than a pint in the machine and on the floor, though it looked like gallons. Either way, it meant that Makayla couldn't come back to the center for at least eight weeks since she'd definitely lost too many red blood cells. He hoped she wasn't counting on the funding she received to buy her groceries or something.
Lance started asking Makayla questions, easy ones. What day is it? What was her name and birthday? He started easing her into talking more. What did you do last weekend? What's your favorite class? You're doing so great; keep looking at me.
Superstar Ian brought the center's first-aid kit and settled it on the cot near Makayla's hip, then silently stood ready for whatever Lance might need him to do, taking over the trash can so Bethany could return to the front desk. Lance didn't know where Brett went.
As Makayla's breathing eased and her arm relaxed against Lance's chest, he changed topics again to ask her harder questions, monitoring her for shock with each one. Does anything hurt? Are you feeling faint or nauseated?
After a very long time, Lance felt safe to start the second part of treatment. He made sure that Makayla's feet were still resting on a pillow above her head. He had Ian bring him more warm towels to replace the ones cooling on her. This time he instructed Ian to put one over her eyes, forcing her to keep them closed. Then he began cleaning her up.
First he cut the excess off the pad, cut it into a neat square that covered the wound, having Ian help him by keeping pressure on it. It might be overkill, but he wasn't taking any chances on the bleeding starting up again. Somewhere he asked if Steve had been notified. Steve was a nine to five kind of guy, but this sort of thing required him to come in after hours. Ian said he was on his way.
Lance cleaned all the blood from Makayla's arm, washing it away, dropping antiseptic wipes into the biohazard waste bucket at his feet. Meanwhile, she lay quiet on the cot, unresisting, unmoving. He talked to her as he worked, telling her how well she was doing, telling her how impressed he was that she was so calm. He repeated over and over that she was ok, that she was just fine. When she was as clean as he could get her, he taped a fresh piece of gauze over the pad. He'd decided the best thing to do was send her over to the ER as a precaution. They could look at what was underneath, determine if the wound needed stitches or glue or maybe just a butterfly bandaid to keep it together. It was not in his job description for tonight.
Lance sat with Makayla as she came back from shock. He kept her injured arm, holding her wrist and supporting her elbow, keeping her off his scrubs, which were now soaked. Steve came in and started asking more questions, which Lance and Makayla answered back and forth. Steve called the ER to have them send some of their techs and a gurney over, but by the time they arrived, Makayla was calmly sitting up and drinking a Capri Sun. Lance told her where she was going and that it was just to be extra safe; he apologized that she wouldn't be able to donate again for eight weeks. He asked her seriously if that would cause any financial hardship for her, but she said it was ok. She thanked Lance several times, signed some forms for Steve, and then she was wheeled away.
That's when Lance noticed that Allura was still sitting in the chair opposite the scene, still watching him intently. Her machine was done, her bottle of plasma filled and finished. Lance brought it to Ian's attention that Allura could be taken off, but Ian just shrugged.
"I tried a long time ago," he confessed. "She said she didn't want me to. She said she'd wait for you and didn't care how long it took."
Lance checked with Steve, who just nodded, preoccupied with the mess he was going to have to deal with, both physically and in paperwork. Lance still didn't know where Brett was hiding. He wondered if Steve were going to fire him on the spot. Ian handed him a plastic cover, a huge tarp-like gown that went over his head, down to his wrists, and far past his hips. Another precaution since his scrubs were now contaminated by biohazard fluid. Lance removed his bloody gloves, replacing them after washing his hands again. Then he put on the cover and fresh gloves before going to see Allura. She stared at him, a new expression on her face now.
"Sorry about that," Lance apologized for something he hadn't done. "You ok?" Because sometimes watching traumatic incidents like that put people into shock too. But surely Ian would have checked her for that already. Why had she waited for him?
"That was horrible," she said, her voice far away, as if she could still see it. Lance wondered what it had looked like from her perspective, trapped to her donor chair by her own needle and blood pressure cuff. She could have closed her eyes, but somehow Lance didn't think that she had.
"Yeah," Lance agreed. "It shouldn't have happened. I don't know how many times I've told him to slow down."
This made Allura's eyes widen as something seemed to click with her. As she remembered that it had been Brett who was going to start her earlier, that Lance had traded him for her and then changed his mind about it afterward. She looked at him with a deepening understanding of the evening. Lance busied himself with disconnecting her, more pressure, more arm lifting. No lost blood here.
"That could have been me," Lance heard Allura whisper. No, he wanted to assure her. I didn't let him. I couldn't. But he had thought about it. He'd almost let Brett go ahead. Because he'd been hurt first and wanted to give it back to her, however passively. He'd been so angry at her. He was so ashamed of that now.
"That's why you –" Allura continued, staring at him with her large, beautiful eyes. They were full of fear and something else that Lance didn't have the energy to identify. He didn't think he could screw up anymore when it came to his relationship with her.
"Come on," Lance interrupted, throwing her tubes into a different biohazard bucket. "You're done." He picked up her plasma bottle, walking her over to the cashier like this was just another day. Because for him, this was just another day. He had to be prepared for things like this all the time. And he also had to be prepared for it to take him away from conversations, from people he loved. He had to prepare himself for the lifestyle he'd chosen to keep him alone, because how could he expect anyone else to just sit by the sidelines and wait for him to finish? To watch him cradle another girl's arm against his chest and just wait? Wait for him to come home, not even knowing when that would be? It wasn't fair to even ask. Not fair for Allura even though she had sat and waited for him tonight. Definitely not fair to Keith who was still trapped and waiting in Lance's apartment, thinking he'd be home by eight. Lance couldn't ask anyone to wait for him anymore.
"Lance?" Allura asked as they stopped in front of the cashier. Lance placed her bottle on the counter to be added to the others.
"Thanks for coming in," Lance told her, ending the conversation, just wanting it to be over once and for all. "And for future reference, if you don't want to see me, come in on Monday or Friday nights. That's when I'm off."
Allura blinked in surprise and embarrassment at what Lance had just said. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't know where to start. But Lance had no desire to continue. He was more than done. The weariness was returning now that the drama was over. Lance could feel himself starting to crash from the adrenaline rush. It was going to be evident very soon how much it had taken out of him. Not that he'd had a whole lot to start with. He looked at the clock, realizing his shift had been over for twenty minutes, the center was in closing mode, but he knew that he couldn't go home yet. He had to clean every nook and cranny of Makayla's centrifuge. Mop and disinfect the floor, the mattress, every bolt and joint of the cot. Steve would want him and Brett to debrief in his office after that. It would take hours. He felt Allura's eyes on him as he turned away from her, but there was no longer anything to say. Lance felt his emotions shut down, autopilot returning as he went down on his knees to start gathering up the pads Ian had set on the floor. He didn't see Allura leave.
Honestly, he didn't see much of anything. Just red splatters right in front of his eyes that he methodically wiped clean with bleach. People walked behind him for a little while, the last of the donors finishing up and leaving the center for the night. The techs cleaned the other stations with much less precision and then they too were gone. Steve brought Lance and Brett into his office as expected and asked them question after question about the incident and the protocol that had been followed afterward, filling out form after never-ending form. Lance could barely keep his eyes open at this point, even though he knew it was important.
"Lance," Steve said, for what could have been a second or third time according to the tone he used when he said it. Lance shook his head clear, trying to focus on what was going on. "You doing all right? Do you need a ride?"
"No," Lance said automatically without thinking much about it. Not really capable of thinking at all at this point. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood that he'd cleaned, the splashes on the floor, on the mattress, on the centrifuge. He hoped Makayla was ok. There had been so much.
"You know what? I take it back. I'm giving you a ride; let's go," Steve switched his question to a command, and Lance didn't fight about that either. He got his coat and bag and stood waiting while Steve said some last words to Brett. Something about being put on probation. Something about working the front desk until further notice. Which meant that he wasn't fired. For some reason, even after everything that had happened, Lance was glad about that. Brett wasn't a bad guy. He could use another chance.
Steve had to pull on Lance to get him moving again, and Lance thought he was still asking questions, but it was like it took too much effort to translate English anymore, so Lance didn't bother answering. He closed his eyes and saw Allura pull her hair back behind her. The blood splattered on the white floor. He blinked and realized that Steve was shaking his shoulder, that he'd rested his head against the cold of the car window. That he was sitting in Steve's front seat and that the Stony Island apartment building was just outside. He didn't remember telling Steve where he lived. Didn't remember ever getting into the car.
"Get some rest, Lance," Steve instructed, watching him worriedly. "You did a great job today; I'm really glad you were there, but if you need some time, take it." There was a pause where Lance thought he should probably be doing something but couldn't pin down what it should be. "Lance, I can't tell if you're like this because of what happened tonight or if something else is wrong. You've been sort of off all week, but if you need something, you can talk to me, all right?" Another pause where Lance realized he wasn't moving yet; he was just sitting here staring at nothing, not responding. He heard Steve sigh, letting it go. "You need help getting inside?"
It was so weird to be on the receiving end of these questions. Especially when Lance knew there wasn't anything wrong with him. But he couldn't make the effort to tell Steve that. He just shook his head. He thought he mumbled a thank you for the ride, but he wasn't sure. He thought Steve told him one more time that if he needed another day off to just email him. Then he blinked again and he was standing in front of his apartment door. Thank you, autopilot.
He stood there looking at the doorknob, not bothering to reach for it because he was concentrating too hard on the voices he could hear on the inside. He could distinguish Hunk easily, the comforting rumble. Also Pidge. Then a raised voice, one he didn't know so well. At least, not when it was strong like this. Keith?
"I thought he got off at eight? It's after eleven; how long could it possibly take?"
"Keith, calm down. He's late sometimes. There was an incident at the center. He's fine, and he'll be home when everything's taken care of." That was Hunk.
"What kind of an incident? What's that mean? What exactly did they say?"
"They can't tell us stuff like that; it's illegal." Pidge now in all her practicality. Lance smiled, barely registering that they were talking about him.
"I'm going to go look for him."
The apartment door was torn open before Lance had caught up with what was going on. Had they called the donation center looking for him? When? Who had they talked to? He felt a little electric jolt go through him at the sudden change in the door's position, at the light pouring out into the hallway, at Keith standing there with his coat half on. Lance blinked.
"Oh my God," Keith exclaimed, startled to find Lance just standing there outside the door. He shrugged off his coat in a smooth motion, dropping it back onto the camp chair and then immediately reaching for Lance. "How long have you been . . . What the hell happened?"
What did happen? Lance tried to focus, tried to keep his balance as Keith dragged him through the door. He registered movement, lots of movement, too much movement all around him. Hunk and Pidge on the periphery and Keith's hands on his coat sleeves. Everything was going extremely fast. Lance tried opening his mouth to answer because he thought he remembered being asked a question, but only a strangled half-laugh came out and then didn't stop because everything was so bright in here and moving and how was he supposed to answer a question when he couldn't remember what it was. What could he possibly tell them? He had no energy left.
"What are you – are you laughing or crying?" Keith asked him, shaking him a little. Lance felt his knees quaking and decided to just drop onto the floor. That would make it easier to take his shoes off anyway. He focused his gaze onto the couch, the afghan on the back of it. It looked suddenly and surprisingly comfortable. "Are you drunk?" Keith demanded, and that made Lance laugh harder, doubling over on the floor so forcefully that Keith had to let him go.
"Lance doesn't drink," Pidge answered for him from where she stood by the table, gauging whether it would be beneficial for her to come closer or just give Lance some space. "He gets like this when he's exhausted."
"You damn idiot," Keith snarled at him, which helped Lance stop with the crazed giggling, made him realize that it was Keith's hands, not his, that were undoing his shoelaces for him. That's ironic, he thought mildly, from very far away and long ago. Keith pulled off his shoes and started on his coat, tugging his backpack off his shoulders.
"Stop," Lance told him, ineffectively brushing at his hands. "Don't get so worked up." Wow, his words did sound slurred. No wonder Keith thought he'd been drinking. But still, he needed to get it together. Keith was getting upset, and Lance remembered that wasn't a good thing. "Your heart –"
"To hell with my heart; you're covered in blood!" Keith's tone picked up in speed and ferocity as he succeeded in undoing Lance's coat, revealing the plastic gown cover and the stains splashed all over him.
"What?" Hunk's suddenly high-pitched voice from somewhere behind Keith's shoulder. "Lance, what?"
Something urgent pricked at Lance, enough to get him back on his feet. Something about Hunk. Something about Hunk and blood.
"It's ok," Lance soothed, trying to focus on Hunk, who was staring at him with his mouth open, completely freaked out. "Hunk, chill. It's not mine." Not that it made any difference. Keith somehow succeeded in relieving Lance of his coat, even as he started walking away from him, toward Hunk.
"Lance, stop," Pidge intercepted on Hunk's behalf, pausing Lance for a second as he considered her. Didn't she know he was just trying to help? Hunk's face was changing color as Lance came closer to him, and with the next step, he turned away from Lance completely, headed for the kitchen sink, making desperate little gagging sounds.
"Hunk, it's ok," Lance entreated him again while Pidge followed Hunk, putting her hands on his back as he leaned over the sink.
"Lance, back off!" She shrieked at him, which did make him pause, suddenly hurt. What was going on? "You can't help right now; you are literally covered in the problem. Keith, get him out of here, will you? Get him cleaned up."
"Right," Keith said from somewhere behind Lance, his agreement turning tangible as he firmly grabbed on to Lance. "Come on."
Still confused, Lance allowed Keith to drag him away, then began walking himself to the bathroom. Keith might be talking to him, but all he noticed was the heat from Keith's hand on his shoulder. It felt nice. It reminded him that he needed to tell Keith something. That he had to explain that he didn't have to wait here for Lance anymore. He could go because it wasn't fair.
"What the hell is this thing?" Keith spoke to himself as he stripped the plastic cover from Lance once they were in the bathroom. For some reason, that question got through to Lance, and he found himself rambling in response.
"It's a biohazard protection cover, but I probably didn't need it. Makayla is like the purest girl ever, I think she's a Mormon or something, so I'm more than one hundred percent sure that her blood is clean. Still, it helped not get blood on my coat, so maybe it's good that I had it. Ian gave it to me."
Keith was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. Like he wasn't quite sure what to do with all the random information Lance had just given him. He bundled the plastic into his hands, compressing it as small as it would go before ramming it into the trash can by the sink. Lance noted that they'd have to take it outside before Hunk came in, though he couldn't tell if it had blood on it or not.
"Take that off," Keith directed, gesturing at Lance's scrub top. Then he paused, leaning closer to Lance. "Shit, it's in your hair. Do you think you can handle a shower on your own?"
"Sure," Lance agreed, slowly looking over to the tub. A shower sounded wonderful, because now that Keith mentioned it, Lance felt cold all over.
"Lance!" Lance blinked, wondering why things kept skipping. Keith had moved very suddenly. He wasn't standing in front of Lance anymore; he was kneeling. He was on the floor because Lance was sitting down. Lance didn't remember sitting down. Keith had both of Lance's shoulders under his hands. He was staring at him. "What's wrong with you?"
"I'm . . cold," was the only thing Lance could think of to say, the only thing he could think about now that Keith had brought it up. "I'm going to get warm in the shower." He moved toward it, completely numb, and started the water, hardly noticing Keith still at his side.
"Maybe don't stand up in there," Keith suggested worriedly. "I'll get you some clean clothes."
"Thanks," Lance said absently, focusing on the water. Something was nagging at him, telling him that he was being too casual about what was going on, but he didn't know how to fix it. He just wanted to get out of his sticky, bloody scrubs and into the water. He wanted to be clean and warm. "My room is down the hall."
"God, Lance, I know. Are you ok?"
"Yeah," Lance assured. Keith hesitated at the door, but eventually pulled it shut, heading down the hall. Lance stepped into the shower with his clothes on, feeling the fabric vacuum to his skin immediately. When the water running down the drain turned bloody, Lance's mind revived a bit and started putting itself back together. The events from the day, from the donation center, came back to him, not in order at first, but by the time he'd peeled the scrubs off, he thought he had everything sorted. Poor Hunk; Lance couldn't believe he'd tried to chase after him like that. He hoped Pidge remembered what to do.
He began scrubbing. First his hair and then his face, rubbing everything as hard as he could, the last blood cleanup of the night. He had to wake up, stay awake for a little longer. He had to tell his friends what happened to him so they'd know he wasn't losing his mind. Had he really just told Keith how to find his bedroom? That was funny. And really horrifying. He watched the blood running down the drain.
That's when his head started changing the facts. It wasn't Makayla bleeding anymore; it was Allura. Because Lance had been petty and angry and just handed her folder to Brett, even though he knew what could happen. He'd just let Brett rip into her.
No, he hadn't. He didn't do that; he'd changed his mind at the last minute. Even though she hadn't been happy about it. He'd done her a favor. She was mad that he'd tried to protect her. There was blood all over the floor. Lance stopped the water, drying off. The roughness of the towel hurt his back. His whole left arm ached as he moved the towel over his body. He'd have to clean everything up before Hunk came in. He pulled his soaking wet scrubs out of the bathtub, transferring them to the sink. He wrapped the towel around his waist and then stood with both hands clinging to the sides of the sink basin. The way Hunk was doing in the kitchen right now. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe Pidge remembered what to do. Was there blood in the kitchen? Had Lance gotten Allura's blood in the kitchen?
No, Makayla. Not Allura. She was fine; she was pissed, but she had waited. But he couldn't ask Keith to do that anymore. His mind was skipping again, and he held tighter to the sink as his hands started shaking. This was familiar, but bad, but not unexpected. His clothes were staining the sink. He needed to scrub them clean. What was that noise? How did he make his hands stop shaking? He couldn't remember, though he'd thought he once knew how to do it. There was a trick. Portable, mindless. How did it go?
"Lance? I've got your clothes." Lance turned his head slowly toward the door because it was saying his name. No, a gorgeous, raven-haired boy coming through the door was saying his name. Keith. It was Keith. The wolf pup with the colorless eyes who slept in his bed but didn't sleep with him, which was something that Lance wanted but also didn't want to want. He looked so good, but so scared entering the room. He rushed at Lance, confusing him all over again. Why did he have to move so fast? "Shit, you are sick. I knew it! Come on; sit down. Damn it; this is my fault."
The only reason Lance didn't fall onto the toilet lid was because Keith eased him down onto it. Lance stared at him silently, amazed at how animated he was. How beautiful, even though he was mad. He fussed over Lance, exclaiming over each discovery. Keith hadn't seen Lance with his shirt off for a few days.
"Fuck, Lance, your back. I thought you were taking care of it. And what . .my God, are you trying to kill yourself . what happened to your arm?" Keith was on his knees again, and he had stretched Lance's arm out into the light to inspect it better. Lance dragged his eyes over to it too; he hadn't really seen it yet. Hadn't seen what Brett had done to him, but understood Keith's reaction when he saw the bruise that wrapped around his forearm, almost to his wrist, an enormous aching internal hemorrhage. The damage was sort of impressive, really. It must have been because he'd had to get that huge man with chest pains into the ambulance that night. No heavy lifting after donation. How many times had he said that? How bad would Allura's arm bruise? Would she be able to move it tomorrow?
"Oh shit, you are shaking so bad. I'll . . . I'll get Hunk. We'll get you out of here."
Lance's mind wrapped around the point where Keith was going to bring Hunk and Pidge in to help him. That they were going to see him falling to pieces like this. Somehow that idea lit up the very last of his energy. He didn't want them in here. He'd done enough damage already tonight. He grabbed on to Keith to stop him from leaving or calling out, forcing Keith's attention back on him.
"I'm not sick," Lance told him, even as he tried to think of how many words it was going to take to explain this. Or how many he could leave out. He closed his eyes, saw splashes of blood behind his lids. Not Allura's. Makayla's and both of them are fine. It's not your fault.
"Pretty sure I said the same damn thing," Keith quipped, but he did return to Lance's side. "Where did you put that tube of antibiotic the doctor gave you?" Lance winced, though what he was trying to do was smile reassuringly. He reached for his clothes, certain that Keith would take him more seriously if he weren't wearing just a towel, but Keith wouldn't hand them over until after he'd applied more ointment to the infected and inflamed wound on Lance's back.
Lance tried to explain as Keith worked over him, faltering badly on the details. He backed up several times, overlapping sometimes the events from tonight with stuff that happened on the ambulance run. He couldn't seem to put details together very well; he could tell he was all over the place, but he kept losing his train of thought. He told Keith about delayed panic response and Dr. Delacroix and knitting with pencils. Then he explained about Brett and how he did venipunctures as though he were plunging vaccines into livestock or something.
"And I almost let him," Lance half moaned in regret as Keith took both of his hands, trying to still them. "I was so mad; I was going to let him touch her. I'm the only one who should ever touch her."
"Lance, you aren't making any sense," Keith told him gently. "Who are you talking about?"
"Keith? What are you guys still doing in here?" Pidge asked as she came up behind him, taking stock of the situation. Lance jerked his hands away from Keith, tugging the sleeves of his shirt over his fingers and tucking them under his arms. Keith tilted his head at him.
"Is Hunk ok?" Lance asked, watching Pidge's face soften at the question.
"He's fine. I got his head down and did everything the way you told me to. What the hell were you thinking, chasing him down like that?"
Keith blocked Pidge from getting any closer to Lance, putting a hand up to stop her from lecturing Lance anymore, protecting him. She raised an eyebrow at Keith, not taking her eyes off Lance.
"I think he's sick. He must have caught it from me," Keith volunteered, which sharpened Pidge's expression again. "If Hunk's ok, can he help me get him to his room?"
"I'm not," Lance protested again. Couldn't they tell? Pidge came closer, placing one cool hand on his face and her arm around his shoulders. He leaned into her automatically, feeling the room shift out from under him as he rested his head against the softness of her hoodie.
"I don't think he has a fever," Pidge said reassuringly to Keith. "We'll check again after we get out of this hot room, but I say, he gets like this sometimes when he's been pushing himself too hard. He just needs some sleep." She bent down to catch Lance's eyes, focusing him. "Real sleep."
Pidge continued talking as she stood up, motioning for Keith to help Lance stand as well. "I answered your phone for you Lance," she said, though Lance didn't know if he was picking up all the words. Sometimes it seemed that a few got lost in the middle as Keith slipped an arm around Lance's waist. He was so warm. "Your supervisor called to make sure you got in all right. I got a little information out of him pretending to be your sister, so if that ever comes up, that's what we are now. Got it? Oh, never mind, you can't even hear me, can you? I'll have to tell you later." No, I got it, Lance thought but didn't say. He was paying too much attention to walking.
"Did he tell you what happened?" Keith asked as they made their way down the hall.
"He couldn't give me everything, but yeah. Basically Lance is a hero, but we knew that already. Someone else at the center screwed up really bad and ended up accidentally ripping a needle out of a donor. Tore it right out of her arm. Lance, you still with us? He wanted me to tell you that she was cleared to leave the ER a little while ago. Her roommate came and picked her up. She hadn't lost all that much blood. She needed six stitches, but no transfusion or anything. Everyone says you were perfect."
"I shouldn't have let him touch her," Lance murmured, lying down on his own bed for the first time in a week. His pillow smelled like Keith. "But she wasn't supposed to be there. It's Thursday. She came on Thursday because she didn't want to see me, so I let him take her. No one should touch her but me."
"Wait, Lance, what are you saying?" Pidge was close to his face. Keith was pulling his quilt over him. It felt so good. "Are you talking about your girl? She was there? Was that who got hurt tonight?"
Blood all over the floor, the mattress, his sheets. "I need to clean up the blood before Hunk can come in," Lance repeated.
"I'll take care of it," Keith said.
"Lance, buddy?" Hunk's voice, but Lance had his eyes closed and couldn't see anyone anymore. "Did you eat anything? Are you hungry?"
"I think he's already asleep, Hunk. He'll get something in the morning. Now where's his med bag? He keeps like three thermometers in there."
"Keith?" Lance called, and heat was suddenly all over him. He could feel it near his abdomen, his shoulder, circling his wrist. "I can't take your bed."
"It's your bed, and you need it more than I do."
"Got it. Ok, let's just make sure." Something cold and metallic swept across Lance's forehead. Pidge taking his temperature. "Yeah, he's normal, no fever. See? Just tired. Come on, guys, let him rest. You're not going to get anything rational out of him before tomorrow."
Lights dimmed, a quiet darkness settling into the room. Lance's muscles melted into the bed, the ache in them not leaving but changing in a way that was a relief. The warmth didn't move, neither did the pressure Lance felt on the covers, the place near his hip. The circle around his wrist.
"Keith? Come on, man; we'll figure out somewhere for you to get some sleep too."
"Don't worry about it. You guys have been way too nice to me already. I'll stay here for a while and watch him. Oh, but Pidge? He left his scrubs in the sink so be careful. I'll get the blood out of them soon."
"Thanks, Keith."
Lance tried talking to them. Tried to say he'd take care of his own scrubs; no one had to clean up the mess but him. He tried asking Keith how he knew how to get blood out of clothes. Tried telling them all that he was fine.
"Shhh," Keith's voice in the dark. "Stop trying to talk, Lance; I can't understand anything you're trying to say. Why can't you just relax, huh?"
Because he was in the wrong bed. And Keith was so much stronger now, better. And if Lance fell asleep, he might wake up in a world that didn't have Keith in it anymore. Or Allura. He'd wake up in a different place, and he wasn't ready. He wanted to hold on to this a little longer. Even though it wasn't fair. But none of those words made it past his lips. The only thing he thought he said was something that he remembered Krolia saying to Keith.
"Don't disappear." He wasn't sure if he said it out loud or not until Keith answered him.
"I won't if you won't."
Author's Note: How is everyone doing, by the way? Does everyone love exhausted Lance as much as I do? Though he's hard to write, all over the place and stream of consciousness. Poor kid. If you have a second, I'd love to hear from you.
