Author's Note: I know! I'm still here. I'm doing 8 – 10 hours a day of distance learning with my daughters, but I am still here. This chapter is going to feel like a plug being pulled out of a lake, draining pretty fast down a whirlpool. Important things are happening – physically, emotionally – it's all transitioning us for what's coming up next. But enough from me, I'll let you read it.

Chapter Thirty-One: Separation Anxiety

"So let me get this straight," Pidge began as though they were in the middle of a conversation, even though Lance hadn't seen or spoken to her all day and she made the comment as she strode purposefully and non-apologetically into Lance's bedroom. A shadow at the doorway let Lance know that Hunk was right behind her, though he at least carried an offering with him – a plate with a steaming mug and what looked like a grilled cheese sandwich. Lance wanted to turn away from both of them. He didn't feel like chatting, and he knew for a fact that grilled cheese was near the top of the American comfort food list. This was some kind of good cop, bad cop intervention thing, and he wasn't up for it. Not yet. But apparently Pidge had been revving up for a confrontation, not hesitating at all to call Lance out on his attitude today. "Are you sulking or pining?"

Pidge sprawled across Lance's bed, ensuring that she had his attention, though she ignored his glare. Hunk deposited the plate on top of Lance's open notebook on his desk, right in front of him, and then took up position to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching like a referee.

"I'm busy," Lance returned, monotone, pulling his notebook out from underneath the plate. He wasn't lying; there had been a long list of things he had to catch up on today. Homework assignments, repacking his disheveled med bag, talking to his family early that morning – an extra-long conversation since they had to discuss what had happened last week and go over all the pictures Lance had emailed them in detail. Snow was a big deal. Then Lance had prepped for another full week ahead of him, though this one would be free of ambulance runs, birthday parties, and hopefully spending the night in the ER.

"Nope," Pidge countered rapidly, eyes sharp and scrutinizing, willing him to confess to something that he wasn't clear on. "Busy is when you're eating standing up in the kitchen. Busy is when you wear your scrubs to class because you won't have time to come back and change. Busy means you get up an hour earlier to finish a case study. What you're doing here is hiding."

Lance turned to Hunk, who simply put both hands up, palms out and head shaking.

"Don't look at me, buddy," Hunk deflected, unwilling to come to Lance's defense. "I'm with her." Ok, so no good cop.

"Fine," Lance huffed. "Hiding, sulking, pining. Call it whatever you want, but at least my homework is almost finished."

"No!" Pidge yelled, obviously unwilling to play mind games, and Lance tried to summon the energy to deal with her. What did she care what he did with his Sunday? What did it matter if he spent it in the living room or his bedroom? She wasn't even going to be around for much longer, so she didn't really get to have much of an opinion. "Lance, come on!"

"What?" He managed, feeling rather picked on. What did she want from him? Didn't she understand that he was in here because he didn't want to damage their triumph? He didn't want to rain on any parades, and he didn't trust himself to keep his disappointment under control. So he was keeping to himself until he could. If he was hiding, it was for her sake.

"Don't you 'what' me like you don't get what's going on. You're just going to give up without even trying?" Pidge sat up as she spoke, perching on the edge of the mattress, her face broken open in an unsettling mix of compassion and fury.

"What are we even talking about?" Lance asked a little too quickly. His soul cooled as he realized that he probably knew exactly what they were talking about, and the conversation was about to go spinning into an even worse direction than how much time he'd spent alone today.

"Keith," Hunk volunteered quietly from the sidelines. Lance felt himself crumpling and tried to hide it by rolling his eyes. Yeah, of course. Keith. Who left last night with Shiro. Who patiently, albeit stiffly, allowed Romelle to embrace him, though Lance hadn't dared touch him on his way out. He left a little earlier than Allura, who Lance had touched, had clutched close in yet another attempt to make her seem real. She had obliged willingly, had nuzzled into Lance's chest and kissed him with soft, cool lips in farewell – which started an ache inside him that was close to homesickness, but without an actual location attached. Just a sense of loss and a desperate hunger for something he could never have. A hurt that drove Lance to bed earlier than he'd intended, before all of the other party guests had even gone and had, if he were being honest with himself, indeed imprisoned him in his room all day, suppressing any desire he might have had for food or company, knowing that there was nothing in the apartment that would truly satisfy him. Keith was a main focal point, but he wasn't the only contributing factor.

"There really isn't anything to say," Lance said, still monotone, shrugging, willing them to just let it go.

"I disagree," Pidge almost hissed, staring pointedly at him, watching him for every tell-tale nuance in his expression that he wouldn't be able to hide from her no matter how he tried. "I think you've got plenty to say, and you'd better do it fast or you are going to lose him forever."

"Wasn't that what you wanted?" Lance threw at her, vicious, defensive, unwilling to cooperate with her. She didn't understand. Not really. It just wouldn't work. "For him to disappear forever?"

"Don't you dare twist this," Pidge challenged, frustrated. "My goal then is the same as my goal now – I'm trying to keep you from making a mistake."

"What am I supposed to do?" Lance asked desperately, his volume raising as the intensity of how much he wanted that question answered exploded into the room. He saw Pidge's shoulders raise as she drew in a long breath, her mouth dropping open to explain to him in minute detail exactly what she thought he was supposed to do and what she thought of his intelligence for having to be told to do it. Lance's lungs splintered in his next inhale, his whole nervous system stinging in preparation.

"Talk to him, Lance," Hunk rumbled gently from the sidelines before Pidge could say anything sharp. "Allura too."

"See, now that would be a mistake," Lance emphasized, wishing they could see that as plainly as he could. Pidge growled something under her breath, reaching forward and snatching his notebook away from him, flipping it open to a clean page.

"Let me spell this out for you," Pidge suggested through gritted teeth, on the verge of being completely condescending. But when she actually started drawing a flow chart in his own notebook as she spoke, she pushed it right over the edge straight to insulting. "You have this awkward infatuation with Allura for months where you worship her from afar and never really talk to her because you're afraid of what might happen. Enter Keith," Pidge drew their names in little circles and began attaching arrows to key words like "rejection," "pining," "fear," and a few more that Lance didn't want to see.

"Keith's different than Allura," Pidge continued. "He needs you, and you love that. He's a hurricane of drama, and you pour a week of your energy into him and manage to wake up his emotions without sabotaging yours. You guys form a bond. You spend every waking minute with him being your helpful, sweet self, and that's good. It's leading somewhere good too. Until you think he doesn't need you anymore. Until you start thinking that you need him more than he needs you. Then that freaks you out and you pull back, which makes him think you aren't interested and he pulls back."

Pidge drew an arrow from Keith pointing to the emotions that connected Lance and Allura, illustrating how Lance was treating his relationship with both of them the exact same way, with a hesitant fear of future rejection that would cost him both. Then she created another circle, another name. The arrows and circles getting increasingly messy.

"Enter Romelle," she went on, merciless. "Who turns your weird love triangle into a tight and perfect quad." Pidge crossed out all the circles and moved to the bottom of the page where she drew a rendition of a Punnett square – Lance and Allura on the top, Keith and Romelle on the bottom. "Except it's not perfect because everyone with eyes can see that Keith couldn't be less interested in Romelle, and you are trying too hard with Allura because you wanted the quad to be the solution that kept you close to Keith." Bold lines scrawled in, separating Romelle and Keith, but then also Lance and Keith, and Lance and Allura. "Since Keith can't handle being with Romelle, and he doesn't want to ruin anything he thinks is going on between you and Allura by rejecting her best friend, he is breaking himself out of the whole thing and running away into the military. If you want to stop him, you will have to take a chance and tell him how you feel about him."

Pidge wrote the word 'confession' in all capital letters to the side of the square, drawing arrows toward Lance and Keith. Lance shook his head, done with all of it. He pulled the notebook back, flipping the page again to start over.

"Keith's wanted to join the military since he was thirteen years old," Lance protested. "And he's only just been given the opportunity to make that happen. For the first time in his life, he's free to make choices for himself. He's not ready to be in any kind of committed relationship, and even if he were, it wouldn't be with me." Lance's throat tightened, remembering how Keith pulled back, flinching from under Lance's hand. How Lance's relationship with Allura was only because Keith had brought them together, a parting thank-you gift for Lance's help. How could his friends not see this? They were confusing Keith's gratitude for something much more.

"Lance, why aren't you getting this?" Pidge pressed him, no longer sounding angry, just fiercely trying to get her point across. "You are making decisions for him. You are taking choices away from him."

"I'm staying out of his way," Lance argued. "It's not fair for me to ask him to give up on his dreams just because I want him to stay here."

"Lance," Pidge started again, but Lance jumped in on top of her.

"I'm not doing it!" He yelled, startling her. "I left my family and my country so I could come here and become a doctor, and they all hate it, but they are supporting me in my choice. If I'm allowed to be selfish like that and stay here because it's something that I wanted for myself most of my life, then I sure as hell will support anyone else in what they want to do, no matter who or where it is or how I feel about it."

"Lance," Hunk interjected, still quiet, still gentle, but Lance was speaking too fast and too hard to stop now.

"I got what I wanted," Lance said decisively. "I got my scholarship. I came to America. I got the girl. I got everything I asked for at the expense of abandoning my family. And now it's my turn to stay behind while you all go fulfill your dreams. And I cannot be selfish about it. I'm not taking that away. Not from you and not from Keith. That's not fair."

Pidge deflated during his tirade, her head tilting as it usually did when a new idea struck her from out of nowhere. Lance had never meant to tell them how hurt he was that they were leaving him behind, but it had pushed itself out in the heat of that moment and he couldn't take it back now.

"Lance," Pidge said, looking at his quilt, looking rather ashamed. He hadn't wanted to do that. He didn't want to make them feel guilty for leaving him the way his brothers had done to him. Why couldn't they have just left him alone? "We don't want to leave you."

"I know," Lance allowed, full of remorse. Why had he said that? Why had he brought it into the open? "But I can't come with you, so you have to. And so does Keith. I get it; I did the same thing."

"But why can't you –" Pidge stressed, but stopped when Lance's phone rang. Dr. Delacroix's number appearing on the screen. Unusual.

"I have to take this," Lance excused himself, though neither Hunk nor Pidge moved at all as he answered. Hunk blocked the doorway, so Lance had no choice but to stay and talk to the doctor right there in front of them. He clicked the button, staring at the floor.

"Lance?" Dr. Delacroix began before he'd even said anything. "Are you busy? Can you come to the ER?"

"Right now?" Lance asked, wondering and worried. Why would she want him after dark on a Sunday night?

"Yes," Dr. Delacroix answered briskly, and Lance decided that he'd better stop asking stupid questions and start putting on his coat. Obviously, this was an emergency. "I need you to set up an IV for me. The only other nurse I would trust to do it is off for the weekend and I can't get him to answer his phone. Will you come?"

"I'm on my way," Lance assured, though he looked up at his friends as he said it to make sure they understood that he was leaving this conversation, that it was finished as far as he was concerned. "Give me fifteen minutes."

"Less if you can manage," Dr. Delacroix requested before hanging up. Lance couldn't help but feel slightly relieved that he now had a good excuse for getting out of here, though it came at the expense of whoever the patient in triage needing an IV happened to be.

"I've got to go," Lance explained, standing up and beginning to slip past Hunk, who hesitantly stood to the side for him, his expression apprehensive and curious. "Dr. Delacroix needs me in the ER."

"I didn't know you were on call for the ER," Pidge said, put out, not liking that Dr. Delacroix had interrupted their discussion, that she felt that she could just phone up Lance and rip him from whatever he was doing any time she liked.

"I didn't either," Lance responded, more calm than he felt. "But she wouldn't have called if she had anyone else."

Pidge gave a frustrated sort of huff, shaking her head. "When are you going to learn?" She muttered under her breath as Lance left the room. He didn't understand what she meant. If this was still something about Keith or if she were just frustrated that he was getting out of any lecture she had remaining to give him.

Hunk didn't say anything, hadn't said much this whole time, but he watched Lance get into his boots and coat with sad, brown eyes. Whatever Lance had thrown at Pidge would have hit Hunk harder, and Lance knew that now, though he hadn't stopped to think much about it in the moment. He owed him an apology, but it would have to wait until he got back. When he could do it properly – maybe go over the whole flip chart with Pidge again, more open-minded this time.

"I'll be back soon," Lance promised, though he actually had no idea what he was leaving them for or how long it would take for him to return. "Save my sandwich for me?" That seemed to pacify Hunk because he gave Lance a small smile and a nod, which was good enough for Lance to leave on.

He hurried through the bitter cold of the almost abandoned campus, most of the students snuggled into the warmth of their apartments at this time of night. He wanted to run but didn't trust himself not to sprawl flat on the concrete if he hit any ice, so he kept at a brisk walk, wondering what was waiting for him at the ER, wondering if this was the start of something that would happen more and more often. Wondering if he wouldn't be grateful for that once he was alone in his apartment after everyone had gone their separate ways.

The lines on Pidge's page kept jumping into his head as he hurried toward the hospital. The arrows pointing at Keith and Lance from the huge commanding confession. Pidge might not have noticed, but Lance had. There were two arrows, which meant that Lance wasn't the only one who could confess. Keith could have done it too. Keith could have told Lance if he'd been interested. But he hadn't. He'd never said anything to Lance. Nothing about a future together, nothing that hinted that they were anything more than rather new friends. He'd even gone out of his comfort zone to get Lance a girlfriend. Which meant, of course, that there was nothing on Keith's end to confess in the first place, and Lance risked losing him completely if he were to freak him out with any kind of suggestion about it. Better leave it as it was. They were friends, and that was good enough. Allura was with him, and that was good enough. Dr. Delacroix needed him in the ER, and that was also going to be good enough. At least until . . .

Flickers of memory shivered against Lance's throat, making him swallow. Remnants of nondescript but very real pain watching Keith and Romelle together last night at the party. Lance understood now that there was no future there, but he would somehow have to prepare himself for when it happened the next time. Undoubtedly, Keith would find someone else, someone he did want to be with. And if Lance were his friend, well, that was another choice that he was going to have to support no matter what. He wanted it for Keith at the same time he never wanted to see it. But then again it could be a very long time before he had to come to terms with it. After all, Keith was going into the Air Force where he likely wouldn't have time or opportunity to meet and fall in love with anyone. Better to not worry about it until there actually was something to worry about. Though worrying about something before it had a chance to happen seemed to be Lance's superpower.

Lance didn't have any more time to go over it now, however. Not what Pidge had said, not some future when Keith introduced Lance to the love of his life. He'd reached the ER, entering the welcome warmth through the ambulance doors and throwing his coat into that little office where he once sat with Dr. Delacroix going over a testimony proving Keith's innocence that had never even been used.

The doctor herself met him halfway to the central nurse's station, a lab coat for him in her hands. He hadn't taken the time to change into scrubs, so he tossed the coat on over his jeans and sweater.

"Thanks for coming," Dr. Delacroix said, motioning for Lance to follow her, wasting no time. "We've gone through two techs already to get this going, and the mother is understandably upset, so the next stick has to be the one that works."

"Mother?" Lance broke in with the question, gently prodding Dr. Delacroix into remembering that she hadn't given him a single piece of information about what he was walking into. Except now he knew that he'd be working with a minor.

"Right," Dr. Delacroix quipped, pausing in front of a triage door, the twist at the corner of her mouth impatient that she had to take the time to explain this. But it wasn't like Lance could read her mind or anything. "The patient is a three-week old, African-American infant with extreme symptoms of RSV – wheezing, rapid breathing, lethargy, and dehydration. I have him on oxygen already, but the IV set up is proving delicate and complicated. Which is why I asked for you."

Lance heard himself inhale all that information, startled. RSV. Three weeks old. And Dr. Delacroix had called for him to do this? Suddenly he felt that staying in his apartment and listening to Pidge would have been the easier thing to do this evening.

"Me?" Lance whispered, as if there had been some mistake. As if Dr. Delacroix had accidentally called him instead of paging the person she actually needed. Lance still didn't know exactly how he'd been able to successfully place Keith's IV in that ambulance, and if that was the event that had made her call him, then he'd better give her the full disclaimer right now. "Dr. Delacroix – I've never . . not on a baby."

"This is the ER," Dr. Delacroix responded flatly, unmoved in her decision that Lance should be the one to do this. "You'll encounter something you've never done on a daily basis. I wouldn't have called you if I didn't think you could do it better than anyone already in the building. Now let's go." She pushed through the door without waiting for a response, leaving him with no choice but to follow her in.

This triage room seemed much bigger than the one Lance had stayed in with Keith, but that was probably because there was no bed in here. Instead, a small, plastic bassinette on wheels dominated as the focal point. A frightened, tired-looking woman sat pulled up close in the uncomfortable waiting chair, guarding her baby, one arm at an awkward angle so that she could keep a hand on the infant's head. Her other hand covered her face as she slumped against the crib cart. She might have been a little older than thirty – or worry and exhaustion may have added eight years to her posture, forehead, and eyes.

The baby, Lance noticed as he walked close enough to see, remained motionless under the light receiving blanket that had been brought in to keep him warm. His tiny chest fluttered in and out as he struggled to breathe through his inflamed airway, that one activity wearing him out too much for him to wiggle, eat, or cry. He wore a medical bootee on one foot which monitored all his stats, and a breathing mask was strapped tight around his mouth and nose. Lance involuntarily drew a deeper breath himself as he watched, immediately wanting to start doing something that would help, that would give the baby and his mother ease and rest.

The woman raised her head as Dr. Delacroix approached with Lance, all her movements slow and sluggish. Out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw Dr. Delacroix put out her palm toward him, an indication that he stop where he was and wait for her to explain. His gaze kept pinning itself on the baby, his miniature clenched hands. Any one of Lance's textbooks probably outweighed him.

"We're getting a room ready for you," Dr. Delacroix told the mother in place of a greeting. "Someone will be in soon with the hospital admittance paperwork for you to sign, but before that, I called in a specialist to place your son's IV."

Lance felt the mother's dark eyes settle suspiciously on him, and he did his best to appear as though he weren't completely shocked to be called a specialist. He tried to radiate calm, professional capability. The kind that people have when their personal lives are in order. When what they've just been asked to do is for the hundredth time instead of the first. For a moment, locking eyes with this woman who had come here because she didn't know what else to do, Lance couldn't remember anything else that had happened tonight, or last night. He had no memories outside of this room, outside of watching the small boy in the bassinette breathe. Emergencies were rather singularly soothing in this one regard, able to wipe out everything else going on.

"You're going to stab him again?" The woman asked, her voice a waterfall of tears barely held back by the dam of her pride. There was worry there, and guilt. Pain that she hadn't been enough to help her son, that she'd had to bring him here to a strange, uncomfortable room where she had no control, where two techs before Lance had poked her baby with needles, hurt him when he was already suffering, and both times it hadn't even worked.

"Only one more time," Lance heard himself promise, his own words heard from far away, like someone else had said them, the Incident Commander in Charge. Dr. Delacroix sent him a sidelong look, but Lance wasn't sure what she meant by it.

"He needs fluids and medication," Dr. Delacroix said matter-of-factly, only a bit of impatience bleeding through. "And the best way to get those into him is through an IV."

"Are you even a doctor?" The mother questioned Lance, a hint of helpless frustration layered over the words.

"No," Lance replied honestly, knowing he didn't look like any kind of specialist, or reliably competent, standing there in his jeans and sneakers, not even old enough to drink legally in this country, but Dr. Delacroix cut in before he could say anything else.

"Mr. McClain is a qualified EMT and extremely talented at placing IVs in unconventional situations," Dr. Delacroix edified Lance, sounding as though she had said the same thing to countless other mothers, that she called on Lance all the time. "I understand your hesitation, but your baby needs help, and he is the best we have. I called him from home to do this for you."

"Only once?" The woman repeated what Lance had promised earlier, caving in, knowing that the IV needed to happen, even though she was having a hard time trusting in Lance despite anything Dr. Delacroix said about it. He couldn't blame her. After all, she had seen two other people, older and more professional, fail already tonight. Lance made solid eye contact with her again.

"Once," he said, practically vowed, and she sighed in defeat even as she half-nodded in consent. Dr. Delacroix also nodded at Lance, a signal to get started. He went to the sink to wash his hands thoroughly before gloving them and pulling the smallest cannula kit from the drawer. Purple, 28-guage, for neonates.

He took his time, looking carefully at the infant as he readied the tape and his nerves. So small. Such a small, weak little guy with smooth, black, beautiful skin. The veins in the hand and arm were out of the question. He may be lying still now, but that kind of stillness wouldn't last for long once the medication started helping. Lance didn't like the idea of placing the IV in the foot either for similar reasons. No, for someone this tiny the best vein would be the superficial temporal, which ran under the scalp, along the side of the head. It would look disturbing, but it would be safest and easiest to place.

"Do we have a razor?" Lance asked Dr. Delacroix, who silently retrieved it from the stock cabinets and handed it over along with a tube of gel, which Lance squirted first onto his fingers to warm it before smearing it gently against the baby's head. He could tell the mother was watching closely, as though she'd be able to see if he made a mistake, but it seemed she sat across the room rather than practically right on top of where he worked. He noticed the familiar sensation of complete focus, the dimming of everything outside of what he needed to do.

He shaved as little of the baby's tight, dark brown curls as possible, just above his right ear. Then he asked Dr. Delacroix to reposition the light, even though he knew already that this was something he'd do better with his fingers than with his eyes. He ran the tip of his ring finger around the patch he'd just shaved, searching for the vein. Now he couldn't sense the women in the room at all, neither the mother nor Dr. Delacroix. He scrubbed the area sterile, removing any hair or gel residue. The infant didn't like any of the foreign attention. He squirmed weakly, fussing without any energy to actually muster a true cry. Lance tried to speed up a little to minimize the effort. In truth, the needle part was actually the fastest once the prep work was complete and he'd decided where it should go. Using the same finger as a guide, Lance neatly tapped into the vein with the smallest possible catheter. The baby whimpered but did not move as Lance taped the apparatus in place, ready for whatever tubing Dr. Delacroix may want to plug into it.

He heard a small exhalation close by, the first stimulus to break into his concentration. Lance lifted his gaze to see the mother staring at him, eyes weary and troubled but grateful. She had removed her hands at some point before Lance started his procedure, but now she had them both hovered over the bassinette, as though she were afraid to touch her son now that he had a needle taped against the side of his head. Lance didn't like that. Somehow, it reminded him of his own mother, how she must have looked sitting at Rachel's side at the hospital before she died, helpless, afraid, and separated.

Without deliberating too much about what Dr. Delacroix might think of what he was doing, Lance carefully rewrapped the boy in the receiving blanket in such a way that the IV site was covered. Then he lifted him, oxygen tube and all, so he could place him into the warm safety of his mother's arms. A position that would soothe them both.

"He needs you most," Lance told the woman, a truth that he knew inside his heart, a shared understanding as another boy who missed his mother's arms. And he knew she needed to hear that, needed to know that her presence was just as much a medicine as whatever would be attached to the IV.

"Thank you," she whispered, barely able to get the words out as she instinctively cradled her baby against the warmth of her chest, sighing in relief to have him back again, though they still had a long recovery process ahead of them. Lance could only nod a response, then had to turn away, fumbling at removing his gloves.

"The nurse will be in with the IV medication soon. It will get better from here," Dr. Delacroix promised, resting a sure hand against the small of Lance's back like a grounding wire, steering him out of the room – his part in this complete. He let himself be pushed into the hall, then followed Dr. Delacroix obediently to the back office where she sat him purposefully down to study him in the aftermath.

"Is he going to be ok?" Lance asked, looking at his coat on the desk but seeing only the baby wrapped in the blanket and tubing, the rapid, tiny movements of his breath.

"His chances are good," Dr. Delacroix replied, her voice even, staring at Lance critically. "And how about you? How are you doing?" She sounded serious, almost worried, completely changed from when she'd commandingly pushed Lance into the triage room. "You look stunned; let me see your hands."

Lance slowly lifted them as commanded, fingers extended, everything solid and steady. No trembling at all even as the world sped up to its normal pace around him again. He'd done his best back there, and he'd kept his promise. The baby could get the help he needed. There was no need to feel anything other than satisfied that everything had gone as well as could be expected.

"Good," Dr. Delacroix breathed approvingly. "That was . . . well, I actually hate saying this so early in our working together, but I honestly can't think of any other way to put it. That was perfectly executed, Lance. I'm very impressed."

"Thanks?" Lance replied, not intending to make the statement sound like a question, but he was reeling a little from both the situation and the compliment. "But you could have done it too."

"If that were true, I would have done it myself before I called you," Angelique said, a little gruffly. But her response helped ease the nagging feeling Lance had that he'd just taken another test. Dr. Delacroix was treating him more and more like a partner than a student. There was still massive amounts of knowledge he could gain by being in her presence, for sure, but the way he felt with her now made it seem less intimidating. Not any less challenging; he would certainly have to remain on high alert whenever he stood at her side in this place, but somehow knowing that she trusted his abilities, some of them more than her own, made the thought of being with her more exciting than terrifying.

"I appreciate your coming in on such short notice," Angelique repeated, though her tone had changed. This time is sounded more like a dismissal, which felt as abrupt to Lance as the original summons. That's it? He'd come all the way over here for a procedure that took less than twenty minutes? Granted, it had been an essential procedure, but knowing what was waiting for him at home, Lance wasn't ready to leave yet.

"No problem, what's next?" Lance piped in before Dr. Delacroix could officially tell him good-bye or leave the room without him. She looked confused.

"For you, nothing," she said, with a half-shrug. "I've already interrupted your night. You're done; you can go back to it." Lance tried not to squirm at the thought of that, all the impossible scenarios and uncomfortable questions that would slam into him the second he walked through his front door. It was different here. Everything ran on smooth, efficient protocol. The scenarios here had only a fraction of correct answers. Here it was completely obvious what the next thing should be. And now Lance understood how he could push back what he was trying to avoid in his life by being focused here. With the concentration he'd just needed, there had been no opportunity to dwell on how Hunk, Pidge, and Keith were all leaving.

Since he didn't want to think or talk about that, at all, following Dr. Delacroix in the ER at her unforgiveable, relentless pace suddenly seemed soothing. Lance laced his fingers. Even though they weren't shaking, he didn't want to take any chances about it. He stayed seated where Angelique had placed him, but he lifted his eyes to hers, trying to push into his face how serious he was about what he said next.

"Could I please stay?" Lance asked, voice on the edge of begging. Angelique folded her arms, leaning back, her eyes narrowed as she unashamedly looked him up and down. Lance watched the word 'why' form on her lips, but she pressed them together without ever saying it. She could tell; Lance knew he wasn't good at hiding things, especially not from her. She knew that his request had more to do with circumstances outside the hospital than anything that could need him inside of it.

"Fine, but we aren't making a habit of this," she warned, almost as a sigh, and Lance bit back a too-triumphant grin, jumping to his feet. He held the door for her, keeping silent as she shook her head on her way out, muttering under her breath. He thought he heard the phrase 'death of me' as she passed him, but he quickly dismissed it. There was nothing wrong here. He had a lot to learn. She had a lot to show him. He was already here, why not start now? Lives were going to be saved, and Lance wouldn't have to think very much about how his entire world was shifting. By the time he left this hospital – it would have already happened.

The ER quickly became Lance's defense and coping mechanism. The presiding Dean and Provost consented to allowing Lance to trade hands-on hours in the hospital for some of his class credits, and despite Dr. Delacroix's warning about habits, she never turned Lance away when he asked to shadow her and she stopped being surprised to find him waiting for her at the nurse's station at the start of her shifts. Over the next two weeks, he reorganized his entire schedule, feeling the pull of both places. He wanted to be home so he wouldn't miss out on any of these last weeks with Hunk and Pidge. On the other hand, he didn't want to be there to see how Hunk had gifted some of his herb plants, sold some of his bulkier equipment pieces. Pidge stripped herself out of the apartment in a single weekend, which hurt like hell, but at least Lance hadn't been there to watch her carry everything out in a cardboard box as he'd escaped early on in her packing to watch how Angelique handled multiple gunshot wounds.

He ghosted in and out of the place he used to consider the safest, most comfortable haven in the entire United States, no longer quite happy there as it constantly changed and shrank around him. But at least for the moments he was home, his friends were becoming increasingly too busy in their own business to have time to lecture Lance about his. All talk of Keith and what Lance should do about him ceased. Instead, Lance would come into the apartment to find them researching housing in faraway places like Pasadena, La Cañada, Altadena, and Arcadia, making pro and con lists for each location, or on the phone with the records office to get copies of transcripts.

On the best and worst nights, Lance would open the door to find Keith and Hunk sitting together at the table, studying for Keith's GED test, and on these evenings, Lance found every excuse he could to linger near them, as long as he could despite how much it hurt. He would make himself a sandwich and eat it slowly, seated at the table listening to Hunk quiz Keith on algebra and geometry basics. Sometimes they even allowed Lance to participate, especially for English questions. As the non-native speaker, Lance knew more grammar rules than both of them put together. Or when they didn't need him, he would drag his homework to the coffee table, sitting on the floor cross-legged in front of the couch, watching surreptitiously as Keith ran his hand through his hair, his gaze unconsciously zooming up and to the right as if all answers he struggled with could be found written on the ceiling in that direction. But Lance learned quickly that he could only look for a few seconds. Keith always knew when Lance stared too long and would return his gaze, forcing Lance to dive into whatever textbook he'd brought out with him, pretending that he had never taken his eyes off the page at all, hoping he wasn't visibly blushing. Because no matter how often he explained the impossibility of the situation to himself, looking at Keith was a pleasure and a warmth, an indulgence that seemed worth the pain. Lance wanted to enjoy that sight and that feeling as long as possible, even knowing how much it would kill him when it was over.

When he wasn't at the ER, or work, or class, or watching Keith take practice tests, Lance struggled to make time for Allura. Between his commitments, her schedule, and the fact that she lived off campus and most often needed to drive home before dark, the only times they could successfully get together seemed to be at that coffee shop in the early afternoons and on Wednesday nights at the plasma center. Allura had returned to her normal day and time, and Lance noticed money change hands among his coworkers the first evening she came in and greeted him with a slightly dramatic kiss. Romelle was never with her, though they spoke of her a little. Apparently, Ben had asked her out to the observatory for a late-night meteor shower viewing and had put together a rather impressive picnic dinner on the floor near the telescope. Allura mentioned how much fun Romelle had, how safe she felt with Ben, and hinted rather strongly that if Keith didn't get his act together, he was going to lose her.

Lance gently shrugged this off, knowing that Romelle finding happiness with someone else was exactly what Keith wanted for her. And as far as Lance could tell, scientists were some of the purest souls alive, a beautiful combination of innocence and intelligence. And despite being thrown together at a party because of Pidge, if Ben had looked down from the heavens long enough to put that kind of effort into sharing his world with Romelle, it would probably be best for everyone to let that run its course – however far it would go. Though hearing about Romelle's fancy date put some pressure on Lance. He hadn't done anything like that for Allura, didn't even know where to start. He didn't do anything cool like study constellations, and it certainly wouldn't be any kind of romantic to show her the inside workings of the hospital. They were barely able to have coffee together, though he did call her every night to make sure she got home ok, ask her questions about how her day had gone, and try to find the next space in their lives where they could fit each other into them.

They did come together, except for Romelle, for one last small party, three weeks after Hunk's birthday where Lance had learned that his days with his friends were numbered. They celebrated Keith's success in passing the GED – his temporary diploma displayed proudly on the table. They celebrated Hunk and Pidge's farewell. All of their physical presence had been carefully removed from the apartment, sold, gifted, or packed away. In the morning, everything would be loaded into Hunk's car and they would start the long, 30-hour drive to California. Keith had a little more than a week left, but he'd already purchased his plane ticket to Texas.

Just like the last one, this party brought new and rather disturbing information as Shiro revealed that he'd quit his job in order to follow Keith south. Apparently, the reason he'd been on medical leave and not actually discharged was due to how much the military wanted Shiro to return in a non-combat position. They'd been requesting a timeline for when he thought he'd be able to come back as an instructor almost from the first day Shiro left the hospital with his new arm. Now that Keith was settled and decided on becoming a pilot, Shiro felt the time had come to get back into it as well.

Lance couldn't help but squawk out a protest about this revelation. Is this how Americans worked? Where Lance grew up, families lived and died within a small circle of where they were born. Lance had been the anomaly, leaving the country, and it had been the biggest upset in his village for months. Actually, it probably still was. But even he was only working so he could go back with something better to offer them than mangoes and tobacco. So it amazed him how casually Americans seemed to roam their immense country. Hunk grew up in Hawaii, left it for Chicago, and now he was eagerly ready to head back thousands of miles west. Pidge was a Wisconsin girl, though she hated to admit it, and it was no secret that she longed to see what waited for her in California. Shiro had roots here, a job, a house, but he didn't seem too sad about leaving it behind. Out of all of them, Keith's excitement made the most sense. He was moving away from tragedy, incarceration, and abuse toward structure and freedom – a place where he could belong and thrive for the first time. And Shiro was going with him. But Lance couldn't help but see the pattern. Americans were nomadic to the extreme. Then again, Lance's entire island fit into just one of their smaller states. There was so much space, so many different sub-cultures and climates within one government. How could they help but want to experience all of it?

Allura was the only outlier. She'd been born and raised in the Chicago area and seemed content to remain. She hadn't gone to New York for college, though she'd had the opportunity. She still lived at home with her parents. Lance found himself holding her hand tighter as he processed this, glad that Allura at least was ok with staying put.

They worked through it – the bittersweet nature of their last get-together. Lance forced himself to smile and joke about where they were going, extending the promise that he'd still be here if they ever wanted to return. Hunk hovered a little, never asking if Lance would be ok – at least not out loud, but the question came in every glance and gesture as if he'd spoken it. Pidge and Shiro kept their distance, as though their hearts were already somewhere else. And just like last time, Lance found himself pressed in the middle of the couch with Keith and Allura at his sides, his arms thrown casually around both their shoulders. Except it didn't feel casual to him. It felt as though they were the only things holding him together. Shiro snapped their picture as they sat there that way.

No one said good-bye that night, though they somehow parted to their separate houses and rooms, much later than anyone had planned.

Lance made coffee early that morning. He numbly helped Hunk carry the last of his boxes to the car. He helped Pidge fold up the blankets and sheets from the couch one more time and didn't shed tears over it. He swallowed them into an increasingly large knot in his throat, which made it hard to talk to his family for very long that Sunday morning. Hunk and Pidge politely waited until he had finished, drinking their coffee, having one more breakfast together. But Lance could tell that they wanted to get going, that they had run out of things to tend to before they left. There was nothing remaining except the hardest part of leaving.

Hunk grabbed Lance hard and tight, murmuring gratitude into his ear for being a wonderful roommate, for all the fun times they'd shared. He offered an open invitation for Lance to come stay with them in California whenever and however often he wanted, which Lance appreciated even though he doubted he'd ever be able to really go.

Pidge allowed herself to be held too, surprising Lance by suddenly and fiercely clinging to him, pressing her face into his chest. Lance bent down so he could put his palm against the back of her head, their cheeks touching, amazed again that a soul so feisty could exist in such a small vessel. He remembered all their many arguments and teasings, and all the times they had wordlessly made up from them, how they spoke most often without saying anything.

"You're still my brother," Pidge told him authoritatively. "Doesn't matter how far away you are."

"Good," Lance tried to return, but his voice sounded husky and flat.

"And I'll be there to put you back together," Pidge promised, rather mysterious now. Lance backed off a little to read whatever clues might be in her face. "When the time comes," Pidge finished, nodding solemnly at him. He almost asked her what she meant, but she made a sudden leap so she could hug him around the neck. He barely managed to balance them without tumbling over backward, holding her tight.

"You're so stupid; I love you," she said in a rush, and Lance smiled even as he lost control over the tears he didn't want to show them.

"You too," Lance whispered, but that was all Pidge could take. She ripped herself away and dashed for the door. Hunk gripped Lance's hand one more time, promising to call often, promising to write, promising to send pictures, promises and more promises that this was not the end of their friendship. That it would continue no matter how much extra effort it might take. Lance was already extremely familiar with how much effort it would take; he'd been doing the long-distance relationship thing with his family for over a year. But he was more than willing to add Hunk and Pidge to the email list, to make a dedicated night, or a dedicated time every night, to call them. Even if he had to single-handedly keep the communication up; he was ready for it. He couldn't lose them, not today, not a month from now. He would not allow them to fade away through neglect, no matter how busy he became. He wouldn't let them grow apart, though he did let Hunk go.

He counted the minutes in his head after Hunk shut the door behind him. Lance paced through the apartment, staring sadly at Hunk's empty bedroom, restored to the sterile, un-personalized nothing that all the bedrooms in this entire building looked like before a student breathed life into them. Bed, desk, chair, carefully emptied and closed closet. Lance couldn't look at it for long. He realized faster that he couldn't look at the kitchen either. No bread rising on the counter. No plants taking up space near the wall. The missing boxes of electronics made the whole place bigger; it almost echoed with the emptiness of what was now gone.

Lance counted the minutes he thought it would take for Hunk and Pidge to get downstairs to the car. How long it would take for them to pull out of Stony Island parking for the last time. He counted minutes until he couldn't take the quiet anymore. Then he changed into pale blue scrubs and threw on his coat – heading for the hospital.

No one expected him there, but he'd become such a regular sight no one denied him as he made himself useful. He tidied filing. He put together trauma kits and restocked the cabinets in the triage rooms. He threw himself into every job that needed doing that no one really wanted to do. He catalogued equipment, tracking down the random missing stethoscopes or blood pressure cuffs, returning them to their stations. He wiped down trays and machines and took loads of blankets and towels back and forth from the hospital laundry. Dr. Delacroix wasn't even scheduled to work today, and he'd known that before, though he thanked every nurse who knew him, knew that they worked together, for telling him that she wasn't coming in …and then he continued to stay anyway. Because now he really couldn't go home. Not yet. Not today.

He probably would have slept in the ER, on the floor in that back office, but one of the nurses interrupted him at the station where he was testing all the available pens at the desks, throwing away the ones that were out of ink.

"Your ride's here," she told him, plucking the pen straight out of his hand and scattering all his thoughts at the same time.

"Huh?" Lance asked, confused, drifting. What did she mean his ride was here? He hadn't called for a ride. He hadn't even told anyone where he was, so how could anyone be here to give him a ride?

"Don't ask me," the nurse said, shrugging, deliberately returning the pen to the holder on the desk, untested. Lance felt a twitch in his jaw about that, but knew he'd look obsessed and weird if he picked it up again to finish what he started with it. "They asked for you and said they were here to take you home."

"Who are they?" Lance vocalized, mentally shaking himself, the last sentence she'd spoken only barely getting through to him. There was more than one person here asking for him? Who even knew he was here?

"I don't actually care," she said slowly, spacing out the words and emphasizing each one, smiling mostly to show her teeth. "Provided they get you out of here. Now. Step away from the pens."

Lance must have resembled a kicked puppy because she sighed as he stood up, grabbing his elbow before he turned away from her. "Look, try to have a good night, ok?" She said as an attempted patch, though she couldn't really look at him anymore. "I'll see you later . . hopefully when you're more . . .you." Lance glanced at her nametag, her words stinging a little as he realized how well she recognized him, but he had no idea who she was.

"Thanks, Alecia," he responded to her, forcing himself to be mentally present for at least a few seconds to tell her good-bye, hoping he pronounced her name correctly, hoping his tone suggested that he'd known her name all along and hadn't needed her badge to tell him. He should probably work on that if he planned to move in here.

"Shoo," she breathed, giving him a little shove, giving him enough emotional energy to retrieve his coat, though it only lasted as far as the entryway doors to the ER. The guys who had come for him waited on the other side of those doors, but without Hunk and Pidge, who were probably somewhere in Nebraska by now, Lance had no idea who would have even bothered to look for him. It made the doors look bigger, and Lance feel small and lonely. He pushed the doors open anyway, surprised by their weight, and half-stumbled into ER reception.

Lance noticed immediately that all the glass doors and windows of the waiting room were black. Night had fallen outside in the world while he'd trapped himself inside the windowless horseshoe of the ER. Despite the blackness, he felt himself squint as though walking out into a too-bright space. It wasn't bright, but it was too big. And cold. He pulled his coat closer to himself as the automatic doors pulsed apart, letting in a gust of February-frozen winter dark.

"Lance, you ok?" Came familiar words from a familiar voice, and Lance twisted from the entryway to see Keith standing just a few feet away. Shiro stood with him, both still in their coats. They'd been facing each other, but now that they'd seen him, Keith broke away toward Lance, eyes large with their strange quality of being sharp and gentle at the same time.

Lance inhaled to answer, but the words got tangled by the sudden, dramatic reappearance of that enormous knot in the back of his throat. Immediately upon seeing Keith, Lance's eyes were stinging, and he had to pause, frozen just outside the doors to the triage rooms, closing tears behind his eyelids, clenching his teeth together to make sure he stayed quiet. He took two blind, blurry, and staggering steps toward Keith before he felt Keith's steadying hands circle around his biceps. Lance let his head sag, relieved and tormented when his forehead came to rest against Keith's shoulder.

"You idiot; have you been here all day?" Keith chided him, not letting go. "Why didn't you answer your phone? Why didn't you call me?"

Because you never answer. The words shot through Lance's head immediately, though he wouldn't have said them if he could.

"How'd you know I was here?" Lance managed instead, leaving his head resting against Keith. It felt good, safe, warm. Keith smelled like heat and detergent, plus some kind of spice, as though he'd just come from a restaurant where strong scents mingled together for days at a time.

"Fritz," Shiro answered, joining them, putting his strong and soothingly weighted robotic hand on Lance's shoulder.

"Officer Guist?" Lance repeated the more formal name, the only one he dared use for him. He lifted his head, but didn't step out of the comfort of the circle. He wanted the touch, wanted to bury his face in Keith's neck and throw his arms around his waist. Wanted to keep him forever. "How did he . .?" He trailed off, trying to figure out a path where that would even make sense.

"One of the nurses called Dr. Delacroix wondering why you were here when she wasn't," Keith supplied the connections. "Then she asked her boyfriend to call us to come get you."

Keith paused, his eyes dropping to the floor, suddenly guilty, still holding tight to Lance. "We should have thought to come look for you sooner," he admitted. "I knew today was going to be rough on you. I did try to call, but you never answered."

"Sorry," Lance muttered, realizing that he'd left his phone on his desk. After he'd spoken to his family, he hadn't even thought that anyone else would try to call him.

"Hunk and Pidge said they made it to Nebraska," Keith continued, an effort to be bright threaded through his normally dark voice. "It's a boring drive, but other than that, they're ok."

"That's good," Lance said, trying to mean it. By this time, Shiro and Keith were steering him toward the exit, and he was walking automatically between them, glad to relinquish any of his thought or free will into their hands.

"Lance, did you eat anything today?" Shiro asked, and Lance felt the gaze of a trained social worker fall on him. "Are you hungry?"

He hadn't thought about it, had been working very hard to not think about anything today, but Shiro's question woke up his stomach, and he realized that he hadn't stopped to eat once since that long-ago last breakfast. He nodded, feeling sort of ashamed that he'd been on his own for not even a day and he'd completely fallen apart. What was he going to do when Keith left?

"Doesn't matter; he's coming with us anyway," Keith spoke up when Lance didn't. Though it made him think that he should probably be a little bit curious on where they were going. He'd follow Keith just about anywhere right now, but he maybe should ask about their destination.

"Where?" He put out there, just for the principle of the thing, hating how he could only put one or two words together at a time.

"To get you some food, to start," Keith let him know, tugging him out into the parking lot. "And to get your stuff. You're staying with us tonight."

"Keith?" Shiro broke in because this was obviously news to him. Apparently, Keith often made spur-of-the-moment decisions without consulting his brother.

"He can't be alone," Keith pointed out, which caught Lance up on the whole situation. They felt like they were rescuing him? Keith thought he needed a chaperone, that he couldn't be on his own? Well, if that were the case, why hadn't they thought of that before they'd all made the decision to leave the state?

"I better get used to it," Lance interjected between Shiro and Keith. He tried to make his tone playful, but wasn't quite able to keep all the bitterness out.

"We're still here, Lance," Keith reminded him. Yeah, for like a week. "Come on; come with us."

"No, it's ok," Lance protested, wondering what he was doing. He was deliberately excusing himself from time with Keith? He barely had any time with him left! What was he thinking? That he didn't want to be pitied, for one. He didn't want Keith to spend time with him only because he thought Lance was having a nervous breakdown. Which wasn't what this was . . though Lance figured it probably looked that way. He was just trying to keep busy, that's all. And he did need to learn how to go on alone. He couldn't expect Shiro and Keith to show up at the ER all the time. They were leaving too. He had to be more independent from now on. "Thanks for coming to get me, but you can just drop me off at my place. Hunk left enough food in the fridge for the next five days, easy. I don't want to waste it."

"Lance, are you sure?" Shiro pressed him, both his tone and gaze heavy, giving Lance one more chance to stay. To use them as a crutch, to save himself from a long, lonely evening. And he wanted to say he'd changed his mind, wanted so much to go with them. "You're welcome at our place."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Lance said, because sometimes it was better to just get things over with. Rip off bandaids in one horribly painful shot than slowly tear them away. "I'll be fine."

He felt Keith staring at him, all the dark drive to his apartment. Lance did his best not to look at him, not trusting himself to walk away from Shiro's car if he did. Keith's eyes would melt his resolve; he knew that. Not only would he stay with them for the night, he'd probably end up saying something he shouldn't. Something that might ruin the events already in motion. He'd already said things to Hunk and Pidge that he regretted, that damaged the excitement of the next chapter of their lives. He wasn't going to do that to Keith. No way.

Lance thanked them again for the ride as he forced himself out of the warmth of the car and out onto the icy curb in front of his dark apartment. No lights on up there. No music. His table would be almost uncomfortably cleared of gadgets and wires. He was just in the process of closing the door behind him when Keith unexpectedly flashed out and grabbed his wrist, holding him still. Lance snapped his attention, meeting Keith's eyes, which glinted in the winter dark almost dangerously.

"Answer your phone," Keith admonished him, almost a threat. He sounded mad; he was practically growling.

"O-okay," Lance stuttered, which was enough for Keith to release him, though by this point, Lance felt slightly weak and wasn't sure he could walk.

"Last chance," Keith told him, making the cement underneath Lance seem to tilt and sway a little. Maybe he shouldn't go all day without eating again. "Go get your toothbrush; we'll wait. Or I can come up with you."

Oh my God, yes, please come up with me. There's an actual bed you can have now; Hunk isn't using it anymore. You bring your stuff back, Keith. Your dumb duffel bag and your three pairs of jeans. Wear my hoodie. Make coffee. Move in. Please, don't leave me.

Rip off the bandaid, Lance. You can't keep him. He belongs to the military now. With Shiro. Don't you dare hold him back. He's never had a chance like this before. Don't take it away from him.

"You go on home," Lance said, though how he managed to get the words out or make them sound so calm, he had no idea. "You guys have a lot to do without babysitting me. I'm good."

Keith looked rather wounded, one of his eyes actually twitched. But this was for the best. Their relationship had been weird from the very beginning. Now was the time to smooth it out into something sustainable. It wasn't up to Keith to take care of Lance, even though Lance suspected that Keith thought he must owe him something.

"I'll check on you later," Keith said, a comforting promise that he made somehow frightening. Lance seemed to specialize in pissing him off, but at least Lance was able to close the car door now. Then turn around and begin walking toward the apartment entrance. He didn't look back, but he knew from the sound that Shiro and Keith didn't leave until after he was already inside.

Lance only saw Keith once after that night. He gave Lance a heart attack just like the last time he'd appeared in the apartment, the morning of Hunk's birthday. Lance was just getting home from his February shift on the ambulance – another long night behind him. There'd been so many long nights in a row since Hunk and Pidge left. Lance was more careful about it now, spreading out his time between the library, the ER, the lounge downstairs, or just walking around campus for as long as his Cuban blood would allow him to be outside in the cold so no one would suspect that he just didn't want to be at home by himself. He answered his phone when Keith called to check on him and lied to him every time about how he was just fine, just keeping busy, then turning the conversation as quickly as possible to what Keith was up to, how preparations for Texas were going. He called his family. He called Allura every night. He felt himself growing numb inside, but preferred that to the ache he felt when he thought about the day Hunk and Pidge left and the rapidly approaching day when Keith and Shiro would do the same thing.

Still, he had not anticipated Keith to be casually sitting on his couch when he walked in the door at six in the morning after being out all night with the ambulance. He'd closed the door behind him, dropped his bag and keys, and removed his coat and boots before he even noticed Keith sitting there. Good thing Lance was too tired to scream.

"God, Keith!" He burst out instead, grabbing on to the back of a chair to steady himself. He was too exhausted for surprises like this.

"Pidge gave me her key," Keith explained, standing up, watching Lance uneasily. Lance inwardly nodded at that information. It sounded like something she'd do, and Lance had forgotten to even ask her about it. She and Hunk were already in California, doing all the things new residents do. Figuring out where the nearest grocery store is, how long it takes to drive from their new place to their new job. They were busy, but Lance had spoken to them a few times since they got there. "You ok? How'd it go last night?"

Lance didn't want to talk about last night. There'd been three fatalities and none of them had been pretty. Lance and his team had cleaned up after an accidental drug overdose, a homeless man who had been hit by a car while riding a bicycle, and an old man who passed away from a heart attack before they could get to him. It wasn't the old man who haunted Lance, but the trauma in the eyes of his new widow whose reality had been torn out from under her at eighty-six years old. Not to mention the other stuff he'd responded to where no one had died, but the suffering still clung to Lance like the scent of smoke on his uniform.

"Last night was rough," Lance allowed, still gripping the back of the chair.

"You look it," Keith agreed, sounding validated. Lance tested his resolve by lifting his head to look at Keith, amazed anew at how beautiful he was, relishing the way he moved – a fierce sort of grace.

"Yeah, well, kind of in the job description," Lance said, trying to be dismissive about how awful it had been, trying to break the spell Keith cast on him. Even though he still stood frozen with his hands cemented to the chair, most of his weight leaned onto it, hunched over. Time for his normal trick of switching topics before his heart grew any heavier. He might end up just tipping over. "So how are you doing? Did you need me for something?" Except packing. Lance wasn't sure he could actually help Keith pack. It had been hard enough to do it for Hunk. Still, there must be some reason Keith had let himself into the apartment before dawn on a Saturday.

"I'm here to make sure you rest today," Keith said, smiling the way he did when he thought Lance was being ridiculous. "Since last month you almost killed yourself, and I'm not making that mistake twice."

"What – serious?" Lance managed after a long pause where he just stared at Keith with his mouth open. Keith took the opportunity of the question to completely close the distance between them, taking Lance's arm and pulling him toward his bedroom.

"Yes," Keith responded, matter-of-factly, and Lance didn't have enough resolve to resist him. He allowed himself to be dragged toward the hall, all his muscles compliant for whatever Keith wanted.

"Can't I take a shower first?" He begged, but Keith shook his head.

"Sleep first," he maintained, unmoved, and Lance decided to give up. He was tired. He had been pushing himself hard since his roommates left. And if Keith could stay a while, maybe it would be ok. Maybe his apartment wouldn't feel so desolate. Maybe he could actually rest.

"Keith?" Lance started as Keith physically settled him under his covers, still in his uniform.

"You can fight if you want, but I'll win," Keith argued without hearing what Lance had to say. "Whatever you think you need to be doing right now can wait. Lie down."

Lance's mattress had never felt so good before. The perfect temperature, the smoothness of the pillowcase. His eyes started closing by themselves, though he didn't actually want to sleep yet. He had Keith in his bedroom, all to himself. How could he waste that time by falling asleep? But the tension of the ambulance that had wound his muscles tight suddenly snapped loose – so abruptly that he actually winced at the release.

"Hey," Keith said gently, his voice close. Lance wanted to open his eyes to talk to him, but they were too heavy. He hadn't relaxed like this in days. "It's ok; you're home now." Keith spoke like the only other person in the world who could know what it felt like to be spinning out of control, through difficult and deadly situations, and then come to a sudden, heart-wrenching halt. How the transition to peace and rest could hurt, how images and feelings could flicker like flaming nightmares on the sidelines. How they could still burn after they were over.

"Thanks, Keith," Lance whispered, almost whimpering. He twisted his face against his pillow, trying to hide his eyes, squeezing them closed. He reached out with one hand, finding Keith's sleeve and holding on to it, desperate to keep him close. Keith allowed the contact, using his other hand to carefully brush against Lance's cheek before resting his palm on Lance's shoulder. Lance shuddered.

"Go to sleep," Keith encouraged, but a sudden thought jumped into Lance's brain, shaking him awake, forcing him upright. The last time Keith had put him to bed, he'd disappeared while Lance slept. Lance didn't think he could handle that again. His abrupt shift in energy startled Keith.

"Shit, Lance! What the hell?" Keith burst out, confused.

"Please don't leave," Lance begged, knowing he sounded pathetic and needy, but he just couldn't stand it. He was panting with apprehension that he would go to sleep now and wake up alone. "Please."

Keith softened, eyes full of understanding. He returned his warm hands on Lance, gently pushing him back down, pulling the quilt over him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Keith assured him. "I'll be here when you wake up." This time. Today. But it would have to be enough. Lance allowed himself to melt into the mattress again, allowed all the adrenaline in his system to bleed out into it. "Shhh," Keith whispered. "I'm here."

Lance had no choice but to let sleep over take him, his hand clinging tight to Keith's sleeve. His room got hazy, the bed seeming to pivot underneath him, rocking like the back of the ambulance until Keith's hand on his head stilled everything, quieted it down.

"Who's going to look after you?" He thought he heard Keith breathe the question, but it could have been part of a dream. He remembered nothing else after that.

He woke to the rich scent of coffee, and he smiled, relieved, as he hurried out of his room and toward the table. The position of the sun told him he'd probably been out for at least four hours, maybe more. He rushed past the hall, slowing only when he saw Keith sitting at the table.

"You stayed," Lance said, humiliatingly out loud. Keith looked slightly sheepish, knowing that he didn't always stay.

"I promised," he returned, busying himself with pouring Lance his own mug of coffee. "I can't cook," Keith admitted, handing it over, "but I did make this for you."

"It's all I want right now," Lance said, gratefully accepting it with both hands. It felt like years since he'd had Keith's coffee. Keith pulled out a chair for him, and for a little while they both sat there quietly together, sipping coffee as sunshine poured into the room from the sliding balcony doors.

"Sorry I left you alone so long," Lance finally said, wondering what Keith had done with himself while Lance slept. "I crashed hard."

"You needed it," Keith dismissed.

"So," Lance began, trying to make conversation. "You all set for Texas?"

"Yeah," Keith answered, staring at the table. "Flight leaves tomorrow morning."

Lance took another long swallow of hot coffee to melt the ice that suddenly coated his stomach. He'd known what day Keith was leaving, but in the sad blur that was his life now, he'd sort of lost track. "Oh," was the only thing he could think to respond. They sank back into silence. One minute. Two.

"Come with me," Keith shot out suddenly, turning his whole body toward Lance at the table, his face open and eager. Lance blinked, dazed at the invitation.

"What?" He checked. What did Keith mean, come with him? To the airport? Home for one last night together? Surely he didn't mean to Texas?

"Join the Air Force with me," Keith clarified. "A guy with your skills – they'd love to have you. They'll pay for you to finish your doctorate, so you won't need your scholarship. We can do boot camp together."

"Keith," Lance began, not even the heat of the coffee able to melt his insides now. It sounded good. It sounded perfect.

"Let's do it," Keith pressed, caught up in his idea.

"They won't take me, Keith," Lance let him down gently, hating how his words deflated Keith immediately. "I'm not a US citizen, remember? If I want to stay in the country, I have to stay here." But what did it mean that Keith wanted him to come?

That question stayed with Lance the rest of the day, just like Keith did. They hung out, like friends do, and Lance even agreed to stay the night at Shiro's, knowing it would be his last chance to be with Keith, possibly for years.

He spent the day and long into the night drinking in the sight of Keith, watching how easy his relationship with Shiro was, watching how far he had come from the scared and friendless person Lance had found alone in the Snell-Hitchcock apartment. He was doing so much better now, had so much going for him. Lance was happy for him, really, even though it hurt to look at the clock and see how time was running out. He thought often of his notebook page, the way Pidge wrote the word confession, all capital letters, arrows pointing to the two of them. He thought of how Keith had wanted him to go to Texas with him, but knew it was too late. Even if that invitation had been anything close to what Lance hoped it was, it was just too late.

And it continued to grow later and later as the sun came up, as Lance drove with Shiro to Midway airport. And finally it ran out as he allowed himself to hold Keith tight, actually hug him close in the few moments before he stepped through security and out of Lance's life. Keith still wore Lance's hoodie, the straps of his duffel bag over his shoulder. Lance pressed close against him, enjoying his heat for just a few seconds more, wanting to beg him not to go.

"Don't forget me," Lance said instead.

"Impossible," Keith returned, releasing Lance so he could look him in the eye. "You're my best friend. I'll never forget you. Take care of yourself, ok?"

"You too," Lance repeated, allowing Shiro to also hug Keith good-bye, though he promised to come south right after him. Shiro needed a few more weeks to put his affairs in order, but then he too would be gone. He stood with Lance, hand on his shoulder, watching Keith pass through security and up an escalator out of sight. He offered to stay with Lance if he needed some company, offered his assistance anytime Lance might need it. He emphasized that he was Lance's friend now too, that it wasn't just Keith holding them together. He made Lance promise to come to dinner with him next Friday night, just as Keith used to do. Then Shiro dropped Lance off at his apartment, alone again.

He woodenly removed his coat, stared sadly at the coffee mugs from yesterday morning that he'd left in the sink. He took some deep breaths, steadying himself to call his family because no matter how his world had been rocked, it was still another Sunday morning, and they would be expecting to talk to him.

They heard that something was wrong in his voice; he had to tell them everything. How all his close friends were leaving the state, how for the first time since he'd arrived at Stony Island, he actually felt how big this country was, and how small and alone he felt in it. He confessed that the cold, gloomy grayness of this winter was starting to wear on him. He missed the sun, missed the mangoes. He prepared himself to hear how he never should have left.

But his family surprised him with encouragement. They told him they were proud of him. They told him how much they bragged about him to their neighbors. Luis complimented him on his progress in gaining such a respectable mentor at the ER. His mother and Veronica asked him playful questions about the beautiful white-haired girl who kept turning up in his photos that he sent them. They all had requests for pictures they'd like to see next week, an assignment that he could get behind. And all the while he spoke with them, he felt himself energized and renewed, though it wore off quickly as soon as he hung up.

What was he going to do? He shook his head, staring at the apartment, knowing he'd have to get used to this somehow. He couldn't stay on the phone with his family all the time. Couldn't stay at the ER all the time. People figure out how to be by themselves, he lectured himself. There are millions of people on earth right now who actually prefer it. But he didn't know how to turn himself into one of them.

He paced as he thought, trying to keep the creeping loneliness at bay when someone knocked on his door. Confused, but happy to be interrupted, he almost pounced on it.

"Allura!" He exclaimed, surprised to see her standing in the hallway, car keys still dangling from her fingers. "What are you . . I thought you had an event today?"

"I do," Allura said, cool and calm, smiling at him. "But not until tonight. I thought you and I could sneak off and do something fun together for a change." Lance smile faded into suspicion.

"Keith called you, didn't he?" He asked, and she let her eyes float to the ceiling, caught.

"Does it matter?" She returned, pretty in her guilt. "You do look like you just lost your best friend, and I happen to specialize in helping people get over Keith Kogane. Besides, we've both been so busy; we deserve a day for ourselves, don't you think?"

Lance leaned down and kissed her. It made the ache in his chest swell hard to do it, but damn, she was sweet and wonderful and so very present there in the hallway. She smelled soothingly of lavender.

"I'm all yours," he told her, trying to shut out everything else, lock it up tight. Her smile sliced into his throat.

Author's Note: Just so everyone knows, I don't actually hate Allura. Her role in this is so important; I can't stress it enough. And I know that we've been moving So Incredibly Slowly through this fic. I mean, really, the first week of the narrative took what? Five hundred pages? But it's going to start moving faster now. Our boys have quite a bit of growing up to do, but we're going to get the montage version.

Also, how are you? Holding up? Still liking the fic? I admit, I teared up while writing Lance's thoughts about how he wanted Keith to come back and move in to the apartment with him. Poor lonely, lost boy.

If you have a minute, reviews are always nice. (Special thanks to those of you who review every chapter. You make my day!)