*Drops chapter and runs*
Shiro's existence was eclipsed by pain now. He forgot what sleep felt like. He forgot what safe felt like.
They were relentless, and everywhere.
She was relentless. She was everywhere.
No corner of his mind was untouched from her slime-like presence. She had stripped him bare, taken everything –
Except him. She had not touched –
Don't think about him.
Thinking about him would draw her attention, and Shiro knew that if she used that – used him – as a weapon, then it would destroy him.
Shiro refused to let her taint even one memory of Kei –
Don't think about him.
He suppressed that part of himself, squashed it down, covered it with everything else – anything that might hold her attention and stop her from burrowing deeper. His insecurities. His fears. His pain and nightmares, more now that he has experienced war. Shiro gladly let her torment him with those, but she would not lay one finger on him.
"You're hiding something from me," she whispered in his ear, hands bracketing his limp head. She sounded amused, as if his attempts to outwit her were reminiscent of a child standing before an adult, futile and weak.
Shiro shook in her hold, but he had stopped rising to the bait long ago. Fighting back meant punishment, and Haggar was a master at punishing those around her.
Her fingers went to his hair, threading through the thick strands, seemingly unbothered by how unwashed it was. Shiro wanted to beg her to stop, to say that her faux care was worse than her cruelty. But she already knew it.
He couldn't help how he leaned into the stroke, though. Seeking the brief glimpse of comfort that broke through the constant haze of agony. It had been what felt like years since he had been touched with anything resembling kindness.
"What is it, pet? What are you so desperate to keep from me?"
He could feel her in his head, shifting through memories and thoughts. She brushed against something, and Shiro heard a laugh – bright and familiar and warm like sunlight – ricochet around him. He wanted to sob at the sound and the stab of want that drove through him.
All at once, his mind surged forward, slamming against her presence with a viciousness that stung. Shiro was left gasping as Haggar stumbled away from him, her own cry caught between her teeth.
He collapsed forward in his restraints, a whine building in his chest, but it never quite escaped the confines of his throat.
"It seems you still have some fight in you after all," Haggar commented from somewhere off to his side. Shiro's eyes fluttered closed as exhaustion crashed into him.
"I wonder how long you can hold onto that spark?"
It was the same old taunt she always left him with, different words, but the meaning still ringing in his head.
He couldn't hold out forever, and it had already been a lifetime since he had seen the outside of this room. He just wanted it all to end.
He was so tired.
OoO
They took his blood regularly, at what felt like a gallon at a time.
Each instance left him drained and shaking, his body struggling to compensate for the constant fluctuating, to claw himself back to something resembling normal.
Haggar seemed fascinated at his recovery rates, always pushing and pushing and pushing until Shiro honestly wondered how much more he could give.
She wanted to see how long he could go without food. Without water. Without sleep.
She wanted to test his reflexes and response times.
She wanted to time his healing, from knife wounds, gun wounds, poisons.
She wanted, wanted, wanted.
Haggar took him to his limits, to the very brink of his sanity, and gladly shoved him over the edge.
With each session, Shiro felt another piece of himself shrivel and blacken. He could feel something growing inside him, something dark and diseased and terrifying in its rage. It was wrong, and dangerous, and Shiro hated that he could not tell if it was from her influence, or something of his own creation.
Sometimes, in between the pain and rage, he wished his body would give out. That his heart would finally falter and allow him to slip away from it all.
It never did.
OoO
She made him fight sometimes. When the mood struck her.
Never when he was fully recovered, never at his peak.
Faceless opponents that were just as ruthless as she was.
"Just another test, pet," she would sigh to him, a hand in his hair, on his shoulder, around his neck.
Losing was met with more pain. Winning, with rewards.
And oh how Shiro won.
For weeks, his life consisted of fight, stay alive, win, repeat.
The routine gave him some stability, something to hold onto in the sea of chaos. He almost forgot what it was like to do anything else.
OoO
White crept into the tips of his hair, and a lucky shot in one fight showed Shiro that he could, in fact, scar.
If Haggar wanted him to.
OoO
His arm.
They –
Oh God.
OoO
Shiro blinked, listless.
It was one of the lulls, or at least he thought it was. Time had lost all meaning for him, suspended as he was in this torturous cycle of blood and misery.
He used to measure by Haggar's visits, but now he didn't even have that. It felt like it had been too long since she had last come. The absent of her was like a physical weight in his chest. A part of him worried that he had disappointed her, if this was a new type of punishment.
He was strapped to the table again, as he always was when she was gone. The restraints were a regular thing to him now – comforting, almost, in the worst way.
He stared at the ceiling, counting and recounting the marks there, anything to distract himself from the thing they had attached to him
The silence was absolute, the walls muting the sounds of the outside world, limiting Shiro's world to the hallway beyond the door and no further. It hurt, being left alone, because when he was alone it was easier for his dreams to haunt him. To bubble to the surface and slither through his defences.
Shiro had managed to keep Haggar away from him all this time, and for the most part she graciously allowed him to preserve that one shard to himself.
But without her here to guard against, to rail and scream, his mind turned against him. Took his memories and sharpened them like daggers to cut himself with.
Sometimes, it was like the only thing he had left was –
Shiro closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
A muffled crack sounded from the hall, and Shiro stilled completely. He recognised the noise instantly, and adrenaline flooded him, like a dog trained to respond to a call.
Footsteps, rapid and rising, filled his hearing.
A panicked voice. A choked off cry.
The door to his room slammed open, the force of the body careening into it sent it flying back into the wall.
Shiro stared blankly at the limp form – possibly dead, with the awkward twist to his neck – in front of him, splayed out like an offering.
This had never happened before.
Was this another test?
A figure stalked forward, stepping over the downed man like he was trash. It had been so long since Shiro had seen anyone other than Haggar and his opponents – victims, really, he had not lost a match since his arm had –
Placing the uniform took him a few seconds.
The new man – slim and shorter than Shiro, but who walked with utter assurance, like his skin was impenetrable – came to stop just before him. The glare from the hallway obscured his features, though Shiro swore that there was something wrapped around the man's lower face.
A hand reached up and tugged the cloth down, pooling it around a thin, pale neck.
"Shiro?"
No.
"Hey, Shiro. You with me?"
He came closer, hands up and steady, not attempting to touch. "It's me."
The face turned, Shiro's eyes adjusting to the slopes and dips of a familiar face.
"Keith?" The name fell from his lips numbly, the first time since he had been captured that Shiro had dared to utter it.
Keith smiled at him, but his eyes were dark. Wild. "Good to see you too. Let's get you down from there."
"I – what?" Keith pulled out a knife from the sheath on his thigh and went for the leather straps. His hands did not even hesitate to touch Shiro's right arm, like the metal there was totally normal.
Shiro, not prepared for the loss of stability, flopped forward gracelessly.
Keith caught him in his arms, the blade carefully angled away. "Jesus," Keith grunted, "what the fuck did they stuff you with – bricks?"
"Keith –"
"Hang on, Shiro. Can you stand?"
Keith shuffled around so that Shiro's left arm was drawn over his shoulders. He curled his right arm around Shiro's waist and pulled him closer, supporting most of his weight. It was awkward, with the haversack digging into them.
Shiro's feet moved of their own accord when Keith went for the door.
"Keith." He tried again, his tongue relishing the chance to just say the other's name after so long. Keith ignored him, eyes darting both ways before he took them down the right. Shiro had never been this way before, having only ever been taken from his room to fight; the left route burned into his brain.
He had no choice but to follow, hardly coordinated enough hold his own weight, but as the seconds dragged on Shiro could feel his body righting itself. Already, his steps were surer.
Keith plastered them against the wall and peeked around the corner, every line of him taunt. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he pulled them around and started a brisk pace.
"Keith –"
"Shiro, I promise that I'll answer all your questions later, but for the love of God, I need you to shut up and trust me right now." Generally, just the fact that it was Keith requesting this of him would have been enough for Shiro. Keith rarely asked for anything, even something as small as quiet, which meant that when he did it was important.
He had never denied Keith anything before, certainly not his trust.
But that was in the past. Now, Shiro could barely trust himself.
He put all his strength into stopping, and even as weak as he was, it was still enough to resisting Keith's own pull.
The other looked up at him, mouth pursed in frustration. "Shiro."
He looked like Keith. And he certainly sounded the same – right down to the terse way he spoke when he was nervous and trying not to show it. There was only one thing Shiro couldn't accept.
Keith shouldn't be here. He didn't belong out here, not in that uniform, not with a gun and a knife and what Shiro could now see was blood speckled across his forehead.
Keith was back home. Keith was safe.
"How do I know this is real?" He demanded, his voice wavering with too much hope to be anything but a plea.
Immediately, Keith's face softened. The sight of that familiar expression had his eyes prickling with hot tears.
God, he wanted this to be real.
With gentle hands, Keith propped Shiro against the wall and stood in front of him. Those dark eyes stared at him closely, filled with so much sorrow and sympathy and something that might have been guilt. Without a word, Keith reached out and took Shiro's flesh hand in his own.
Shiro watched him with the same level of intensity, scanning for any differences in that face. His attention was so entirely focussed on Keith's eyes that he jerked when a pistol was slapped into his palm. His fingers gripped it reflexively, but his confusion had him glancing between Keith and it.
Keith brought the fun up until it was pointing at his chest.
Shiro yanked his arm out of that loose hold, wrenching the gun away from Keith's direction, his heart pounding madly in his ribcage.
Unfazed by Shiro's visceral reaction, Keith nodded at the gun. "If at any point you think that I'm about to hurt you," he said, low and harsh and rumbling like thunder, "you shoot me, okay? You shoot me. But I swear to you that I'm here to get you out. And nothing is going to stop me from doing that, even if I have to burn this place to the ground."
Shiro's jaw clenched as he strangled back the desperate cry he wanted to release. Instead, he leaned close and buried his head in Keith's neck, breathing deep and letting the other's scent imprint on his brain.
If this was one of Haggar's tricks, if she had only been pretending to let him keep Keith to himself all this time, it would kill him. There was nothing left of him besides Keith at this point, and if she took him too then she would own Shiro completely.
Even if this was all a lie, Shiro was too weak and selfish not to enjoy it while it lasted.
Keith wrapped his arms around Shiro and held him tightly, doing nothing but breathing slowly. Shiro instinctively followed the steady movement, and with his ear pressed to the other's pulse, he could feel as his heart began to match pace with Keith's.
In sync. As one.
"She made me see things," he murmured into the collar of Keith's jacket, and Keith's hands stilled. "She gets in your head and…she takes everything from you." His breath hitched, but Keith's was even and welcoming and he fell into it once more. "If this is a hallucination…"
"It's not, Shiro." Keith promised him, protective anger coating his words. The dark thing in Shiro's chest purred at the savageness in his tone.
They stayed like that, burrowed into each other, basking in the simple touch. The world around them fell away, their own bubble of serenity encircling them.
Shiro wished they could stay like that forever.
The ground under them vibrated ominously.
"Fuck," Keith hissed, pulling away; either not feeling or not acknowledging the way Shiro's hands clung to him. "I told them to wait before they set off the charges. Now the whole place will be on alert."
"What?" Shiro asked, straightening in his place.
Keith looked back at him, face drawn and annoyed. "Those idiots I brought with me. They were supposed to wait." He blew out a heavy sigh, ruthlessly dragging a hand through his hair. "Come on, we need to get out of here before all the other ones start going off."
He held out his hand, inviting and firm, and Shiro clasped it without hesitation.
The grin Keith gave him was like absolution.
He was tugged upright; and falling into line beside Keith was the easiest thing he had ever done.
Together, they shot off down the hallway, Shiro's legs growing more confident with each step he took. His fingers curled around the pistol, revelling in the rush of freedom that coursed through him. He had forgotten what it felt like to make his own choices.
Shiro let Keith lead, trusting him to know the way.
As they neared the next turn, Shiro tapped Keith's shoulder and held up two fingers. Keith nodded, understanding. And it was that, the innate ability to speak without words, that Shiro had missed more than anything.
He watched as his friend crouched and positioned himself just before the bend in the hallway. His movements were predatory, reminiscent of the alley cats Shiro had grown up seeing, and unlike anything he had seen from the other before.
Shiro listened as the footsteps grew louder, and within seconds two men appeared around the corner. Before Shiro could raise him weapon, before the men could do more than twitch at the sight of them – Keith's knife had sunk into one of their necks. As that man fell in a spray of blood, Keith released the blade and set his elbow flying into the second's throat, cutting off a shout. The man hunched over, and Keith grabbed his head, driving his knee up and into his unprotected face. The crunch of the soldier's nose was wet. Keith let go, the man hitting the ground with an odd wheezing sound.
Shiro's mouth fell open in shock.
His friend didn't even glance back at him as he retrieved his dagger from the first body, the squelch of the blood and muscles too loud in the empty space. Keith gestured, and Shiro followed, wrestling with what he had just seen.
Keith had never been one to shy away from violence. Even before his father had been drafted, and he had come to live permanently with Shiro, Keith had always had a knack for finding trouble. His friend had learned how to fight dirty long before Shiro had come into his life, and it was Keith that had shown Shiro the value of knowing how to defend himself in the occasional fistfights they ended up in.
But despite that, despite having seen Keith's knuckles bloodied more than once and being no stranger to the other's callousness in a fight – he had never seen him kill before.
It was inevitable in war, he knew. But witnessing how little regard Keith paid to those he killed was surprising. The first life Shiro had taken had left him feeling sick, and no matter how much easier it got, the weight was a constant one.
He wondered just how many people Keith had already killed for him to act so unbothered by it.
A part of him urgently wanted to know the answer, as if it needed the justification for his own actions – because if they were both monsters, then maybe it would all be okay. But a larger part cursed the fact that Keith had had to experience it at all.
"We're almost there," Keith's voice bounced back to him, and Shiro sped up, suddenly afraid to be left behind. He knew that that would never happen – Keith had infiltrated this place and sworn revenge in his name, he would hardly leave without Shiro – but the fear ate at him.
"There's not a lot of guards," he commented idly, just realising.
In front of him, Keith grunted. "I took the scenic route to your cell."
A grim smile twisted the edges of Shiro's lips before he forced it away. There was nothing humorous about their situation, though his chest did thrum with satisfaction at hearing that his unseen tormentors were likely dead.
"We just need to get through the gates, then we're home free." Keith stopped before the large iron door, his hands hovering barely an inch away from its surface.
Shiro stood beside him, content to wait for Keith to decide when they moved again. "What about the others? The ones you brought with you. Aren't we going to wait for them?"
Keith shot him a quick smile, shaking his head. "We agreed to meet up in two days' time, just outside a small village to the south." He patted his haversack, "I've got enough food to last us until then." Keith's shrewd eyes scanned him from head to toe, moving so smoothly, as if he couldn't see all the ways Shiro was wrong now. "You haven't eaten in a while," was all he said.
Shiro had no idea how Keith could tell, since he was still taller and far more muscular than he had been the last time they had seen each other; but he didn't deny it. Food gave him energy, helped to speed along his recovery and increased his strength.
Haggar liked him weak and struggling.
Keith's lips thinned in anger at his telling silence, but they had no time to waste. From here, Shiro could make out the frenetic movements just on the other side of the door.
"There will still be some of them out there," Keith echoed his thoughts a moment later, his gloved hand closing around the gigantic sliding lock. "Think you can run and dodge on your own?"
Shiro wanted to cuff the other on his ear for the tease. As it was, he cast him a baleful glare. Keith merely cocked an eyebrow
"Yes, Keith. I can make it. What about you?"
Drained as he was, Shiro was still more capable than most. He could feel the adrenaline fuelling him the longer he was upright. His body might have been beaten, but it was far from broken, and the serum would keep him going until they had a chance to eat and rest.
Keith had no such enhancements. If one of them was going to have trouble it was him.
Keith snorted, turning and pulling the lock out of place. "Don't worry about me, Shiro. I'll be right behind you."
They shared one last look, a thousand words unspoken between them, then Keith shoved the door open and they were running.
The rush of cold air hit him like a sledgehammer and Shiro only had an instant to realise it was night before he heard a shout, and the familiar pitt-pitt-pitt of bullets nipping at his heels.
He lost sight of Keith within moments, and in the chaos and the roaring flames – the results of the explosions Keith's men had set off were dominating the warehouse to their left – Shiro could not even try to find his heartbeat.
He headed right for the open gate, the wire sections flung apart and twisted like something had rammed through them; and just beyond that, the dark sprawling edge of the forest.
The area was open, devoid of guards or patrols, though Shiro could make out the sounds of screaming behind him as he sprint clear of the gate, bullets tearing through the ground around him as whoever was left attempted to put him down.
Ten metres from the trees, he took a risk and leapt forward. The shadows cast by the trees engulfed him, and as he skidded to a stop, he threw himself to the side, just managing to avoid the barrage of shots that decimated the tree to the right of him.
Shiro lowered himself and stared back out at the compound where he had been captive. It was somehow more terrifying than the one he had infiltrated on his own, and the fear sat heavy in his gut.
"Come on, Keith," he muttered, fingers curling into the moist ground.
A rumble shattered through the noise, and Shiro watched, disbelieving, as Keith came barrelling out of the gate on a motorcycle. He hurtled towards the trees at a reckless speed, and Shiro's stomach lurched when Keith turned the bike sharply and threw himself from it. He rolled with the force, crawling the last few feet and slipping into the safety of the trees.
"Keith!" Shiro was on him in a second, hauling him to his feet with ease. Keith shoved at him; one hand fisted in his thin cotton shirt.
"Go! Go!" Keith shouted, wrenching at Shiro's arm until he started running as well.
Their feet pounded on the uneven ground. Keith tripped more than once, the roots and dips in the ground hidden from him, only able to keep pace because Shiro refused to let go of his hand.
They were deep into the forest when they felt the final, enormous explosion erupt behind them.
Despite the lingering danger they were in, they both slowed and turned, watching raptly as a fiery ball spread into the sky, illuminating the entire night for a few precious seconds.
The flames disappeared below the treetops, swallowed back down, and with the fading heat came the realisation of the last few minutes.
A laugh escaped him, loud and jubilant and uncontrollable.
Next to him, Keith's own pleased little chuckles joined in, breathless.
Shiro reached up and covered his eyes, his shoulders heaving under the force of his relief. He could feel it building in his chest, but the way his breath faltered as his laughter turned to tears still caught him by surprise.
He gasped, unable to get enough air into his lungs. His knees gave out and he collapsed, hunching over the filthy ground.
Keith, blessedly, said nothing as he crouched beside him, a comforting wraith perched by his shoulder, shielding him from danger.
Blindly, Shiro's left hand grasped for Keith. The other came willingly, letting himself be crushed to Shiro's chest as if there was nowhere he would rather be – understanding in his own way that this was what Shiro needed. His right arm stayed limp at his side. Even in the midst of his meltdown, he could not bear the thought of touching Keith with it.
Shiro shook violently, rattling the slim man in his arms.
Keith's hand came up and touched the back of his head, and Shiro couldn't contain his flinch. His mind flew back to Haggar and her tendency to touch.
Without pause, Keith dropped his hand away from Shiro's head to the space between his shoulder blades, rubbing the tense muscles there. The move was fluid and easy, and Shiro choked on his own weakness.
He buried his face in Keith's neck again and cried.
He let himself feel everything that he had been holding back since he had first awoken in that hell. Let it all finally leak out of him, the pain and fear and worries bursting forth.
In Keith's arms, Shiro allowed himself to break, because he could count on his friend to help pick up the pieces.
OoO
That night, much later and squirrelled away in some untouched part of the forest, Shiro sat next to Keith.
They had walked for hours after he had eventually regained enough strength to unfurl. Keith hadn't said anything about his episode, remaining quiet and unjudging as he had led them away.
Shiro was grateful for that silence. He hadn't been in the mood to talk – not even to Keith, who he had been desperate to see since they had parted ways. And as always, Keith had known exactly what Shiro wanted without being told.
When they had finally come to a stop and found a relatively safe spot to rest, Keith had barely waited until Shiro was seated before pushing rations into his hands and demanding he eat.
The food was bland and sat in his stomach like a rock, but it was food and Shiro's body desperately needed the energy. He swallowed it without complaint.
Keith settled down next to him, close enough that their sides were pressed up against each other. The air was cold and while the chill gave them the excuse to huddle for warmth, Shiro knew that for himself, the touch was more a silent plea for comfort than part of their survival. He sunk into the sensation greedily.
It had been so long since he had laid eyes on Keith, everything still felt like a dream. He half-expected this all to vanish before his eyes – a hallucination conjured by Haggar to hurt him further. It was beyond his wildest imaginations, being rescued, and by Keith to boot. It seemed to good to be true, so much so that he was afraid to close his eyes, lest he wake up back in that cell and greeted by Haggar's hoarse laughter.
But the steady press of Keith against him never wavered, and if Haggar had wanted him shattered, she would have had it hours ago when they had escaped. There was no reason for her to continue lying to him.
A tentative hope began to grow in his heart.
He took a deep breath, savouring the fresh air as it filled his lungs. He had calmed down considerably, and Shiro had resolved to just not think about what had happened to him under Haggar's care. That path only brought more suffering, and Shiro was sick of being broken.
So, he turned his attention to more pleasant things.
"Hey, Keith?"
He could tell the instant those eyes came to rest on him, the familiar spark behind them catching on his skin and igniting it. "Yeah?"
"How did you get out here?"
It had been plaguing him since he had first seen Keith stalk into his cell like an avenging angel – the main reason he was so hesitant to accept this.
Keith made a soft noise and turned back to the trees. He shrugged, "They lowered the age restriction."
Shiro grimaced. Keith had lost his father when he was called to fight, and he had almost lost Shiro. Getting drafted himself would have been like a living nightmare.
"First chance I got I enlisted."
His eyes snapped open, "What? Keith!"
Keith cocked an eyebrow at him and seemed purposefully obtuse, as if Shiro was the one who had done something ridiculous.
"Why on earth did you enlist? You could have been killed!"
Why would he risk it? He hates the war. He hates everything to do with it. Why would he…
Keith rolled his eyes, every inch of him bleeding insolence, and Shiro struggled to hold onto his anger in the face of the small smile Keith gave him.
"Shiro. If you thought for one second that I was going to let you go off to war without me, you're an idiot. You could barely tie your own shoes without me; like I was trusting you with anything bigger than that pistol."
Amused indignation overtook him. "Hey," he protested, jostling Keith with a nudge. He must have misjudged the power behind it though, because Keith almost toppled to the ground.
Panic seized him as he reached out to steady him, "Keith –"
He stopped short when his friend picked something up – a thick piece of bark – threw it at his chest. Shiro looked down as the wood bounced off him and fell to the forest floor. He couldn't help the way his lips twitched as he returned his gaze to Keith.
"Not everyone is souped up on super juice, Shiro." Keith chided, but the humour in his tone took away any sting. He pushed himself upright, then leaned heavily into Shiro's side. "What's up with that anyway? I don't hear from you for weeks and then suddenly you're a superhero?"
Something far too close to mortification flushed through him. It was odd, considering he had not even known he could still experience that one after everything he had endured recently.
Hearing Keith's voice though, the edges of teasing his words carried, had him squirming. He had always had that effect on Shiro.
"How'd you know?" He asked, resigned.
Keith tipped his head back and stared at him, incredulous. As if Shiro had offended him by asking.
"I've known you since we were kids. We grew up together. We lived together." He squinted up at him. "You think I wouldn't recognise you even in that geeky outfit? God, one look at those posters and I knew it was you."
Shiro closed his eyes in despair, even though he should have known Keith of all people would figure it out.
"You saw the posters?" Oh God, Shiro wanted to crawl into a hole, or have the ground open up under him. Anything was better than watching that smirk curl at the corner of Keith's mouth.
"Yeah. And the photos, and the comics, and the reels. You're quite the star back home, it's impossible to not know about Captain America."
"Oh God," Shiro muttered, aloud this time. Keith jabbed him with his elbow as if in commiseration, but he was glowing in amusement.
"It's not that bad," he tried to comfort, "and hey, it's because of those posters that I knew I had to enlist."
Shiro looked at Keith, confused. The grin his friend gave him was radiant and absolutely shameless. "I had to make sure all that fame wasn't going to your head – keep you grounded and all that."
Shiro wondered how Keith would react to knowing he was the only thing that kept him grounded these days. To know that it was only the memory of him that kept Shiro from unravelling at the seams. It was not something he was eager to find out.
That line of thought sobered him immediately. It was nice, so goddamn nice, to have Keith here with him, to let himself get swept up in their aimless chatter, to forget for even a moment what he had gone through. But he had to know.
"How long was I gone?"
The change that came over Keith was swift. His eyes darkened, mouth twisting downwards as his jaw clenched. "Two months."
He breathed out sharply.
Two months. Two months.
Shiro's left hand spasmed, forcing him to curl it into a fist. "Oh," he whispered, looking away and clearing his throat, "it felt like it was more than that."
Keith reached out and took his hand, wrapping it up in both of his, just like he had back in the compound. There was no pistol this time, no declarations of revenge or permission to shoot him point-blank. There was only Keith's thumb running gently over his knuckles.
Keith watched him, the skin around his eyes tight and his expression carefully blank. "When I got over here, I was fully prepared to work my way into your battalion. I could hardly wait to see you again. But not long after I started hearing the rumours." If possible, Keith's face closed off even more. "Nothing was confirmed, and none of the higher ups wanted to admit it, but everyone was whispering that Captain America was either killed or captured."
Shiro bit his lip, watching the emotions warring in Keith's eyes.
"No one would tell me anything, and as far as I could see, no one was doing anything about it. I knew that you weren't dead, so I decided to find you myself."
The confidence in Keith's voice when he said that – I knew you weren't dead – made it hard to breath. It was like the very thought of Shiro dying in battle was an impossibility in Keith's mind. The faith was humbling, and terrifying in its naivety.
"Keith…" His throat tightened, the words unable to be voiced.
Keith shrugged, "I ran into a group of men that were willing to give me a hand with finding and busting you out. They said they were returning the favour or something. I wasn't about to pass on some extra help, so I took them with me." He shuffled around so that he was more comfortable.
"It took us three weeks to find where they had taken you, and after a couple of days watching the place we broke it and, well," Keith gestured around them pointedly.
Shiro tried not to react. "You broke into a secure facility to rescue me, even though you had no way of knowing if I was still alive. You risked everything just on a chance."
Keith nodded, "Of course. And don't go ranting at me for this – you did it first."
Shiro opened his mouth, the that's different on the tip of his tongue, along with a million other excuses. He was enhanced. He had the skills the break into an enemy compound and survive. He was not as important as Keith.
But it all died without being said.
Instead, all he could do was look at his friend. "Thank you," he whispered instead.
Keith nodded again, then settled against his side like he used to when the heater in their apartment broke down and the nights were too freezing to be fended off with just a blanket.
Shiro fell into the burning heat, almost drifting off, feeling safe for the first time in two months, when Keith spoke again.
"Iverson's going to kill me."
Shiro blinked heavily, beating back his exhaustion through sheer stubbornness. "Hmm?"
"Yeah," Keith sighed, not sounding particularly bothered. "I stole his map to find you, and I might have threatened some scientist into flying us this far behind enemy lines."
What? Shiro frowned down at Keith, "What?" He repeated out loud, because surely he hadn't heard that right.
Keith rolled one of his shoulders in a careless shrug. "I stole Iverson's map and technically kidnapped someone to fly us out here."
"You…kidnapped a pilot?"
Shiro watched as Keith ran his tongue over his teeth, "Well, he's less a pilot and more a really smart guy that owned a really fast plane." Keith avoided Shiro's gaze expertly, and finally some embarrassment seemed to creep onto his face because his tone grew defensive. "Look, I was pressed for time, okay?"
Shiro slowly turned his attention to the trees, "Is he…alive at least?"
"I didn't hurt him," Keith said heatedly, "I didn't even touch the guy. And he seemed happy enough to go along with it." He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Bastard even told me it was 'exciting', and that he 'liked my spunk'. He just dropped us off and flew back. He's probably fine."
"Unless he was shot down," Shiro pointed out, unable to help himself. He was still stuck on the fact that Keith had abducted someone – willing victim or not.
"He wasn't shot down. Holt said he was good at flying, and he got us in just fine."
Shiro started, mind whirring away. "Wait, 'Holt'? As in Doctor Matthias Holt? You kidnapped our lead engineer?"
Keith looked completely unimpressed with the idea that Holt was important to the war effort. "Maybe? I didn't exactly ask the guy for his life story. I just told him I needed him to save you." He paused, then added, "After I'd dragged him onto the plane."
Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose, a hysterical bubble of laughter trapped in his chest. "Iverson's going to kill you," he said.
"Well, that or demote me."
"Demote you?" Shiro asked, "You're not a private?"
Keith jerked his chin at the chevron on his upper arm.
Shiro's eyes landed on the insignia, easily picking it out now that it had been brought to his attention. "Sergeant?"
Keith waved his hand, dismissing the question, "And you're a captain."
Finally, Shiro gave into the urge to laugh, shaking his head. He leaned further into the tree, eyes tilting up to look at the dark sky. He swallowed to dislodge the knot in his throat. "I really missed you, Keith." He confessed quietly.
Keith's knee bumped against his, "Me too, buddy."
OoO
They stood at a small outcrop of stones, Keith perched atop the largest one as he played with a few rocks, tossing them into the air and catching them. Shiro watched him contently, drinking in the simple tranquillity.
Like this, it was almost as if they were back home, enjoying a quiet afternoon.
Less than a mile to their east was a small village, the sounds of it faint in Shiro's ears as he kept half his attention scanning their surroundings.
They were waiting to join up with the rest of Keith's group, and despite his gratitude towards them for the role they played in hi rescue, Shiro was uncomfortably aware of his bare face.
His uniform had not survived Haggar's tender mercies. He had no mask to hide his identity. They would know who he was – what he was – and the lose of that anonymity was disquieting. Shiro had originally hated having a secret identity, at living a lie, but after his time with Haggar, he found himself anxious about people finding out the truth.
Keith was different, he was the one person Shiro knew would stand by him. These men though…Shiro knew the general opinion towards Japanese-Americans, and the odds weren't looking good for him.
There was also the matter of his arm.
The very sight of it sent his skin crawling. It was wrong, alien and unnatural in the light of day, the smooth grey surface reflecting the sun gently. It was a constant reminder and Shiro wanted nothing more than to get rid of it.
The only one of them not bothered by it was Keith, who had taken it in this morning with a glance and accepted its presence. He hadn't reacted, even though it looked like something out of a sci-fi film. Shiro knew that no one else would have such a blasé attitude about it, and he wasn't eager to know what they would do to him once they got back to their camp.
The sound of people approaching caught his attention, the snaps of twigs and rustle of grass, and Shiro turned his head in that direction. Keith noticed, having had one eye trained on Shiro since they had woken. He sat up and when five figures broken into the small clearing, he raised his hand in greeting.
"Sarge!" One of the men hollered, arm waving above his head. Shiro, after a moment, found himself surprised to recognise them.
The man at the front of the group – older than all of them and still as gruff as he had been the night Shiro had met him – held his gaze evenly. As they came closer, Shiro confirmed his suspicions. They were the men that had set the tanks to explode on his first, unsanctioned mission.
Keith shimmied off the stone and landed next to Shiro with cat-like grace. His hands rested on his hips as he surveyed the group. His eyes ran over each of them, silently tallying; and from the way his shoulders loosened, Shiro guessed that everyone was accounted for.
The five men stopped just before them, varying expressions crossing their faces as they looked at him. Shiro raised his chin, an instinct long engraved into him, and prepared himself.
The leader of the group inclined his head in acknowledgement, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "Captain, good to have you back."
Shiro blinked and glanced down at the hand, instinctively going to grab it, but flinching back at the last second. Every set of eyes dropped to his metal arm, and the way the other man dropped his hand and stepped back was like a sucker punch.
Shiro looked away, angling his body to hide the monstrosity. He knew it. He knew it.
Keith's hand clasped his shoulder, fingers digging into the tense muscles firmly. He slipped in front of Shiro, everything from the way he spread his feet to the clenched fists was a challenge.
"Don't –" Shiro started, grabbing Keith's forearm because he had seen that stance far too many times in the past. "Keith, it's fine."
"The hell it is." Keith said, shaking loose from his hold. "They have a problem, they can take it up with me."
The man raised his hands placatingly. "No, no problem. Just surprised, s'all. Sir." His eyes shifted to Shiro, to the metal gleaming at his side, to the scar on his nose – and then back to Keith. "We spent weeks with those bastards. We know what they can do. Some of the other boys were…" he nodded towards the arm, "but they never made it."
Shiro pressed his lips together, remembering the horrific photos he had come across. "It's okay," he offered with a tight smile.
The man grinned back and held out his hand once more, a determined jut to his jaw. Shiro took a breath, then shook it with his new arm, his mind flooding with information and feedback, as it always did when he used it.
"Corporal John Seward, sir." The man greeted.
Slowly, the others came forward as well, each shaking his hand with the same resolve Seward showed. Keith watched every one of them like a hawk, ready to step in at the first hint of trouble.
This sight of that fierce protectiveness warmed him.
There were two other Americans apart from Seward, both privates – Mark Hangrove and Ernie Evans. Both men spoke a mile a minute, playing off of each other with an ease that spoke of years of familiarity. What surprised Shiro though, was the presence of the French and British soldiers, Emmanuel Berger, and James Taylor. It was certainly an odd mix.
Shiro greeted them all, trying his damnedest to keep his calm; but he couldn't help but falter when it came to introducing himself.
Technically, his name was supposed to be confidential. He had been warned enough times to know that he wasn't allowed to go around telling people that information. These men had risked their lives for him though, putting themselves in very real danger after they had escaped once before.
Plus, other than the initial unease with his arm – something he could hardly blame them for – none of them seemed to care about his heritage.
When considering all that, Shiro decided his name was the least they deserved.
"It's a pleasure to meet you all," he said, "and I can't thank you enough for what you did." He glanced at Keith, asking for support or assurance he didn't know, but Keith nodded either way. He turned back to his rescuers, straightening his spine. "My name is Takashi Shirogane, but you can call me Shiro."
OoO
It took them a solid three days to make their way back to camp. Shiro knew, even recovering as he was, that he could have covered the distance in almost half the time. But none of the others had his abilities, and he was used to measuring himself to the standard of those around him.
For the most part, they travelled quietly. They were still in enemy territory, after all, and they had to be careful not to attract any attention. The raid they had done on the base would have ruffled the German's feathers, and the security around the borders had increased drastically.
It was only at night, when they stopped for a few short hours to rest, that conversations dared to take place.
During those times, Shiro hardly bothered to participate, preferring to let the others' voices wash over him like a lullaby and think to himself.
At times it was like there was an invisible barrier between him and the others, a figurative line drawn in the sand to separate them. He could tell just from watching and listening to them that these men had already forged a bond with each other, and though they tried to include him, the division was firm.
Keith had said that they had spent weeks trying to locate him. That would have felt like a lifetime for them, would have built a level of trust and companionship that was hard to beat.
Shiro didn't begrudge them their camaraderie, even though a part of him watched their hushed conversations wistfully.
The only bridge between their two groups was Keith.
Keith, who orbited Shiro as if afraid to take his eyes off him, that leaving his side would somehow whisk him back into Haggar's hands. Keith, who was greeted warmly and respected by the others, looked to for guidance and assurance.
He had one foot on either side of the line, belonging to both.
It was hard for Shiro to acknowledge that he no longer had Keith all to himself, that he had to share him with others now. For so long it had just been the two of them against the world – and sure, Shiro was glad to see Keith reaching out to others and making friends.
He just hadn't expected it to hurt as much as it did.
On the second night, as he watched sullenly as Keith spoke with Evans in low tones off to the side, he was approached by one of the others.
"Prends ça."
Shiro looked up at Berger. The Frenchman was holding out a can to him, the top already pried off. Shiro could smell the watery meat inside.
He glanced between the man and his offering several times before taking it from him. "Thank you," he said, belatedly remembering his manners.
Berger grinned at him, bright and please. He seemed to take the thanks as an invitation, for he sat down next to Shiro, his own can gripped in his gloved hands.
Uncertain, but hungry, Shiro ate in silence, wondering what the man wanted. This was the first time any of them had gone out of their way to interact with him and he found himself curious.
"You should not worry," Berger eventually said around a mouthful of food. His accent was thick, but he spoke English with the confidence of a native.
Shiro stared at him in confusion. "We're still at least a day away from the base," Shiro told him, "I'm just a little cautious is all. I don't particularly want all your effort to be undone so soon."
Berger grunted in agreement, holding his spoon aloft in his hand as he swallowed. He shook his head a moment later though, "That is not what I was referring to, Capitaine."
"Oh?" Shiro prompted, raising an eyebrow.
The spoon pointed to their right and Shiro follow the line of it to Keith.
He frowned, not understanding.
Berger took another leisurely bite before he clarified. "The sergent was very…" he waved the spoon as he searched for the right word, "single-minded while we looked for you. He would not rest, and refused to accept the possibility that you were dead." Berger glanced at him, then turned his inquisitive gaze to Keith. "He is very dedicated to you. That is why I tell you not to worry."
The man patted Shiro's back comfortingly, the touch neither lingering not callous, just perfectly civil. "No one could replace you in his eyes."
And with that, Berger pushed himself to his feet, gracefully making his way back to his original spot next to Seward. Shiro heard him say, "Déplacez votre cul, Seward." The man in question snorted, but shifted to make room.
Shiro looked down into the half-empty can in his hands, as if it held the answers to all his problems. He thought over what the Frenchman had said.
Unbidden, his gaze drifted back to Keith.
Berger's words, while unexpected, were also appreciated. It eased the ache in his chest that had begun to fester at the thought of losing Keith.
He sighed in relief.
OoO
"I have half a mind to have you all arrested!" Iverson thundered.
Even Shiro, the only one in the tent technically not getting yelled at, cringed at the righteous fury being aimed their way. He resolutely ignored the way their line-up brought back memories of school and irate teachers.
They had been met just a mile away from the camp by an escort, who had hustled their ragtag group into two jeeps and sped them back to safety under the cover of darkness.
Shiro appreciated the attempt at subtlety, but he could have done without Iverson's apocalyptic rage.
"You!" The colonel whirled on Keith, fire spewing from his mouth. Shiro had never respected Keith more than he did in that moment. His friend met Iverson's vicious glare without a hint of fear, standing straight and proud in the face of their superior's wrath.
"First you cause a ruckus around the base asking questions about a sensitive matter. Then you disobey direct orders, steal classified military information, commandeer a plane as well as take our lead engineer hostage, and somehow convince your fellow soldiers to join you on a suicide mission!"
Keith merely blinked up at the man, placid and unrepentant.
Iverson snarled, displeased at the lack of reaction. He swung his attention to Seward, Evans and Hangrove. "You three I can't even begin to understand. Your stupidity in actually going along with such an inept and flawed plan speaks volumes." All three of them wilted under the reprimand, letting Iverson verbally eviscerate them – like rabbits being mauled by a wolf.
The colonel shifted to Berger and Taylor next. "And I don't know why you two are even still on this base in the first place, but you can bet it's pissing me off." Iverson's gaze darted between them, ravenous and dangerous and daring them to speak. None of them did. "MIA for almost a month! Do you have any idea that absolute shitstorm you lot unleashed on us because of your actions?"
From the corner of his eyes, Shiro saw Keith's mouth open. As quick as lightning, he kicked the other harshly in the leg, cutting him off before he could begin. The last thing they needed right now was Keith digging the hole deeper.
"Colonel," Shiro called when he saw his warning was not going to stop Keith from saying something.
Iverson looked at him, and Shiro was honoured to see the way the man's steely countenance softened slightly. "Captain," the man said, inclining his head. "I'm beyond relieved to see you back with us, and I'm glad that you are…reasonably intact." Here, the man's attention drifted down to the arm; what little of it that was visible under his sleeve now covered by a glove.
Shiro shifted his arm just a little behind him, unable to help what was already becoming a knee-jerk response. "Thank you, sir." He bit his lip, glanced at Keith, then started again. "I know what Kei – Sergeant Kogane did broke a number of rules, and I understand that you would be expected to show some form of discipline because of that."
Iverson stared at him, mouth twisting. "But?" He prodded, and something in his voice spurred Shiro on quickly.
"But without their actions, without the lengths they went to, I would be dead, sir." It was blunt, and he could see the flicker of darkness that came to Keith's face at his words. It was the truth, no matter how they wanted to cut it, and they needed to acknowledge that. "What was going on in that compound, what they were doing to me…" Shiro shook his head, slipping his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking.
"Eliminating the threat that facility posed was a good, strategic move, sir. There were a number of high-class operations being headed from there, and a large amount of their scientific research would have been damaged or destroyed in the explosions."
"You don't think they should be punished for their actions." Iverson cut through Shiro's attempt at diplomacy like a knife, disapproval woven in his every word.
Shiro tucked his chin close to his throat, deferring even as he spoke out. "No, sir, I don't. I think what these men did landed a massive blow against our enemies, and despite their –" he groped frantically for an adequate descriptor, "unorthodox methods with going about it, they should be praised for what they accomplished."
Iverson's eyes narrowed, lips pursed, and Shiro hoped that he hadn't just ruined whatever goodwill he had managed to cultivate between them.
OoO
"You've always been good at bullshitting your way out of things," Keith commented from beside him.
Shiro sighed, rubbing at his face. "I wasn't bull –" he stopped himself when Keith rolled his head to stare at him, daring him to finish that sentence.
"I got enough practice I guess, running around after you." He amended with a wry grin. Keith snorted, leaning back on the bed, propping up on his elbows.
After his steadfast defence of his rescuers, Iverson had all but banished them to a remote tent on the outskirts of the base and ordered them to 'stay out of trouble' until he figured out what to do with them.
Shiro was quickly realising that asking that from this bunch was like asking a thirsty man not to drink. He wasn't sure, but he suspected that Berger was actually tinkering with something explosive. The shifty way Hangrove and Evans were glancing around from their positions next to the Frenchman had all of Shiro's instincts on alert.
At least if something did blow up, they weren't likely to take anything else with them.
Probably.
"And I wasn't about to let anyone get punished because of me. Least of all you," he continued wearily, choosing to ignore the others for now.
He stared down at his hands.
It was strange, this persistent exhaustion that nipped at his heels. Ever since he had been injected, Shiro hadn't needed as much sleep – only a few hours every couple of days was enough.
But lately he had been besieged by fatigue, spluttering like a dying engine.
He sighed again, eyes falling shut.
God, he just wanted to sleep for a decade.
"I know. You've always looked out for me, even when I didn't think I needed it." Keith murmured, soft and fond. "It's my turn now. Go to sleep, Shiro, I'll watch over you."
With that promise – Keith remembered promises, and he never broke them – Shiro let everything slip away.
OoO
He woke to the sound of harsh whispers.
Shiro blinked awake, turning his head from where it was buried in a lumpy pillow. His bleary eyes cleared swiftly as he searched for the source.
He didn't remember falling asleep like this, but Keith must have moved him –
Keith.
Shiro went to sit up but paused when his nose caught a familiar scent. A thick coat was carefully draped over him, acting as a makeshift blanket. It was smelled like Keith.
He settled unconsciously, surveying the room with a critical eye.
"– not an option." Keith was saying.
"Look, sport –"
"No."
"I'm trying to do my job here. You doing this is extremely counterproductive." That sounded like – Doctor Holt? It had been a while since Shiro had heard the other man's voice.
"Do I look like I care?"
"You honestly look like you're about to stab me; don't think I don't see where your hand is right now."
Shiro sat upright at that, springing to his feet. Why was it that whenever he turned his back Keith was doing something dangerous?
"Keith?"
"Ah, Captain!" Holt's eyes landed on him from over Keith's shoulder, sparkling with that unique bubbly energy. "Good to see that our little adventure paid off. Mind calling off your guard dog so that I can give you a check-up?"
The joke only had Keith glowering, and Shiro lengthened his stride to intercept before Keith threw a punch. "The medics already cleared me," he told the scientist once he came up next to them. He briefly dropped a hand on Keith's shoulder, and the other relaxed under his palm.
Holt's eyes zeroed in on the light touch, seeming far too interested. "True," the man agreed easily, "but then I'm not here for that sort of check-up. I do specialise in technology, Captain."
Just like that, Keith was bristling again. "And I told you that you'd have to go through me if you tried."
"That," Holt replied, an amused smile tugging at his lips, "is not something I'd chance, Sergeant. But the choice is not yours, or mine, or even the dear Captain's." He pointed at Shiro's gloved arm, "That is enemy tech, and far more advanced than anything I've ever dreamed of, let alone seen before. We have no idea what it can do, or what purpose it holds. Letting it stay an unknown is not only incredibly risky for everyone here, it's also stupid. And I," Holt stressed with a smirk, "am not stupid. Now, Captain, if you please?"
Keith wasn't backing down, but then again, he rarely did when it came to Shiro. "It's an arm. Enough said."
"It could be a bomb," Holt flung back, more bite to his tone now. He was getting frustrated, and Shiro knew he had to defuse this before it escalated further.
"Why would they make an arm-shaped bo –"
"Alright."
Holt beamed at him while Keith shot him a concerned glare. "Shiro, you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," he was quick to tell him.
Shiro smiled down at his friend, the expression stilted, but still there. "It's fine, Keith. Doctor Holt has a point. We have no idea what they did to this thing, and it's better to be sure."
"Finally, some logic," Holt proclaimed, gesturing for Shiro to follow him. The look he gave Keith was undeniably smug. "Captain, if you'll just come with me."
"Only if Keith can come too."
Holt stopped, arms falling to his sides. "Pardon?"
Shiro raised an eyebrow, "I'll go, but only if Keith can accompany us."
"Oh, well, I'm not entirely sure he has clearance…" Holt trailed off, pinned under the combined weight of Keith and Shiro's gaze. The man swallowed nervously, "But I think the colonel will understand. Right this way, gentlemen."
Sharing a relieved look, Keith and Shiro trotted after the slim scientist.
It was still early, the sky barely beginning to gain some colour. He couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour or so.
Holt led them through the dark tents and barracks, headed for his own workshop. Shiro eyed the building suspiciously.
"The second he does something you don't like I'm punching him," Keith swore under his breath, watching Holt with all the intensity of a cat watching a mouse.
Shiro's lips twitched and he cleared his throat to kill the chuckle he wanted to release. "I appreciate the offer, but it's okay. I'll be fine."
Keith's forehead creased. "You know you've said that, or something like it, way too many times lately for me to believe you." Keith stopped walking, "What you went through, Shiro…what they did to you, you know it's okay not to be okay, right? No one here expects you to just bounce back."
Shiro looked down at his boots, avoiding those knowing eyes.
Suddenly it was hard to breath.
He had been doing so well not thinking about it, yet all it took was a few words from Keith, the soft compassion in his voice, and everything clawed its way to the top again.
Shiro wanted to hide again. Keith had always known how to read him, had rarely fallen for his lies. This was the one time Shiro wished he could have fooled the other.
"I know that, Keith. But at the same time, I can't let myself not be fine." He looked at his friend beseechingly. "I've got to be okay because I'm still needed out here. We can't afford to lose something as important as Captain America, not right now. I'm a symbol for our soldiers, an idea they rally behind." He smiled once more, a little bitter. "Ideas don't have time to feel sorry for themselves."
"Come along, boys!" Holt called back impatiently, already at his workshop's entrance and holding the door open for them. With one last lingering look, they hurried after him, slipping inside and studying the chaotic space.
Shiro's nose tingled at the sharp metallic scents. Holt ushered them to the back of the room for some semblance of privacy.
"Take a seat right here, Captain." The scientist waved his hand vaguely in the direction of what looked like a dentists' chair. Shiro sat down on it tentatively, placing his metal arm on the provided table jutting out from the side. He squashed the small flare of panic that rose inside him.
This won't be like with Haggar, he told himself firmly. And besides, Keith is here. He won't let anything bad happen.
Holt sat on the stool next to him and rubbed his hands together, a bit too eagerly for Shiro's liking. He could understand, somewhat, where the scientist was coming from, but it was still disturbing to see how easily Holt seemed to forget that the arm was attached to a person.
"Alrighty, let's open this baby up and see what makes it tick."
OoO
"So, what is it?" Colonel Iverson asked from where he stood at the head of the table.
There was a bright grin on Holt's face and a smudge of oil on his cheek. "After careful study and deliberation, I can safely say that I have no idea, Colonel."
The man's eyebrows twitched. "You have nothing? Not an ounce of insight into this thing?"
"Well," Holt shrugged, not appearing remotely upset at his examination ending in failure. "I'm relatively certain that it's not a bomb, or a weapon of any sort." His eyes cast about the room, stopping on Shiro thoughtfully before returning to Iverson. "Everything points to it being a very advanced prosthetic. Cutting-edge, in fact."
"And?"
Again, Holt shrugged. "As much as I could tell it's been integrated into the Captain's body and nervous system." He reached up and adjusted his glasses. "Trying to remove it would be the equivalent of taking off a normal person's arm. Whatever those German scientists did, I've never witness anything even close to this level. It's a part of him now, and frankly, I'd be hesitant to do more than a cursory inspection every now and then for fear of damaging him."
Shiro clenched his fists, fighting the urge to break something.
Integrated into his body. A part of him.
She had completely ruined his life.
He might have escaped, but he would never be able to move on. Not now, not with this thing forever bound to him. Just one final shackle he could never throw off.
Underneath the table, Keith's hand dropped onto his knee.
Shiro drew in a trembling breath, pushing his emotions to the side and wrestling himself back under control.
"So, what are we going to do then?" He asked Iverson. "Are you going to pull me out, sir? Quarantine me?"
Keith's fingers gripped tighter.
Iverson crossed his arms, turning his back on them, staring at the map strung up on the map instead. There were a number of blue and red tacks all over it, and, oddly enough, scatterings of purple.
"No, Captain. I won't be doing either."
The relief that hit him was dizzying.
"In fact, I believe I've finally figured out just what to do with you." Iverson glanced at them from over his shoulder. "Both you and Sergeant Kogane have shown quite the aptitude for taking on a particular enemy of ours and coming out on top." He spun to face them fully, plucking a folder from the table. It was thick and had a rubber band tied around it to keep it closed.
"Tell me, have either of you heard of GALRA?"
Shiro frowned, "I – no? Why, what is it?"
Keith made a curious noise in the back of his throat, leaning forward over the table. "I have," he said, eyes intent on the file in Iverson's hand. "When we were staking out the compound. A lot of the boxes they were shipping in and out had that branded on them."
Iverson and Holt shared a long, weighted look. "What we're about to tell you is highly classified and is not to be spoken about with anyone I personally haven't approved. Is that understood?"
Shiro and Keith nodded.
"GLARA is an elusive branch of the enemy forces, specialising in scientific experiments. Or at least, that's what we have been able to discern from intercepted telegrams." Iverson tossed them the file, watching as they pulled out the documents and a small stack of photos.
Shiro's fingers hovered over one of Haggar.
He tapped it, a sour feeling brewing in his gut at the blurred profile. "This one, she's the one who had me." He showed the picture to Iverson, "Her name is Haggar."
"Yes, we know. From our intel, we believe she is one of, if not the head of the organisation. She's got a list of war crimes longer than my service record, and a habit of torturing anyone she can get her hands on, from both sides."
Shiro, already intimately acquainted with Haggar's wide range of tendencies, studiously ignored her photo after that. He didn't need to know all of her sins to know she needed to be stopped.
"What has this got to do with us, sir?"
It was Holt that answered this time. "Ever since we got word of GALRA, we've been trying to target their operations – with limited success. We just haven't had the time of the resources to head a witch hunt for them, on top of fighting this war. From what we've gathered, they're involved heavily in the development of some terrifyingly efficient machines, but they work from the shadows. Finding their officers and bases is like trying to catch a ghost."
"Until now, that is." Iverson took over, "In the space of six months, two of their more prominent bases have been disrupted, thanks to both of you."
The man tapped one of his fingers against the map, drawing their attention to two purple pins. "Because of your efforts we now have struck a critical blow to their network and severely limited their movements in this area. But this group is like a damn weed, and they keep coming back more paranoid each time."
The colonel fixed them with a considering look. "It has been decided, Captain, that your track record – circumstantial or not – makes you a damn sight better at making them hurt than anyone else."
"You want me to spearhead this?"
Iverson nodded, "Yes. With your own specialised unit of men, your task is to light the fire under GALRA's ass and crush them once and for all. Think you're up to it?"
Shiro felt a wave of eager anticipation wash over him, molten in its intensity, burning away any flickers of doubt. He gritted his teeth and nodded, "I am, sir."
"Good. Your unit has already been selected for you. Of course, you're free to pick and choose whomever you'd like, within reason, but I have a feeling you'll agree with out suggestions."
"I want Keith," Shiro blurted out without even glancing at the sheet of paper Iverson was holding out to him. "Sergeant Kogane, I mean." He corrected.
Iverson raised an eyebrow, "Seeing the lengths he went to to rescue you, and how you've not left each other's side since then, I already took the initiative to name him your second."
Chastised, Shiro took the piece of paper and quickly scanned the names. Keith pushed close to read over his shoulder and hummed approvingly. He looked up and grinned at the colonel, then at Shiro.
"I think we can work with these."
Hope you enjoyed guys! If anyone is interested, my tumblr is 'Child_OTKW'.