... So I'm actually nervous to post this one. Partly because there's been an uptick in people reading this (which is so exciting, but also adds a little bit of nerves of course), but mostly because this is the chapter. The chapter where the fic became something more than a fun side project and started occupying my mind constantly when I tried working on other things.

And yes, I know it's quite a bit longer than the other chapters so far. I've debated so many times whether I should split it in two or not, but ultimately I kept it as is. As a turning point, story-wise and structure-wise.

Also, I know I already thanked you in our PMs, but I still want to say an extra thank you to you, brigitta10, for your incredibly kind comments!

Anyway, if I don't post now I might hesitate forever, so here we go.

Chapter 9

Saturday, 8.02 PM

When they sat down in front of that massive desk, Lance had thought about it. Thought about giving in to the part of him still angry and hurt and say, 'Captain, before you say anything… It was Keith's fault.'

A younger him might have. Scratch that, he would have. Would have let it slip out, gotten even more riled up by the deadpan comment Keith would have sent back, flubbed out one of his own… and down the spiral they'd go.

A part of him had wanted that. Wanted that so badly after the disaster tonight had been. One look at Captain Holt's face however had made it clear: he was in no mood for pointing fingers, and so like it or not (and right then Lance really hadn't) the only way through was together.

Not that it mattered. Keith had still been kicked off the case.

Running a tired hand through his hair, Lance continued down the precinct hallway, checking the rooms as he passed. An officer here and there, occupied with different cases. Otherwise empty.

It was ironic in a way: Keith had talked about ditching Lance on the case, and now Lance was ditching Keith. Being ordered to, technically, but still.

But his eyes… his eyes just before he stormed out.

'I can't go back– Not without–

'Please.'

The change had been jarring. Unsettling even. In the short time they had spent together, it was clear anger was Keith's default way of dealing with most negative emotions. This time he'd looked on the verge of crying and that… something about that felt fundamentally wrong to see. Like he was witnessing something he had never been meant to.

It wasn't about upholding a personal record anymore. Not even about his own hurt feelings. He couldn't let Keith go home without trying to… what exactly? No clue. All he knew was he had to find him.

Even if he was the last person Keith would want to see. That much had been clear.

'You think I wouldn't have ditched you in a second?'

Lance slowed to a stop, pulling in a quiet breath. Still loud in the desolate hallway. The clock on the wall filled his ears with its steady tick-tick-tick, as if it too was admonishing him for the way his chest tightened, his breath shuddered on the way out.

Before he knew it he was leaning back against the wall, pulling his phone from his pocket. Adding the 0053 before typing the number he knew by heart.

One signal.

Three.

Five.

"Hi, this is Veronica McClain. Please leave a message and I'll–"

No answer. His gaze strayed back to the clock again. He should've known; they were all definitely asleep by now. He shouldn't have tried.

"Hi Veronica," he said, voice calmer than he thought it would be, "it's me. Just checking in, nothing urgent. I'll call you another day. Te extraño."

He winced. 'I miss you', and in Spanish to boot? Now she'd definitely know something was up. But it was too late now, and so he hung up before the quiet lasted too long.

He would be fine.

He would.

Sure, his old therapist would've strongly disagreed, but sometimes the only way was to push through and deal with the mental fallout – because there always was – later. When he had time to think and feel and wasn't worrying about someone else.

Another breath. Then Lance forced his thoughts to the task at hand and kept walking.

He had checked the garage: no cars had left it since they got here. No sign of Keith near Captain Holt's office or forensics either. And nothing here outside the other offices. Sure, he could've left on foot, but Lance would deal with that when the time came. Start small and work yourself up and all that. Even though this would all have been so much easier if he had bothered to get Keith's phone number…

Whatever. He hadn't, so old-fashioned searching it had to be.

Not the garage, forensics or offices… What was left? The training rooms? If Keith had reverted to angry mode again, there was no better way to release it than roundhouse kicking some training dummies or something. The more Lance thought about it, the more likely it seemed.

Man, he probably should've looked there first.

As he walked into the massive space a few minutes later, gaze flickering between the sparring mats, the gym equipment and the off-white walls trying and failing to remove the concrete basement feel, the same certainty quickly deteriorated.

Then a tuft of black hair near the punching bags caught his eye.

Not such a useless detective after all.

"You practicing your telekinesis? 'Cause I hate to break it to you, but that punching bag's not moving an inch."

"I'm not in the mood, Lance."

Well, that was about as much as he had expected. Sighing, Lance lowered himself down on the floor too, a few feet away from Keith. He leaned his head back against the wall. "I know. Just… give me a minute and I'll get out of your hair."

No response, but no repeated dismissal either. Lance chose to take that as a go ahead.

"I guess," and where were the words that had been there so easily a minute ago? "I wanted you to know I had no idea. About the whole thing back there in Holt's office. And even though I don't know why, I know this case means a lot to you, so… I'm sorry."

In the corner of his eye, he saw Keith glance his way. He kept looking at the ceiling though, following a crack in the concrete. Every crack branching off into smaller, fainter ones.

Keith's quiet "Thanks" made him look over however. He had never thought about it before, but Keith's eyes were almost a steel gray. Well, right now less steel and more tired, weary. Like rain clouds. "For trying."

"... Oh. Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yeah, sure thing."

A beat of silence passed.

"Well, guess my minute's up," Lance said lightly, though he felt anything but lighthearted, "so I'll just…" Getting to his feet, he went to walk away. Paused before he'd made it more than a step. "You want, like, a ride somewhere? You probably won't find many last-minute tickets to Texas tonight."

Given the look that crossed his face, Keith clearly hadn't thought that far. "No, I'll… stay here."

Lance wasn't sure if he meant that as here at the precinct or literally here, behind the punching bags, but either way sounded like the worst way to sleep. Either way felt like a shitty way to leave off the last time they'd see each other. Especially after everything that had gone down.

Could he convince Keith to let him drop him off back at Hunk's? No, definitely not. If Lance himself was feeling too worn to keep up a good mood and confront Hunk's questions about said absent good mood, he could only imagine how Keith, who barely knew them, felt.

He could show him to the precinct bunk beds though. Or…

"My apartment has a couch," he offered. "And a curtain, so you don't have to see my face."

He waited for the glare. For Keith to refuse. Or just ignore him.

What he didn't expect was a quiet breath, followed by an "Okay."

:::

8.29 PM

As Lance led the way up the stairs to the third floor of the apartment complex, the nerves only grew. Well, not nerves, but… apprehension maybe? And the quiet car ride, interrupted only by the noise of traffic and a reggaeton music station, hadn't exactly made him feel better about it all.

It would be fine though. Wasn't like Keith would be around to judge him for long.

He still stopped outside the front door, the open stairwell beside them giving his voice a distorted echo. "I'm not here much, alright? All my stuff's basically at Hunk's place; this," he waved towards the apartment, "is just a place to crash if I have to. So whatever classy picture you have in your mind, aim lower. Much lower."

"Lance." Not annoyed, just tired. The sharp hallway light didn't do Keith any favors either, highlighting the shadows under his eyes, the downturn of his mouth.

Yeah. Keith would probably pay more attention to the inside of his eyelids than his snoozefest of a living space. The snoozefest might even help with the actual snoozing.

The insight didn't help with the hyper-self-consciousness as he let them both in, gaze drifting over the lone dresser in the hallway, the dark wooden doors to his bedroom and the bathroom to one side, the ocean-patterned curtain in the doorway (a gift from mamá when he first moved out) obscuring most of the living room except a sliver of white wall. As usual though he could hear the quiet thrum of the air conditioner from inside. That, and the muffled sound of the neighbor's TV.

It didn't smell too bad however, considering he hadn't been here for, what? One and a half, two weeks? A little stale, but that was easily fixable.

"You can hang your jacket there if you want." Wiping his shoes on the door mat, Lance made a vague gesture towards the hooks on the wall before pulling the curtain aside and heading towards the balcony. A few failed attempts later (you had to lift the door up slightly for the handle to work, and he could never get the angle right) the door finally creaked open, letting in the sweet, sweet rush of fresh air.

He glanced down at the semi-busy road below. Well. Kind of fresh air.

When he turned back around Keith was in the doorway, still wearing his jacket. Something about seeing him there, standing awkwardly next to the kitchenette taking up the left corner, felt surreal. Like he and this apartment shouldn't exist in the same universe.

"So." Lance cleared his throat, gesturing towards the dark gray three-seater taking up most of the room. "That's the couch. I'm gonna go clean up, but you make yourself comfortable and all that. TV remote's on the table if you want and… yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay," Lance echoed. Another pause. "You're kinda blocking the way out–"

Keith glanced around, seeming to only now register he was in the middle of the doorway, and quickly moved to the side. Just as quickly Lance left, letting out a breath as the bathroom door closed behind him.

This was going to be a long night. He could already feel it.

Running a hand through his hair, he made to move towards the sink when his phone rang in his pocket. A swirl of guilty disappointment coursed through him when it wasn't his sister's name on the screen.

"What the hell happened?"

Despite himself, Lance had to smile. "Hello to you too, Pidge."

"I'm serious. I thought you two had just had another bitch-off like at Venice Beach–"

"Hey, we did not–"

"–but then dad calls you guys in and now you're on strike one and Keith's not on the case anymore?"

"Yeah." Lance rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "Guess we really screwed this one over."

"But they can't just punish you for doing your best–"

"We weren't though," Lance cut in as he sat down on the toilet lid. "Doing our best, I mean. We didn't trust each other's calls, made a bunch of dumb decisions in a row and… well, you know the result. Evidence at the bottom of the ocean and Haggar, poof, gone."

A second passed.

"You okay?" Pidge asked, voice softer. "Where are you by the way? The sound's so tinny."

"My apartment. In the bathroom."

"What? Lance–"

"On the toilet, actually."

"What the fuck, why would you answer when you're– Okay hell no, I'm hang–"

"Toilet lid," he added. "I'm using it as a chair. Cool your jets."

A long-suffering sigh came from the other end, making him truly grin for the first time tonight. "I hate you."

"Well, you're gonna have to get in line." He meant for the words to come out lighthearted, like any other joke, but they somehow got messed up on the way. Maybe, hopefully, Pidge wouldn't notice.

"Okay, now I know you're not okay." No such luck, apparently. "Amped-up self-deprecation: biggest fucking sign right there."

"Sign? Who told you that? Hunk?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah, he did. But this isn't about Hunk, so stop deflecting."

Lance sunk down further in his seat, tracing the white tiles on the wall with his gaze. Signs. Was he becoming that predictable? "I'm fine," he said eventually. "Really. Just tired, I guess, and… and a little bummed about the whole thing. Set my brain going a bit. Nothing some shut-eye can't fix, am I right?"

"Sure," Pidge said, sounding everything but sure.

"Okay, it got my brain going a lot, but… can we not talk about it right now? I'm serious about being tired and Keith's here and–"

"Keith's in your apartment? The same apartment you've only let me see, like, once?"

"I know. It's weird, and pretty awkward, but he just seemed so lost, you know, with the whole losing-the-case thing and… yeah."

"Yeah, you don't need to explain. I'd probably have done the same." They sighed. "Shame he's leaving. I was starting to like that guy."

Lance hummed in reply. Because before tonight, so had he.

No. That wasn't true. Some part of him still did, even with those words at the caravan park wedged in it all like a razor. Still cared enough to not be able to leave him there at the precinct.

Did that make him kind, or just stupid?

"Anyway," Pidge said, "get some sleep. Both of you. And just so you know, you're not off the hook. You will talk about your feelings with me or Hunk or whoever later. Got it?"

A half-smile curved Lance's lips. "Sir, yes, sir."

"Good. Now–" Whatever Pidge was going to say was drowned out by a loud yawn, and Lance's smile grew to a full one.

"Wow. Either you're trying to summon a whale, or you need sleep more than I do."

"Shut up," Pidge muttered half-heartedly, before continuing, "After you left we got the directive to start monitoring the public places Bandor goes to, just as a precaution. We told Bandor the basics and he has okay:ed it. That took a shit-ton of time to set up though, so I still have to check out the rest of your leads before I pack up for the night. "

"If you find something, send it to me?"

"If it's something urgent, sure. Otherwise you'll see it at work tomorrow."

"I'm guessing that's non-negotiable?"

"Definitely. Good night, Lance."

"Night."

After hanging up, he simply sat there for a moment, idly flipping the phone over in his hands. Letting the weariness in his muscles weigh him down for just a while. He'd fought for his life twice in the span of six hours or so after all: if anyone had earned it, it was him. Him and–

Right. Keith. Still in his living room.

Sending Hunk a text he should've sent ages ago – 'Staying at the apartment tonight. I'll explain later' – Lance reluctantly got to his feet and leaned over the sink. He had to admit the cold water against his face felt nice though, made him feel a little more like himself. And despite the whirlwind of the last few hours, his hair actually didn't look half-bad. But that head wound… He ran his fingers over the coarse butterfly strips.

He still wasn't sure how he'd gotten it. The caravan had been such a mess by that time, things flying everywhere with every careen, and getting the hell out had seemed like a bit of a higher priority than the sudden sting.

Would it scar? He really hoped it wouldn't: a straight line along his temple wasn't exactly a cool scar. More distracting, actually. More… what was the word?

Ruining. Marring.

Making a face, Lance forced himself to look away from it. Man, maybe Pidge had a point. His brain clearly needed sleep.

Food sounded good too though. After all, they'd never had that dinner at Hunk's place.

A few minutes later and feeling a bit fresher, Lance came back into the living room. Keith, arms resting against his knees, had moved over to the couch, his black backpack (they'd picked it up before leaving the precinct) almost camouflaged against the couch leg. At least he'd taken his jacket off now; it lay next to him on the arm rest.

"You want something to eat? I'm thinking," Lance opened the cupboard over the sink, unable to keep his face from falling, "instant ramen, apparently, because that's all I have. Except this I-don't-wanna-know-how-old can of soup." Lance made a mental note to keep some emergency supplies around in the future, because this was just embarrassing.

Keith was nice enough however to just say "Sure" in reply. Or maybe he simply liked instant ramen, who knew. "Do you–"

"–want help putting water on and dumping in some noodles?" Metal clanged as Lance pulled a saucepan from the much-too-small cupboard under the stove. "It'll be tough going, but I think I can handle it."

Keith, halfway off the couch, slumped back down again.

Quiet enveloped the room as Lance set everything up, only interrupted by the muffled drone of traffic trickling in from the balcony, Keith's fingers restlessly tap-tap-tapping against his knee and soon, the bubbling of the water. And once again, Lance found his mind wandering.

"How did you get that scar on your face?" he asked before he could think it through. "Lemme guess: you tried to shave with a steak knife."

"Field accident," Keith deadpanned, clearly not as amused by that joke. "Stopping an armed robbery."

"... And? You can't tell just half the story, man."

A sigh. "Two years into regular patrol, joint intervention with the Marshals. Five guys in a jewelry store, four of us. It got messy quick – Shiro disarmed one of them, didn't realize it was me coming up behind him and acted on instinct." A ghost of a smile crossed Keith's lips. "I told him he didn't need to feel guilty about it, but he did anyway."

"Sheesh," Lance said with a wince. "Now I feel bad for worrying about this thing." Gesturing towards his forehead, he busied himself with opening the ramen packet.

"It'll be fine," came Keith's answer after a while. "Just don't pick on the scabs later."

Lance huffed a half-laugh as he lowered the ramen into the now boiling water. "Wow, thanks Doc. Mind-blowing advice."

"It will be once it starts itching."

"Ugh. Don't remind me." As he thought through Keith's story once more, a sudden detail stood out to him. "Who's Shiro by the way?"

If he hadn't happened to glance over at that moment, he wouldn't have noticed Keith freeze. Only a second, but long enough for Lance to realize that shit, he'd stumbled onto something really sensitive and what could he redirect to–

"My Chief Deputy," Keith answered, so evenly it could only be forced. "But more like my brother."

Chief Deputy. Now it was Lance's turn to stop in his tracks, hand halfway to the saucepan. Because as far as he remembered, Keith's Chief had only come up in one other conversation.

'You're not going to shoot me, because your dear Chief would want you to get justice. And to get justice you need to take me alive. Don't you?'

He hadn't known what to think of it at the time. Written it off afterwards as some misdirected taunt about making the Texas Chief Deputy proud. About him and Keith wanting to prove themselves. But what if…?

Lance lowered his hand, the past twenty-one hours flashing through his mind.

The anger.

'If this was just your job, your face wouldn't be doing Fifty Shades of Emotional Display every time we talked about Haggar in detail. You wouldn't be snapping at people in my team. You wouldn't be outright avoiding their questions.'

The determination.

'Hey, what are you– Keith! Hey! Don't walk through that gate!'

And he saw it now in sharp clarity: the desperation.

'No. No, she's still here– She has to be hiding here somewhere, I–'

Every action, every word, every gesture… they all pointed towards one answer. The only answer that made sense.

"Haggar killed Shiro." Lance swallowed. Then turned and met Keith's gaze. "Didn't she?"

Keith didn't respond. But the look on his face said it all.

:::

8.56 PM

After it happened, Keith hadn't been able to say it out loud. Not at the hospital. Not in his recount of the events to the new Acting Chief Deputy. Not at the short memorial held at the district office, just before he left for L.A.

Because saying it out loud would make it feel real. Would make it so much harder to hold on to the anger, to not let himself slip into that gaping dark hole left behind. If he did, he knew he wouldn't be able to get the job done.

Except he'd failed at that now too. Just as he had failed Shiro that day.

And here the truth was. Three simple words.

Haggar killed Shiro.

It made him want to laugh, how something that had upended his life so completely, that had taken the one thing – one person – he'd always counted on to be there, could be reduced to something so small. So straightforward.

"What happened?" Lance had taken a step towards him, now hovering between the kitchenette and the couch as if he wasn't sure what to do. To be honest, Keith wasn't sure what he wanted him to do either. Wasn't sure of anything over the tightening of his throat.

He was tired. So, so tired.

"You don't have to tell me," Lance added quickly. "And I mean that in a if-it's-too-hard-to-talk-about way, not a I-don't-wanna-listen way, because I want to. If you want to. I mean–" He ran his hands across his face, his mumbled "Shut up, Lance" almost drowned out.

Keith leaned back against the couch. Stared up at the off-white ceiling. What was there even to say? "Prison transfer." The words bitter on his tongue. "It was supposed to be me driving the van."

"... But Shiro covered your shift?"

Keith closed his eyes. "Yeah."

Quiet again. Even not looking, Keith could feel Lance's gaze. Waiting for him to say something. To tell him more or to back off.

Unbiddenly, Keith found himself thinking about Venice beach. Of Lance, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation but soldiering on. Laying it out.

Keith… he'd never been good at that sort of thing. He knew he had walls up. They had been necessary before, during the years tossed around in the foster system – after dad, before Shiro – and while he had gotten better, had hacked and slashed at them on more than one occasion, he knew they were still there. Still kept everything that mattered inside.

But it didn't matter anymore, did it? Keith opened his eyes. Met Lance's own, cautious ones. What was the point in preserving his pride, in hiding, now? It wasn't like he'd ever see Lance again anyway.

And he was tired.

"I found out about the crash over the comms."

:::

Eight days ago

Keith tightened his hands around the handlebars, tires screeching as he egged the motorbike around a corner. Desert dust and sand pelted against his helmet, mixing together with the crackle of voices on his comm set.

"–heading down the 34 right now. Requesting all patrols to follow–"

"No word from Shirogane. Most likely radio damage–"

"–there in five minutes. We–"

The sound of gunfire drew his focus, had him squinting through the glaring sun at the road up ahead. Gunning the engine just a little more.

There. At the next corner. A blue sedan, side heavily scratched, blocking the road both ways. And beside it, front smashed into a roadside cactus, was the prison van. The one Shiro had been driving.

A bullet whistled past his head and Keith drew the bike to a sharp halt, diving for cover behind the van. Another bullet slammed into the metal nearby.

"Keith!" came a familiar voice and his shoulders sagged in relief.

"What happened?" was all he answered however as he dragged the helmet off, and crouched next to Shiro.

Shiro glanced towards the sedan, gun at the ready and mouth set in a grim line. "That car tried to overtake, going way too fast. Got distracted trying to avoid it. Haggar took advantage, grabbed the wheel. Somehow she unscrewed the back sections' barred window."

Shit. Readying his own weapon, Keith's eyes flicked over to the other car. No sign of movement. "Where's she–"

A flash of white hair behind the bonnet and they both scrambled around the back of the van just as the side mirror shattered. Glass and metal spraying along the side like deadly confetti. Keith couldn't keep in a hiss as a stray shard nicked his hand.

"A fascinating thing, pain." Haggar's voice was quiet, almost as if it was only meant for herself, but something about it – the detachment, the casualness – carried across the space. Made unease prickle along Keith's spine. "A sensation carried through our free nerve endings, all the way to our mind, to make us aware of our injuries. But in reality it's so much more, isn't it?"

The gash was small, no wider than a finger nail, but Keith could still feel Shiro's worried gaze as he wiped the trickle of blood off on his pants. Acutely aware of the sting that followed with it.

"No. Pain is psychological too. It's emotional. It strips us down, exposes us for a moment as those we truly are… you could hurt a hundred people in the same way, yet they would feel and react to it a hundred different ways.

"Surely you've seen it too. How beautiful it is."

Keith had seen it. And it was everything but beautiful.

Ignoring the unsettled feeling in his stomach, Keith sent Shiro a quiet "The others are coming. Five minutes," before yelling back, "Do you miss high school biology, or are you just trying to tell us how sick in the head you are?"

To goad a known murderer probably wasn't the best idea, and the look Shiro sent him told him he thought as much too. He needed to focus, stop letting Haggar's sadistic words get under his skin. Taking a steadying breath, Keith sent Shiro a look of his own.

What's the plan?

Not missing a beat, Shiro motioned to him and the van's left side. Then himself and the other.

A flank attack. Made sense. Because even though Haggar had had the advantage of surprise they still outnumbered her. She still couldn't shoot two targets at once.

He nodded, quietly shifting into position when Haggar answered him.

"Neither. I simply wanted to give you a chance to appreciate the sensation. Because I noticed something you haven't."

Keith froze. Glanced over at Shiro again. His eyes mirroring his own confusion.

Then he heard it. Heard the quiet drip-drip-drip behind Shiro.

"Your van's leaking gas."

The words slid over him with ice-cold dread, brain screaming at him to move, to run – but before he could, before he could even think, two hands grabbed his shoulders. Shoved him back as the gunshot rang through the air.

Shiro's eyes, pupils blown wide, were the last things he saw before the world exploded.

The force sent him flying, everything burning orange as he tumbled, weightless.

Then gravity plummeted him back onto the road. And the orange turned white.

He must've blacked out for a second, because he came to with a desperate gasp. With his ears ringing. Eyes blurring in, out. In, out.

The pain was everywhere. It seared in his head, burned in his lungs, clawed at his chest… and for a terrifying moment, Keith couldn't move.

Everything around him was in chaos. Debris littered the road around him. Smoke colored the sky a toxic black, spewing up from the mangled scraps of the Marshals' van.

And among them, flesh burnt nearly past recognition–

The realization struck him like a punch to the gut. All the air leaving his already oxygen-starved lungs. Bile rising in his throat.

No. Nonononono–

A pair of worn leather boots entered his vision. With immense effort, Keith lifted his head from the asphalt road, meeting Haggar's gaze. The dark eyes red-rimmed from smoke, face showing no emotion, no anger… not even the slightest bit of regret.

And Keith snapped.

"You… you bastard," he hissed through cracked lips, voice hoarse and brittle, "I'll kill you. I'LL KILL YOU!"

Haggar cocked her head to the side, gaze raking over him in a way that made his skin crawl. Finding something savoring enough to warrant an almost-smile as she raised the gun in her hand. Aimed it right between his eyes.

A quiet groan came from the van.

Keith's heart leapt to his throat, unable to look away as the pile moved. An arm shakily extending out. Because somehow, by some fucking miracle–

"He's alive," Haggar said, sounding morbidly impressed.

Shiro let out another groan, legs twitching. Moving. And his arms again too. Slowly, surely, pulling himself up.

Alive.

Alive.

"Seems I underestimated his pain tolerance." Haggar said, bringing him back down to reality. She glanced down at him then, a warped sense of sympathy flickering through her eyes. "Too bad."

Keith didn't have time to wonder what that meant before Haggar stepped over him. But when she started walking towards Shiro the meaning became terrifyingly clear.

"No. No!"

He rolled over, arms shaking as he tried to push himself up. Collapsed right back down.

Haggar continued forward. One step. Two. Closer and closer to Shiro, who was still moving, still trying to–

"SHIRO!"

His head swam as he gave up standing. Barely felt his elbows splitting open against the tar as he crawled. The ringing even louder now, screaming in time with the pulsing blood in his ears–

Haggar came to a stop above Shiro. Watched his struggles with detached fascination. Raised the weapon once more.

The bang drowned out the scream ripped from Keith's throat.

:::

9.12 PM

Keith leaned forward, dragging his hands across his face. Too exhausted to cry. Not enough to untangle his vocal cords to keep going. The images were loud enough anyway, not needing words to race through his mind in gruesome detail.

Loud enough for Lance to imagine them too, if his pale face was anything to go by. "Shit, that's…" He took a breath, shifting in his seat beside him. At some point he must have sat down on the couch too. "That's traumatic as hell."

A startled huff of a laugh escaped him. Because of all the things he thought Lance would say…

"Yeah, okay, that came out wrong," and now Lance was the one running a hand up through his hair, "but I just– Seeing something like that…" He paused. "But why didn't she–"

"Kill me too?" Keith filled in, ignoring the way Lance cringed at the words.

'That would be the kind thing to do, wouldn't it? To put you out of your misery.

'But the world broke me. And since I can't do it back…

'I'll settle for breaking you.'

An involuntary shiver snaked through his bones. "Back-up," he said instead. "She must've heard them coming. Booked it to the car."

"... Shit," Lance said again, visibly struggling to process it all. "Shiro… you said he was like a brother to you. If one of my brothers– or my sister Veronica–" He pulled in a shaky breath. "I just– I'm really sorry."

Keith swallowed. Nodded.

Water sizzling against the stove top made them both jump.

"Crap, the noodles!" Barely avoiding the coffee table, Lance hurried over to the saucepan. A string of Spanish curses escaped him as the noodle he scooped out with a fork promptly fell to pieces. And the next one. And the next. Curses that eventually turned into a laugh at the absurdity of it all. "It's just– just freaking goo!"

A smile somehow pulled at Keith's lips too as he came over to look. "Goo with tentacles."

"Ay, dios." Lance braced himself against the countertop. "Well, what the hell, I'm hungry. You want some anyway?"

He shrugged. "Can't be that bad."

As it turned out, yes, noodles the consistency of oatmeal could be that bad. But it was late and he was tired and he hadn't had anything else in hours, so as Lance had said: what the hell.

He paused his mechanical eating when he noticed Lance hadn't joined him.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know about you, but the second I finish this, I'm gonna crash." Adjusting the bowl in his hands, Lance sent him a half-smile. "I also promised you wouldn't have to see my face and I've done a pretty shitty job of keeping that promise so far, so I'll just…" He nodded towards the curtained doorway.

Keith opened his mouth to tell him how dumb that was, and how he'd thought it had been a joke to make it less awkward offering an almost stranger your couch for the night, and why would he believe Keith cared about that promise anyway–

Then, in an ice-cold flash, he remembered.

"Lance," his hands tightened around the bowl, "what I said at the caravan park–"

Lance waved him off. "It's fine," he said, tone too light, too breezy. "Not like you're the first one to tell me that, anyway."

But it wasn't fine. Not at all.

Sure, in the past two days Lance had managed to push every single one of his buttons and then some. Managed to make him annoyed at things he didn't know he could get annoyed at. Had made him want to rip his hair out more times than he could count.

But the things he'd said… they weren't true. He hadn't meant any of them. He'd just been so angry and… and scared and–

And completely out of line.

Because without Lance – without the bickering, the one-upping, the jokes – he would have crashed and burned on day one. Maybe even hour one.

"I…" His voice died in his throat.

"It's fine," Lance said again, somehow even less convincing the second time. "You can leave the bowl in the sink when you're done. I'll wash up tomorrow."

There was so much he wanted to say. So much nothing would come out.

The curtain swayed gently as Lance left the room.

:::

11.27 PM

Keith woke up with a start as something landed on his face.

"What the fuck–" He flew up, swatting it away (some kind of fabric?) to find a familiar figure barging around the room. "Lance?"

"Pidge found something; turns out, Lara's not a person after all," Lance said breathlessly as he closed the balcony door with a loud screech, "I called Allura, hoping she'd have tickets, and thank god she did. She and Hunk are picking us up, but we need to go right now or they might not let us in–"

"Wait, what– Why–" Keith's head spun. He had only stopped tossing and turning two hours ago and was definitely not awake enough to process the waterfall of words Lance was throwing at him. One thing he knew for sure though. "But I'm off the case."

"Who said anything about a case? You're coming as my plus one." Lance grinned at him. "Officially, anyway."

"But–"

"After what you told me, do you honestly think I wouldn't give you a last chance to bring Haggar down? Now," he hurried out of the room again, calling over his shoulder, "get dressed. We leave in five!"

Keith was about to yell back that he'd at least like to know where the hell they were going before running off in the middle of the night, when the bundle Lance had thrown at him caught his eye. Frowning, he disentangled one of the items.

It was a suit jacket.