So I caught a cold Thursday night and am still feeling quite stuffy, so my editing might not be quite up to par, but I really want to post this chapter! We're slowly but surely closing in towards the climax now and I couldn't be more excited.

No more talking - hope you enjoy the chapter :)


Chapter 12

Sunday, 2.17 AM

After the conversation with Hunk, Keith had already made up his mind to reach out. But after Captain Holt, after getting a second chance he wasn't sure he'd earned, it spun in his mind with renewed vigor. Relentless as they decided to go back to Hunk's together this time. As he folded up the borrowed suit and slipped on a white T-shirt. Paced the length of the guest room. Back and forth. Back and forth.

He had to talk to Lance. Sleep would be impossible if he didn't.

Standing here however, face to face, cool night air prickling against his skin, he could feel the resolve slipping from him. How could the simple act of exchanging words feel so daunting? He'd take another motorbike chase or hell, even a bomb any day of the week.

He dug his fingers into his arms, keeping his feet rooted outside the bedroom door. "Just for a minute," he added. "If that's okay."

A pause. Then Lance raised the phone – the phone Keith only just noticed – to his ear. "Hey, can I call you back in a bit? I–" The murmur of a voice, and Lance pulled away briefly to glance at the clock. "Oh dios, it's that late? I didn't even– Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Okay. Love you. Bye."

Love you. Said without second thought, like you only could with someone you knew inside and out.

Keith didn't ask however, and Lance didn't elaborate, only gesturing for him to come inside.

Just like Lance's apartment blue seemed to be a theme: in the detailing on the dresser; on the striped bed sheets; in the fabric tapestry taking up most of the left wall, shimmering waves crashing against golden-white sand. But there were the clothes peeking out from the overflowing dresser drawers, the suit jacket slung on the desk over papers and bottles and trinkets, the scuffed bed sheets…

This room was lived in.

"My mom gave it to me." Closing the door behind them, Lance nodded towards the tapestry. He must have seen Keith looking at it. "It's the beach closest to our childhood home in Varadero. Cuba," he clarified at Keith's frown, sitting down on the bed. "Me and my brothers pretty much lived on that beach when we weren't terrorizing the town. Or Veronica, my–"

"Your sister." Keith let his crossed arms fall. "I remember."

Lance raised an eyebrow, smile soft. "You mean you actually listen to what I say?"

"Sometimes. When you're not telling me to do something stupid."

His shoulders relaxed further as Lance let out a little laugh. Just like he had at the cautious jab Keith sent him in the parking lot. A sign that hopefully, maybe, they wouldn't go back to the mutual dislike they had started off with.

He didn't want it back.

"So," Lance was saying, "you gonna sit down or just keep awkwardly hovering at the door?"

"I do want to see your face," Keith blurted out.

That was not what he'd planned to say at all, and by his look of absolute confusion Lance hadn't either. He recovered quickly though, lips quirking up.

"Who doesn't? My face is a work of art."

Sinking down on the far end of the bed, Keith sighed. Whether it was because of Lance's joke or the way all the aches and tired muscles made themselves felt he wasn't sure.

"I mean," and each word threatened to stick in his throat, "what I said in the caravan park. It wasn't true."

Keith didn't look up, but Lance's small "Oh" made it clear he wasn't smiling anymore.

"Before… I've almost always worked on my own. And I wasn't thinking of much else than… than how much it fucking hurt Haggar got away again." He pursed his lips. Forced himself to meet Lance's gaze. "But I was out of line. And I'm sorry."

Quiet. Loud enough to be a presence on its own. And for once, Lance didn't seem sure what to say.

Maybe because he has nothing to say, an intrusive voice whispered in Keith's mind.

Then Lance cracked a small smile. "Can't say I was showing off my best sides either. So."

We're good. Unspoken, but there enough that Keith couldn't stop the breath escaping him. The tentative smile forming in return.

"Well, um," clearing his throat, he stood up, "that's all I really wanted to say, so… good night."

"Keith."

He stopped, hand on the door handle.

"Is your side okay?"

Before he could think he twisted around to frown at Lance – because what did that have to do with anything? – and his ribs flared at the motion, lighting up all the little pains and aches along the way.

Had he been subconsciously compensating? Hunching over without noticing?

Well, Lance had noticed and seemed to have no plans of letting it go. "You shielded me from the bomb," he said, sitting up straight. Hand brushing against his own neck. "It was raining sparks and probably hot metal and–"

Had it? Keith couldn't remember if it had. Only remembered the primal fear, the overpowering thought that he wouldn't – couldn't – let someone else get hurt in an explosion on his watch again.

Damn it, he needed to check the suit he'd borrowed for burn marks later. Himself too, probably.

Something similar must have passed through Lance's mind, as the next thing out of his mouth was, "Take off your shirt."

"What? No. I'll look at it later."

Lance leveled him with a flat look. "With the eyes you have in the back of your neck?"

"I–"

"You're not the first half-naked guy I've seen. Get over yourself."

That wasn't the point. Not at all. But Keith couldn't be bothered arguing about it – because, unfortunately, Lance was right about him not being able to fix it himself. "Fine," he said and pulled the T-shirt off in one motion, back to Lance as he cast his arms out. "Happy?"

A beat of silence. Then, "Jesus Christ, Keith."

Okay. Apparently it was worse than he had thought. He craned his neck, only getting a glimpse of splotches of pink and red before his ribs made themselves remembered again.

Lance caught the hand Keith instinctively moved towards his side, gently turning him around with it. His eyes flickering over the ring of reddish bruises decorating his ribs, just beginning to turn blue. Briefly over the old top surgery scars (the even older "Yes, I'm trans, you got a problem?" on Keith's tongue in response).

His thoughts strayed to the scabbed cuts he knew were still decorating his elbows. Another gift from Haggar.

Guess his outside was starting to look as battered as his inside.

"Okay, that," Lance gestured vaguely to Keith's back and ribs, "is in transparent need of care. Stay here."

Before Keith could respond – and had that been a trans joke? Knowing Lance, it probably had – he left the bedroom. Keith heaved a sigh, even as the brief tension slipped from his shoulders.

Lance was back not even a minute later, first aid kit and a stack of paper towels under one arm, a bag of ice wrapped in a towel under the other and an expression that made it clear there would be no room for arguing. And so Keith surrendered to his fate and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"So how are we doing this?" he asked, because surrendering didn't mean he couldn't complain about it.

The bed shifted as Lance climbed up behind him, unceremoniously dumping the ice bundle in his lap and the other things on the sheets. "Put that ice to use, sit there and look pretty and I'll tell you in a minute."

In other words: shut up and let me concentrate. Keith rolled his eyes but he did as he was told anyway, wincing as Lance prodded a particularly sore burn and, later, when the cold began seeping through the towel.

It felt strange, not being able to see what Lance was doing. Most people Keith knew would close their eyes, look away when getting needles or splinters removed or help cleaning cuts, but he had always preferred to look. Preferred knowing what was going on than just feel it. Preferred having some semblance of control than to blindly trust someone to do it right.

Not that those feelings mattered right now since he couldn't see anything even if he tried.

"Good news," Lance said, "most of the burns are shallow and from what I can tell clean. So you're not a walking pin cushion."

"Most of them?"

"Yeah. You've got one here on the back of your shoulder with a chip of metal in it, and one further down I'm not sure about. Gonna have to dig around a bit."

Keith sighed. "Great."

The sound of cardboard against fabric and rattling plastic containers filled the silence as Lance rifled through the first aid kit. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

"Was that what you were trying to do? At the apartment."

"What do you mean?"

"Apologize." He felt Lance shift behind him. "You know, before I cut you off and left the room."

Oh. Keith shifted the ice pack into a higher position, remembering the mess of thoughts and feelings that had circled through his head. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But I wasn't gonna defend the shit I said, if that's what you're asking."

Like other people had before, he realized, Lance's words earlier echoing back at him.

'It's fine. Not like you're the first one to tell me that, anyway.'

Lance didn't respond, only kept shuffling through the first aid kit. "Found them," he said eventually, a metal sound as he clapped the tweezers together. The deflection couldn't have been clearer than if he'd said the word. "Don't move, okay? I'll try to be careful, but tell me if it hurts."

He nodded, doing his best to push the knot in his stomach away – because they didn't know each other. It wasn't his place to ask about the past, about stuff like that – as Lance angled his shoulder to get a better view of the wound. Made all the easier with the uncomfortable sensation of the tweezers against his skin. Uncomfortable, yet not painful.

"You don't have to be that careful," he said after a minute of Lance's cautious fiddling. "I can handle it."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a tough guy, I know. There's just this stupid piece of skin– Sorry," he added at the hiss Keith couldn't suppress when Lance's fingers grazed the burn.

"It's fine. Just get it out."

The room fell quiet again, interrupted only by the dampened sound of rain against the roof and the occasional apology from Lance every time Keith's shoulders tensed.

Then Lance spoke.

"Do you know why I have a room here at Hunk's?"

:::

2.32 AM

Lance kept his gaze focused on what he was doing, but in the corner of his eye he saw Keith's head turn slightly. His brow furrow. And the old anxieties bubbled right back up.

Because Pidge – damn them – had been right. About signs, about patterns, the whole shebang. Only their talk on the phone hadn't been his biggest slip-up.

He had seen Keith at his lowest point. It only seemed fair he'd show some vulnerability in return.

And so he took a breath and answered Keith's unspoken question, "I've, um, always struggled with mental health. Believing I'm good enough, worth the space I take up, more than… than the goof and the flirt. You know, all that fun stuff."

Keith didn't move, but Lance could tell he was listening. To be honest, it was a relief he couldn't see Keith's face clearly. That he himself had something to do with his hands. It made it all feel easier, somehow.

"And a few years back, I… I was in a bad place." He swallowed, the memories washing over him anew. His parents leaving for Cuba to take care of abuela. The phone call, telling him they were staying indefinitely. That they were proud of him.

And all he could think, two years into street patrol duty and in an apartment that felt the farthest thing from home, was: What did he have to be proud of, really? What was he doing here, away from his family?

But how much wouldn't he throw away if he left? Years of police training, decades of friendship, a lifetime of dreams and purpose…

Knowing what he did was worth something. That he was worth something.

"What happened?" Keith asked quietly.

He made the selfish choice.

He stayed.

"I didn't take care of myself, I guess," Lance said, even as the 'You're not selfish, dammit!' Pidge had repeatedly thrown at him echoed through his mind. "Spent a lot of nights out. Obsessed over work and, um," he blinked, "neglected friends. Dated people who… Let's just say they didn't have my best interests at heart."

"... Shit."

A watery laugh escaped him. "Shit," he agreed. "Safe to say, Hunk, Pidge, Veronica and Allura staged the intervention of the century and voilà," he gestured with his free hand around the room. "Though honestly, this feels more like a reward than a punishment, because Hunk? The best housemate a guy could ask for. And not just because of his garlic knots.

"Anyway, I– Hey, wait, I think I got it. Just a little–" He cut himself off, ignoring Keith's shift of discomfort as the tweezers finally found a solid grip and, "There." He held the chip of metal out, gently pressing a paper towel to the wound. "Want a souvenir?"

Keith made a face at the red-stained offender. "I'm good."

"Suit yourself." Fortunately, the bleeding tampered out quickly and Lance wrapped the metal piece in the same towel. "Well. One down, one to go. Can you lean forward a bit?"

Keith grumbled something under his breath but listened anyway.

"How are the ribs doing, by the way?"

"Better," he said after some thought. "Cold."

Lance held back an eyeroll, but he didn't resist adding an "Astutely put, Mr. Kogane" in what he knew was a terrible impression of Coran's accent. At the very least, it got an amused huff from Keith.

Smiling a little too, Lance focused back on the burn. This one was smaller, less red and angry, but something dark looked like it was caught in the middle and, well, better safe than sorry.

"Are you good?" Keith asked after a moment. "Doing good. I mean, better. Now."

"Depends on the day," Lance found himself answering honestly, "but for the most part… yeah. I am. Hard not to with all the hovering. That was a joke," he added. "Not about the hovering – about it bothering me. It's actually kinda comforting? By-product, I suppose, of growing up in a big family with no understanding of privacy."

"They care about you." Spoken like a universal truth.

Maybe because it was, even though it had taken him way too long to realize it. Now however he had no problems admitting a soft "They do" in agreement. "To be completely real though, seeing a shrink was what helped me find ways to handle that… that headspace. 'Cause I do slip, sometimes. Especially if I'm stressed. Or tired." He made a face. "I don't know if you know, but I usually don't make a habit of leaving conversations out of nowhere. That was… Sorry about that."

For a while, Keith didn't say anything. Then, "Like you said: we were both off our game."

They had been. They really had been. A small smile on his lips, Lance checked the burn over one last time before shuffling off the bed. "You're good, by the way," he said as he headed over to his desk. "Can't find anything."

"What are you doing?"

"Aloe vera. Soothes burns." He scanned the labels of the bottles until he found the one he was looking for. "I've already brought the best one to the apartment unfortunately, but this one should work."

Keith fumbled to catch the one Lance threw at him. Frowning as he registered what Lance had said. "You're moving out?"

"Why else do you think I'd keep that apartment? Moving back was always the plan, eventually." Sinking down on the bed next to him, Lance sent Keith a lopsided smile. "Can't have Hunk tripping over me forever, right?"

"What does Hunk think?"

"I don't have to ask to know. Oh, come on," he added at Keith's look. "People room together when they're teens. Or in their early twenties."

"So?"

"What do you mean, 'so?'" Lance said, feeling the annoyance begin to build. He busied himself with packing up the first aid kit. "I can't stay."

No matter how much he might want to. No matter how nice it was to look forward to a night of bad TV and Hunk's restaurant stories after a crappy day at work. To know someone would miss you if your shift got extended… or if you someday didn't make it home at all.

"Says who?" Keith's voice had an edge too. "Not Hunk, since you haven't talked to him about it."

Why did Keith care so much about this? Hell, why were they arguing about it in the first place? "Well, according to the rules of adulthood–"

"Fuck the rules, Lance!"

Lance raised his eyebrows. "Says the cop to the other cop."

"I'm serious." Keith shifted around to face him fully, ice pack forgotten beside him and his jaw set. "Who cares what you're supposed to do? It's your damn life."

"I–"

"No, listen. You… you don't know how long everyone's gonna be around."

Lance stilled. Eyes seeking Keith's as the images – images of smoke and gun shots and fear – flashed through his mind. Conjured by his imagination, though surely worse in reality.

So that was where this was coming from.

Keith swallowed but didn't look away. "And you don't know how long you'll be around either. So if you want to stay, do it. If you don't, don't. Fuck what anyone else says."

A quiet beat passed. Then Lance let out a chuckle. "You really are a complete tornado. But thanks, I… I'll keep that in mind."

With a stiff nod, Keith turned his focus back to the aloe vera tube. And for a while things went back to the task at hand, to light small talk as Keith applied the gel on the burns, as Lance helped him with the ones out of reach. In Lance's head however, the past half-hour replayed, over and over.

Truth be told, he hadn't talked in depth about… about those days in a long time. And Keith? He was the last person Lance ever expected to have that conversation with.

As Keith stood up some time later, grabbing his T-shirt on the way, Lance called out a quiet, "Hey, Keith?"

Keith turned back around.

"You know, now that I think about it… Your mullet's not that stupid."

"... Thanks?"

"You got it." He paused, then couldn't help but add, "You still need a haircut though."

He expected Keith to retaliate with some deadpan remark, but he shook his head, an amused "Good night, Lance" the only reply before he closed the bedroom door behind him.

:::

1.09 PM

The first sign was how neither Pidge, Matt or Coran looked up when Lance and Keith entered the crime lab, everyone focused on their keyboards, screens and notebooks. What really sent the warning bells ringing however? It was quiet.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Lance said, glancing from one person to the other. "Why is no one arguing?"

Pidge startled in their seat. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"The corridor," Lance replied, because nothing could boost your mood more than Pidge's annoyed sighs. "Hello, by the way."

"Good afternoon," Coran said cheerfully, turning to Keith. "Glad to see you still on the team, young man."

Looking surprised and touched, Keith cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"Hey," Matt looked up from his monitor with a grin, "it's the action heroes from last night's news!"

Lance cocked his head to the side. "News?"

"Yeah, you really gave the reporters something to talk about besides fashion. Look."

And there they were above an article headline, Keith's tie and the back of Lance's jacket caught mid-flight and smoke pluming up from the back wheel of the motorbike. Sure, their faces were obscured – Lance's by the helmet, Keith's by his focus on the road and Rolo's car – but still… Lance grinned and nudged Keith in the side. "Doing badass things and looking good while doing them – Matt's right, we've got this Hollywood action hero thing in the bag."

"Except the acting part," Keith deadpanned, but he smiled too.

"Pshh. Technicalities."

"So you're getting along today." The look Pidge sent Lance over the top of the computer screens was clear: explain everything to me later. "At least something's looking up for this investigation, then."

"Yes, I'm afraid 'good afternoon' might be an exaggeration," Coran said. "We've been trying to make head and tail of this case for the past few hours… with no sign of a head nor a tail."

With a sigh Matt leaned back in his chair. "In other words: we've got jack."

"Nothing?" Lance glanced between them, dejection the only thing in return. Well, at least that explained the quietness before. "What about Rolo? How's he?"

Coran steepled his fingers. "Because of your quick intervention with the bomb, he's physically in fine condition. Mentally, he shows quite a propensity for lying and a bloated sense of self-interest… though, unfortunately, nothing out of the ordinary for Hollywood."

"All we know," Matt said, "is that Haggar planned to kill him for embezzling money from Bandor. But that doesn't give us any hint of where she is or what she's going to do next. Or why, exactly, she's obsessed with Bandor in the first place."

"Or how she even knew about the embezzlement," Pidge added. "Because it wasn't through Nyma. I checked."

Oh right. The hacker. Somehow, the shoot-out in the apartment already felt like forever ago. Way longer than a day.

"Speaking of Nyma," Pidge continued, "I've just managed to recover most of her hacked files. Some of them were corrupted, but there's still a shit-ton of stuff."

Lance crossed his arms, a sting of sympathy running through him. "Sounds like she'll be in deep trouble when she gets cleared from the hospital."

"No kidding. We'll need a court order to look through most of it, but since Bandor's integral to the case we can access his files. Not that it's helped much: I've done a quick check-through of messages, pictures, emails… nothing."

A troubled silence filled the room.

"We can't have nothing," Keith said. "We're missing something."

"A solid lead. But," Lance began as Keith shot him an annoyed look, "I agree. There has to be something we can work with here. So let's all just take a step back, take a breath and look this all over with fresh eyes, yeah?"

Matt smiled, getting up from his chair. "Sounds like it's time to review some evidence, then."

As Matt left to collect everything from storage, Coran offered to make a coffee run, which they all except Keith took him up on – caffeine might help kickstart the brain, after all. So could exercise, Lance argued as he pulled a protesting Pidge up from their seat and forced them to walk a few laps around the desks with him. Keith simply stood to the side and watched them bicker, arms crossed but eyes giving away his entertainment.

All in all, the mood felt significantly less frustrated by the time Coran and Matt returned, coffee was had and the evidence was, courtesy of being the cleanest, laid out across Matt's desk.

"Alright," Lance said as all five of them crowded around the desk, "so let's start from the beginning: we have the shotgun shell. Connecting Haggar to Sendak's crime scene."

Matt nodded. "And Sendak sold secrets as a side job with the help of Nyma… who Haggar later tried to kill too."

"So we know for a fact Haggar's pissed about the hack." Pidge gestured towards the torn caravan park ticket. "And we know she has an obsession with Bandor, one of the victims of said hack."

Lance grimaced as the image of the shrine flashed through his mind again. Man, he didn't think he'd ever get over that initial view of it. "Yeah," he said, eyes flickering towards the torn notepad, "after L.A.R.A., Rolo and the bomb yesterday, there's no way our idea about her motive's off: she's trying to kill people who have wronged him in some way."

"But why? Why him?"

Lance glanced over at Keith, but his gaze was focused on the photograph of younger Haggar and her supposed gang. On the cold smirk she was looking at the camera with. As if he was trying to force an answer from it.

"Pidge, can we look over Bandor's files?" Lance asked.

"There's not much to see, but sure." Heading back to their desk, Pidge sat down with a concentrated frown. Lance and Keith followed. "So, most of the texts are business related, music-related or mundane comments about weekend plans with friends and such. The pictures are a little more varied though."

They opened a folder, slowly scrolling through them.

"We've got the model-esque stuff going up on social media, the explicit stuff we're not gonna look at because we're at work," they sped up the scrolling until the pictures disappeared from view, "a billion selfies, pics of friends and pretty vacation spots, some childhood pics–"

"Wait." Lance leaned forward, waving his hand. "Go back a bit…" Among the childhood pictures again Lance scanned the page, trying to find whatever thing that had caught his eye. "That one," he said, pointing, and Pidge opened it up full screen.

It was a picture of a tiny Bandor, no more than six or seven, hunched over a coloring book and with crayons all around him on the table.

He was wearing a black and red-sleeved shirt.

Lance frowned, thoughts running. "That shirt. I've seen it somewhere before."

"Maybe online some time back?"

"No," Lance said to Pidge as Matt and Coran came around to look too. "Recently. Like recently recently."

"Well–" Coran began, but was cut off by Matt's sharp intake of breath.

"Holy shit."

Four heads snapped in his direction. "What?" Keith demanded.

Matt didn't respond, only hurried back to his desk, hands hovering over the laid-out evidence before he found what he was looking for. His lips were pursed as he came back over and wordlessly held up the picture of Haggar's gang next to the screen.

Lance's eyes went straight to the kid at the front of the group. The kid with the same eyes, same white-blonde hair… and wearing the same red and black shirt.

And now that he thought about it, he could see the resemblance.

"Bandor knows Haggar," he said, hardly believing the words himself. "They're…"

"... related," Keith finished, voice hard.

Pidge let out a disbelieving laugh. "Well, fuck."

"I didn't see anything about this in his biography," Coran said, fingers brushing along his mustache. "Then again, it makes sense they would hide this about his past."

Keith met Lance's gaze. "Remember what Rolo said? He said he invented Bandor."

"You're right," Lance ran a hand through his hair, unable to stop himself from looking between the pictures again. "They must've made up his whole backstory together. Which means the whole time we were investigating Bandor… he was playing us. He knew exactly who Haggar was all along."

And Lance had even given that liar his number.