#cinderdrilla

Looking back on it – on every time he’d spoken with Slav – how could he have missed this one glaring fault? Shiro had always been so discerning before, so willing to be patient. That was a trademark of the Black Paladin, was it not? Wasn’t it supposed to be? But Lance is right. He’s been short with Slav, and reactive, and hurried. However much it irked him that Slav’s panics and interference slowed them down at inopportune moments – hadn’t he been the same, once?

The Galra, God, those bastards, trained it into him. To always be on guard, to always be wary, to survive was to keep your wits about you, and know the consequences of every action. His bionic arm clenches its fist, the internal whirr of it under his skin reminding him how long ago his own escape had been. How uneasy he’d been following Ulaz, and trusting his surroundings. Not a far cry from Slav, he realises, with another pang of guilt. Was that why he was so sharp with his fellow survivor – because they were alike, but still miles apart in reaction to freedom? The fist clenches tighter, unwanted memories threatening to flood his mind. How long had Slav been locked up? What did they do?

Stupid questions; questions he could guess at. Questions he asked himself when they rescued Slav, and things he was always dimly aware of. One survivor to another, always aware. But he let his temper get the better of him regardless, and the shame of it sits tight in his gut.

‘Shiro?’ Lance’s voice reaches him eventually – hearing it as if it were a picture blurred out at the edges. Shiro blinks, and the horrified look on the blue Paladin’s face swims into clear focus. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned the Galra tortu – I mean, I shouldn’t have said that –`

He’d gone quiet for so long, Lance must’ve assumed he was remembering something awful, or worse – reliving it. Shiro takes a deep, steadying breath, and straightens up. Lance continues to fret.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll just shut –’‘Lance…’‘I wasn’t trying to upset –’‘Lance.’

There’s a little something of Slav’s mannerisms in Lance, Shiro notes. If he weren’t so sure their blue Paladin was protective and fair by nature, Shiro might have assumed he was speaking up for more than just Slav by standing up to him. Who knew? Perhaps he was. Either way, Shiro knew what he had to do, now.

‘It’s okay,’ he begins, to which Lance looks startled. ‘I’m fine. And I should be less harsh with Slav.’‘W-wait. What?’‘It’s not something a leader should do, and I need to speak to Slav about it. Apologise, too. Thank you for standing up on that point, Lance.’

His voice is tired, and he knows. Lance still looks as if he’s worried Shiro might throw him in detention, or worse. Yell at him. That thought makes him pause, another inkling settling into his head. That day he’d yelled at Slav, Lance and Pidge had seen him lose his temper. You sound just like Iverson when you do that. Oh, God.

‘You’re not… mad?’ Is that relief in Lance’s voice, or confusion? ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Shiro replies, briefly touching a hand to Lance’s shoulder. Gratefully, solemnly. As if saying Don’t try and be apologetic for doing the right thing. ‘You were right. And I need to do something about it.’

Shiro assumes the shoulder-height pile of assorted wires, metal panels, and lenses contains Slav. The shrill voice emanating from within the mess, all loaded into an open panel of a metal hull, echoes around the empty construction room. ‘Who taught the green one to set wires? Now I have to re-set –`

‘It’s me, Slav,’ He knocks on the hull thrice, hoping not to startle, and the clatter inside the metal puddle stops instantaneously. ‘Have you got a minute?’

Slowly, Slav’s antennae poke through the wires. The whites of his eyes are just visible in the shadow, and soon, his whole head emerges, bearing the look of one extremely displeased with the interruption. Shiro clears his throat.

‘Time is of the essence,’ Slav points a finger as he says it, and the consternation isn’t lost on Shiro: a sharp twinge in his chest tells him these are words he’s most likely said to Slav, when urging him to work faster, or just stop stalling. ‘You want an Earth minute?’‘Just – just a moment of your time,’ Shiro corrects hastily, gesturing for Slav to come join him. He does, after a few tics of staring at Shiro with the greatest suspicion. Badly hidden anxiety.

More guilt, that. Shiro’s shoulders droop when he notices.

‘Is it serious?’ Slav asks.‘No,’ and then, ‘I mean – it is, but it’s a personal matter. Not rebellion-related.’‘Then I do not see how it is relevant. We are wasting valuable tics –’ ‘I wanted to apologise,’ Shiro cuts in, aware of how sharply he’d said it. Immediately, he softens; Slav recoiled ever so slightly, both in shock and bewilderment. ‘I wanted to… say sorry for being so rough these last few days.’

He used to be better at this. Better at levelling with other people, one-on-one. He could talk Keith out of a huff, talk Iverson down from his stretches of temper at Keith’s occasional flare-ups. He could reassure Matt on the impending separation from earth, from his sister, from home. He used to be more patient. Was there no reality that Slav could see, where he still was? He’d have to try for that reality to become THIS reality.

‘You’ve been doing amazing work,’ he continues, after a long pause. ‘And doing it for us willingly, at great risk to yourself. I’ve been less than civil on a number of occasions, and I… would like you to know, I am very sorry for it.’Slav squints, the feelers on his head and chin quivering anxiously. Unsure if it was a trick or not, apparently. After a hesitant few attempts, he speaks.

‘You… do not like my input on matters,’ A statement, or a question? He seems to be demanding something of Shiro: an answer, or confirmation. ‘It annoys you.’

Shiro doesn’t know what to say. It’s true, Slav’s little idiosyncrasies grate on his nerves sometimes. He nods, sighs, then hunches over where he sits, elbows resting on his knees. Slav coils his lower half to sit near, still staring intently at the frustrated Paladin.

‘When we met, I – it was such a tense situation, trying to escape,’ casting an apologetic glance at Slav, who’d looked uneasy at the memory, Shiro barrels on. ‘Trying to navigate you through those halls, especially when the other Paladins were in trouble and needed me… it wasn’t easy keeping my cool. And after that, too, it never stopped being tense.’

He thinks about it more than he ought to now. He’d never stopped to ask what attachment Slav had to that blanket he was so determined to smooth the right way. He’d seemed so docile until a dangerous possibility presented itself – the frenetic energy rolling from Slav then had been aggravating.

‘But it’s not an excuse,’ he says, at long last. ‘I pushed myself so hard when I escape. Kept telling myself I had to make every moment count, to not waste time because… because I have to lead this team, stop the Galra… I pushed hard to get over what happened to me. I didn’t,’

Slav, tentatively uncoiling to lean forward, is looking more and more tired as Shiro continues. Perhaps he understood the need to fill every space in his brain with their mission, to not let a single minute go to waste, to minimise all risks… To cope, the best way he knew how. Shiro looks Slav full in the eye, the barest flicker of recognition in him when he sees the exhausted look mirrored back at him.

‘I didn’t get over it. I don’t expect you to, either. What they did… it… it’s been so long since I was freed, I guess I forgot how much of a mess I was when I first escaped,’ Slav slumps a little, antennae twitching. Shiro pauses only to put a hand over Slav’s clasped ones. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away – Shiro takes that encouragingly. ‘I forgot how hard it was to come back. But I understand, now, how different all this has been for you… and I’m sorry.’

The coiled body shivers, the bowed head not rising an inch. There is a beat of stillness so worrying, Shiro thinks he’s said the wrong thing again.