#microfic fill

i’m sure this ‘someone’ will come as a big surprise. :)

–

When Shiro stumbles out of the cryopod, shivering and kitten-weak, the team is ready for him.

Keith and Hunk are first by Shiro’s side. Hunk wraps Shiro in a blanket immediately, the fabric warm and fresh from the space-heater Pidge built to live in the infirmary. Shiro burrows gratefully into the warmth. With Keith’s help, he staggers down to sit on the steps, blinking rather owlishly at the sudden light. Keith presses up against his side as Hunk drapes a second blanket over Shiro’s shoulders, just in case.

“You,” Pidge announces, hands on her hips as she bends down to exactly nose-height with Shiro, “are not allowed to do that again.”

“Noted,” Shiro croaks.

Lance snickers and butts Pidge gently out of the way, pressing a steaming mug into Shiro’s hands. “Here you go, Shiro. Drink up.”

“Thank you.” Shiro sniffs at the mug’s contents curiously, at first content to just hold the warmth in his hands. “What happened? What time is it?”

“Mid-afternoon,” Keith supplies. Shiro takes his first sip, humming with delighted surprise. Hunk beams, large hands bracing Shiro’s shoulders. Keith waits until Shiro’s taken a second and then a third sip of the hot chocolate before he clarifies: “Mid-afternoon, three days later.”

Shiro chokes.

“Don’t kill him!” Lance exclaims, quick-wrapping his hands around Shiro’s before Shiro can drop the mug. “He just got out!”

“T-three days?!” Shiro sputters.

“Which is why you aren’t allowed to do that ever again,” Pidge repeats, glaring.

“It was just a scratch,” Shiro protests weakly.

“Sure,” Lance says, “Scratches just so happen to be poisoned all the time. Coran says you were lucky. Don’t put us through that again, man. I’m serious. Keith got all morose and woopy.”

“I did not,” Keith says.

Lance presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically, the pose totally ruined by his shit-eating grin. “No, I can’t! I’m not ready to lead Voltron-”

“I’m going to kill you,” Keith growls. He makes no move to get up.

Shiro tilts his head back, locking eyes with Hunk. “Three days?”

“Three days,” Hunk confirms. He squeezes Shiro’s shoulders. “Which is why we’re taking the rest of the day off. Allura and Coran said the poison’s all gone, but you might be a little weak for a day or so.”

Shiro frowns down at his mug as if it would contain answers (or better yet, a fast forward button for recovery). “Do we have time?”

“We’re making time,” Keith says, firmly.

“That’s the leader-Keith we all know and love,” Lance crows. “Shiro, hurry up and finish your drink. We’ve got plans.”

Shiro blinks. “Plans?”

“Would you look at that,” Coran comments softly, several vargas later.

All five of the Paladins are fast asleep in the main lounge, limbs akimbo and sprawled heavy in slumber. Shiro’s stretched out the length of the curving couch, snoring peacefully. Pidge is curled up practically on his chest, glasses set neatly on top of the couch and guarded by four snoozing mice. Keith’s fast asleep along Shiro’s right, body twisted in a way that shouldn’t be physically possible but somehow keeps all of him on the couch and not the floor. Lance is on Shiro’s other side, squished comfortably between Shiro and the couch; Hunk’s asleep right next to him, legs tangled up with both Shiro’s and Lance’s. A soft pile of blankets covers all five of them, artistically tossed and kicked loose to not cover noses or the occasional foot. The light of the softly playing ‘moo-vee’ washes over faces and hair, highlighting shadows lined in sleep.

Allura smiles fondly, gesturing Coran down the hall so as to not wake their sleeping friends. “I suppose we can ask Shiro tomorrow if he is feeling better. Coran, what is the matter?”

“Oh, nothing.” Coran sniffs, indeed wiping away a nostalgic tear. “Just thinking. The Paladins of new, just like the Paladins of old!”

Allura sniffs too, more of a huff as she folds her arms. “Oh, Coran. My father never had slumber parties in the lounge.”

I always have enough time for Ulaz and Shiro. :3

–

“I’m going to kill him,” Shiro says. The effect is rather ruined by his enormous yawn.

“No, you will not,” Ulaz says, patiently. Shiro’s head is drooping down towards his chest again; he picks it up with an effort just in time. It’s fascinating to watch. “Who would pilot the Yellow Lion?”

“You could,” Shiro offers. Ulaz nudges his shoulder just slightly and tips Shiro down all the way onto the couch, lying prone. Shiro goes without complaint, curling up on his side. He must truly be out of it.

“He’s not - he’s - ” Shiro yawns again, cutting off his words. “ - Yellow would like you.”

“I do not need the approval of another space cat,” Ulaz says, glancing around. Humans prefer to be warm and covered when sleeping; ah. There’s a blanket over the back of the couch. Ulaz snags it with his long reach and spreads the thin but soft material over Shiro’s form. Shiro curls into it reflexively, scarcely aware of his own actions. “Yours is enough.”

“Hunk’s not allowed back in the kitchen until Coran labels every jar,” Shiro says.

Humans are so strange.

“They are labelled,” Ulaz reminds him, amused. “Merely in Altean.”

“Hunk’s not allowed back in the kitchen until he learns,” Shiro corrects, fiercely. It’s somewhat diminished by the slurring of his words, tumbling already towards sleep. What Hunk had innocently thought to be a different form of flavoring for lunch had turned out the complete opposite; Ulaz supposes they’re lucky only one of the Paladins had sampled the food as Hunk prepared it.

It is just unfortunate that it had been Shiro.

“Fear not,” Ulaz says instead. He slips off the edge of the couch, crouching instead to remain at Shiro’s eye level. Shiro cracks open a bleary eye with a supreme effort. “Your Blue paladin has offered to be your taste tester for all ‘surprise ingredients’ from this point on. In future, I highly suggest you take him up on the offer.”

Shiro’s quiet for so long Ulaz is afraid he really has fallen asleep. But no; the Black Paladin’s eyes are open, if a bit unfocused where he’s staring at Ulaz’s knee.

“‘m not really mad at him,” Shiro says, at last. His eyelids flutter again, drooping shut. He peels them back open. “‘m - ‘was an accident. ’m mad at me.”

Ulaz quirks a pale eyebrow. “You are mad at your body’s inability to remain conscious when subjected to an incredible dose of b’lire powder?”

“Had things to do,” Shiro murmurs. He’s glowering. It’s ruined by the fact that he can’t keep his eyes open. “The princess - still planet-side - can’t lead training. Things to do.”

Ah. Ulaz cannot exactly blame him. The responsibilities of leadership can hardly be set down even for accidents outside of one’s control. They have had this argument before.

“Rest,” Ulaz says. The blanket does not fully cover Shiro’s knee at this angle; Ulaz tugs it up, tucking the fabric in. Shiro hums, an unconscious sound from the back of his throat. “I will lead training for you this afternoon.”

“Hate drugs,” Shiro whines. It’s the only complaint he’s uttered since the entire mistake began.

The powder’s working fast, pulling him down despite all of Shiro’s efforts to fight it. If Ulaz hadn’t personally witnessed Hunk chuck the b’lire jar violently into the garbage chute, he’d throw the damn thing out himself.

“I know,” Ulaz begins.

A small chitter catches his attention; Ulaz’s ears twitch. The little blue mouse - Chulatt - perches carefully on the edge of the couch, waving a paw in his direction. Its two friends are helping the third and last mouse - the large one, Platt? - up onto the armrest by Shiro’s head. Chulatt mimes standing guard, striking a fierce pose and waving its tail dramatically.

What odd creatures. Still, Ulaz is grateful for them.

“You will not be alone,” Ulaz says, softly. Mission accomplished, the green mouse - Plachu, Ulaz recalls - slides down the armrest to tuck itself against Shiro’s neck; the red one, Chuchule, chatters something up at Platt. Platt yawns a little mouse-yawn from their content position in the corner of the couch. “Rest, Shiro. I will handle training. And I will be here when you wake.”

Chuchule curls up on Shiro’s shoulder, slipping just under the edge of the blanket. Shiro’s eyes drift shut.

how about it? ;)

–

“Shiro. Shiro!”

Shiro comes back to himself with a panicked start, lungs burning as he struggles for air. His heart’s pounding, fit to burst right out of his chest. His eyes skitter frantically over a blurred nothing. Where - where - ?!

“Shiro,” the voice repeats, insistent but calm. Something squeezes his hand. “Shiro, you must breathe. Can you do that? Inhale.”

Shiro sucks in a ragged gasp of air, lungs heaving, trying.

“Good,” the voice says, fierce but hushed. “Let it out. Again.”

Shiro obeys. Inch by inch he breathes; inch by inch the voice talks him down. Inch by inch his heart stops pounding. Gradually his surroundings clarify into dull sense. He’s sitting on the dirt floor, back pressed hard against two walls. He’s curled up into the corner. He can’t move his hands -

No. His right arm rests palm-up by his side, heavy and limp. Only his left hand is being held. Long fingers grip his, and the slight tip of claws brush against his wrist.

Someone crouches in front of him, their face furrowed in deep concern.

“Ulaz,” Shiro gasps.

“That is correct,” Ulaz says, quietly. His yellow eyes betray no alarm, merely worry. “Are you with me?”

Shiro’s left hand is caught up in Ulaz’s own, the Galra’s grip firm but not restrictive. Shiro’s knees are tucked tightly into his chest; Ulaz is crouched before him, immobile and steady. Even squatting down, Ulaz is so much larger than Shiro is. His knees press right above Shiro’s own, and his larger form neatly blocks Shiro’s view of the cell door. The edges of the door’s active energy field shimmer brightly around Ulaz’s form, a purple halo Shiro will see in his dreams for a week -

“No.” A hand grips his chin. Shiro flinches, bucking, but Ulaz’s claws are gentle. “Look at me. Do not look at the door.”

“H-how are you here?” Shiro manages. His tongue’s dry, lips cracked.

“I came after you,” Ulaz says, as matter-of-fact as if he were merely discussing the weather.

Came after you. But the cell door is active, and locked. That means -

Shiro fights against Ulaz’s grip, weak and shaking. Ulaz releases Shiro’s chin, but remains crouched before him, still blocking Shiro’s view of the active door. Even so - “You s-shouldn’t be here! What have you done?!”

“Do not worry about me,” Ulaz says, sharp. There’s no sign of injury on his face or hands. Ulaz is unharmed except that he’s imprisoned here, too, trapped just like Shiro. “This was my choice. Shiro, listen to me. The rest of your team is coming, but your Paladins will not get here in time. Your captors are coming for you first, unless we can stop them.”

The brief hope winging through Shiro’s chest sputters, caught. He thinks about crying: not in front of Ulaz. He thinks about running: the door is locked. He thinks about fighting -

“My arm,” Shiro whispers. His right arm is a deadweight at his side, metal fingers limp and lifeless. He cannot move them. “They - they did something-”

“I know,” Ulaz says. His calm voice is a rock, steady despite the undercurrent of urgency running through his words. “I can fix it, but it will hurt. However, if I re-activate your arm, we can use it to get out of this cell and find somewhere to bide time until your team arrives. Your captors will not hurt you.”

It will hurt.

Your captors are coming for you first.

Not even a choice. Shiro laughs, the shakiest of exhales. “Do it.”

Pride flits into Ulaz’s eyes, chased by a clear measure of confusion. Maybe laughing about their impending demise and torture through one way or another isn’t the reaction Ulaz expected. Oh, well. Ulaz should’ve thought of that before he ended up in this cell with Shiro.

“Do you understand me?” Ulaz repeats. “It will hurt. The hard reset was not designed to be easy on the host.”

“I heard you,” Shiro confirms. It takes all his energy but he pulls his head away from the wall, staring back at Ulaz with determination. “Do it. Pidge and Hunk can fix it later.”

Ulaz’s gaze softens inexplicably.

“I will assist them,” he promises. His hand hovers over Shiro’s immobile arm - and then, for the first time since Shiro came to, Ulaz hesitates. “You are sure?”

It will hurt.

Your Paladins will not get here in time.

“No other way, right?” Shiro says, hoarse. “My hand can open the door. Do it.”

Yes! Fills from me tend to be platonic, but I do enjoy some Ulaz and Shiro. :3

--

“I did not know you spoke Galra,” Ulaz says, later.

“A - I’m - not much,” Shiro says, hesitantly. That isn’t the right word. “Very - basic. Simple?”

“A little,” Ulaz corrects, for him. “When did you learn?”

Shiro starts, surprised. Ulaz’s yellow eyes are curious, not cruel.

“The translators did not work in the cells,” Shiro explains. Even that simple sentence sends panic fluttering through him, purple fluorescents flickering past the edges of his peripheral. He swallows, flesh hand gripping metal. “We had to - I learned. Not a lot. Just enough. Did you not know?”

Ulaz’s expression softens immediately into horrified regret.

“I did not,” he says, in careful Galra. His syllables are slow and careful. “I - apologize. I was not aware.”

“It is fine,” Shiro manages. It’s over now. He closes his eyes - purple hallways flash behind his closed lids - and opens them again. Breathes in at the blue lights lining the Altean walls. “I did not - know? Think of it?”

“Remember,” Ulaz prompts softly. The word sounds strange tripping off a Galra tongue.

“I did not remember,” Shiro agrees, and the word nearly chokes him.

Ulaz is quiet for a while. The aqua-blue lights in the hallway pulse ahead of them, warm and calm. The quiet hum of a ship in motion thrums beneath their feet. Allura’s piloting them back to the Olkari, the nearest place with a prayer of fixing the translators or perhaps even providing an upgrade. Shiro’s not holding out hope the repairs will be quick. Even if Slav is still residing with the Olkari where they’d left him, ten thousand years of obsolete machinery won’t be an easy feat to fix.

While Ulaz and the Alteans can communicate neatly via a shared fluency of their mother tongues, the rest of them aren’t as lucky. Pidge is holding up somewhat with her rudimentary Altean; the other Paladins haven’t a hope. Shiro is the nearest thing his friends have to a translator, even if it had taken him the better part of an hour to come to the realization in the first place. (Varga did it for him - the one word he could understand out of Coran and Allura’s first conversation. When Ulaz had repeated the same word in a different tongue - all of a sudden Ulaz’s strange syllables made a heart-stopping sort of sense. Shiro’d had to sit down with it, shocked and sudden. He’d brushed off Keith’s concerned grip to his shoulder - and blurted straight out into the middle of Allura and Ulaz’s argument in fragmented but clear Galra: “how long did you say this would take?”)

Long story short, Shiro’s been at this all day.

“You shared a cell with many others, for a considerable time,” Ulaz explains, slowly. Shiro strains to catch every syllable. “I am not surprised, now, that this would be a gift of yours. How many other languages do you speak?”

“Not fluent,” Shiro warns him. The memories are flickering at the edges of his vision with each new word, each new verb form and sentence structure butchered in his attempts to communicate between Galran and English. He’s exhausted.

“Of course,” Ulaz says, gently. “Could you guess?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Not from - out here. Not from space. My - Altean, it isn’t - Pidge is better. I speak - a handful? From - cell-mates. Pieces. Probably. I am not sure.”

“What about from not ‘out here’?” Ulaz prompts, carefully structuring his question.

Shiro swallows. “From Earth? Mainly two.”

“Two?” Ulaz’s pale eyebrows raise. “Which is your native tongue? Will you - ”

He devolves into a string of new words Shiro can’t follow.

“Slow down,” Shiro says, desperately. This is too much.

Ulaz smiles, calm and reassuring.

“Speak,” he translates, simply. His large hand grips Shiro’s knee, supportive and grounding. Shiro’s panic stills. “Your native tongue. I would wish to hear it.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, gratefully, and makes the mental switch into Japanese.

--

thanks a LOT

(loose continuation of this)

-

“How’s he doing?” Lance asks, softly.

Keith’s seated on Shiro’s bunk, back tucked up against the wall. Shiro’s curled up next to him, his little head resting on Keith’s leg like a pillow. His tiny fingers grip into the fabric of Keith’s pantleg. He’s asleep, but his brow’s furrowed uncomfortably and the high flush of fever in his cheeks doesn’t look any better.

“About the same, I think,” Keith says, quietly. The datapad braced on his other knee glows dimly; the lights of the room are almost too dim for Lance to see by. He maneuvers his way into the space mostly on memory, letting the door swish shut behind him. “Just fell asleep a while ago.”

“Poor little guy,” Lance murmurs. Keith hums an agreement. Shiro doesn’t stir, mouth agape and breaths rattling slightly in the back of his throat. “Hey, I brought him something to drink. Think he can keep it down?”

“Maybe,” Keith says. The trashcan sits on the floor by the bed, mercifully empty. “I’ll see when he wakes up.”

Good enough. The shelf in the side of the bunk’s already extended; Lance picks up an empty glass and the used pile of handkerchiefs (next time he goes into space he’s bringing twenty boxes of tissues), clearing the surface off. “Hunk made these - cracker-like things. He feels really guilty.”

“It’s not his fault,” Keith says. He eyes the tray as Lance sets it down; in addition to the two glasses of liquid and the little container of octagonal-shaped pieces of hard bread, there’s also a full-on sandwich. “Shiro’s not going to be able to eat all that.”

“The sandwich is for you,” Lance says. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Keith shrugs, careful not to move anything but his shoulder. Shiro sleeps on, fingers twitching.

“You’re going to get sick, too,” Lance chastises him.

“Doubt it,” Keith says, simply. The dim glow from the pad reflects strangely in his eyes in a way that should probably be a little unnerving. It isn’t. “I’ve never caught Shiro’s colds before.”

Huh. Lance crouches down by the bedside and presses his palm carefully to Shiro’s forehead. Shiro’s still terribly warm, his skin hot beneath Lance’s fingers. No better, but no worse. The fever’s holding on stubbornly. Lance frowns. 

“Hunk’s broke faster than this,” Lance says, out loud. 

Keith frowns, too. “Did it? Shiro’s never done anything by halves.”

At Lance’s touch Shiro whimpers, shivering all over with a miserable chill. His eyes crack open the barest of slivers.

“Hey there,” Keith says, exceedingly gentle. Lance brushes Shiro’s sweaty bangs away from his scalding skin; Shiro’s heavy-lidded gaze flickers from him up to Keith, confused and dull. “Lance brought you some juice. Feel like sitting up?”

Shiro stares up at him blankly. His only response is to close his eyes again, head falling limp back onto Keith’s thigh.

“Okay,” Keith says, calm and easy. His free hand drifts back to Shiro’s shoulders, rubbing slow circles into his friend’s shivering form. “Maybe in a bit.”

Shiro doesn’t reply, already asleep. Lance pulls his hand free completely, rocking back on his heels. Keith’s already gone back to studying his ‘pad - no. He’s watching Shiro still, brow furrowed deep with concern. There’s shadows under Keith’s eyes the ‘pad does nothing to erase.

“Keith,” Lance says, touching Keith’s knee to get his attention. “Let me sit with him. You’ve been here all night, you need a break.”

me: okay phew, I finally finished all the smol!Shiro prompts in my inbox.@bosstoaster: ....did you now.

thanks a LOT, TOASTER.

--

“That’s a baby yupper,” Coran whispers, horrified.

“Shiro,” Keith says, aiming for calm. His voice is shaking as he takes a careful step foward, holding out his hand. “Step away from the dog, please.”

“But he’s so fluffy,” Shiro pouts. His little hand continues to pet the giant pupper - yupper? - carefully near its neck, which is as high as small Shiro can reach. The pup - no, the alien dog - towers over him. It’s easily three times as big as Shiro is, and it is huge. “Can we keep him? Please?”

“Come back over here and we’ll talk about it,” Lance tries.

ohh gladly!

--

“Honestly, I don’t know why you look up to him that much,” Keith says, settling back against the couch with one ankle hooked over his knee. “Shiro’s not that cool.”

“Lies,” Lance drawls, dragging the word out for supreme emphasis. He leans over Hunk, jabbing his finger into Keith’s chest. “Name one thing Shiro’s ever done that isn’t cool. One thing.”

A slow grin spreads across Keith’s face.

“Uh oh,” Hunk says weakly.

okay you had to have known there was no way this was going to stay micro

name credit for the alien species goes to @gitwrecked​, who is a wonderful human bean

physiology credit for the tiny galra detail I borrowed from @radioactivesupersonic‘s excellent post

in the same series as this, this and this

Shiro’s known the Force for as long as he can remember.

Even if this isn’t the first first, it’s certainly one of the most defining.

“It is too late,” the Pashoni leader says. Her face is ashen but firm, her beetle-like eyes and the green markings of her crown of office stoic and unyielding. “I am sorry, young Jedi. There is no way we will reach them in time.”

“But my Master’s down there,” Shiro cries.

The training bond in the back of his mind has been silent for six terrifying minutes, stretching on to seven. Eight. Shiro’s tried again and again, but there’s no response. There’s nothing, nothing but the horrified whispers from the Pashonians gathering with Shiro at the top of the hill and the dust rising from the rockslide at the bottom.

Stay here, Master Ulaz had said. The cart down into the mines had only been big enough for one person to join the workers heading below.

Stay here, Master Ulaz had said, laying his large hand on top of Shiro’s head, thumb pressing gently against the center of Shiro’s forehead. It is a calming gesture for the Galra people, with their sagittal crest; Shiro’s used to it. At the tender age of thirteen he still barely comes up to Master Ulaz’s waist.

Stay here.

Here, staring down at the settling remnants of the rockslide neatly blocking the only access to the caves.