#plot drabbles

She’d always told him that their family healed easy, that wounds wiped away from their skin like the marks in the sand against the waves of the sea.

Perhaps that’s why he got along so well with Lance. If Hunk was the sand, then Lance was the ocean. They worked together- it was why they were such good friends.

His Tinamatua had always preached that their supple skin and easy healing would make getting his malofie easier if he ever could just get past the ridiculously petrifying fear of anything remotely needle like coming towards his skin. If he could ever get past it, perhaps, just maybe, she might say yes to him getting one when he came of age and felt he was ready and worthy of one.

But, there were some scars that not even an ocean storm could wash away.

The first time Hunk had to go into an Altean healing pod, it wasn’t even during the war. He’d made it through the entire conflict with the Galra, and all of the aliens and even going into a Weblum’s stomach, and had only ever had to have basic bandaging.

Never mind the fact that he’d been hospitalized on earth- that didn’t count. Everyone was hospitalized.

With the return of Altea and Daibazaal, healing cryo-pods had become commonplace on most ships. They did wonders for anything that wasn’t a common or more serious illness, or a required surgery. It couldn’t fix your appendix if your appendix needed removed, but it could hold you in stasis until they got you to someone who could yank it out.

Hunk was incredibly thankful that they had cryo-pods on board the Atlas.

He also learned his first major life-lesson in his work for the Coalition.

Planet Kium, formerly under forced Galra control, was home to a lush, jungle like environment, with towering, spiral based vibrant orange trees as far as the eye could see. The trees at their largest were easily as big around as the smallest of the Lions, and at their smallest, they stood larger than even the redwoods back home.

It’s people, the T’tka, built their homes and businesses and livelihoods inside of these massive, stony textured trees.

The T’tka were, to Hunk, an incredibly interesting people. They were omnivorous, but had a strong preference for meat. They had three eyes, two in the place like a normal human, and a third, bobbing on an odd tendril extending from their skulls, which were bedecked with spines and frills and horns of all kinds. The T’tka stood taller than him, perhaps eight or nine feet tall, and walked on six, stumpy legs. To make up for their land speed being something they were lacking in, they had four, massive arms that curled with muscles that could make a Balmeran look small.

Their hands weren’t unlike someone had taken a scythe and stuck the wicked curved blades on the ends of their middle most finger- of which, they had nine on each hand.

When pressed, the T’tka King had informed everyone that the claws now were just used for courtship and decoration, and, on occasion, carving out homes in new trees. Nothing so malicious as fighting. Violence was not the T’tka way- that was the Galra way.

Everyone tried to look past the fact that almost half of the T’tka had been declawed. It was not something they could fix.

Dinner and negotiations had gone lovely. The T’tka were absolutely enraptured with Hunk’s cooking crew’s skill.

To be fair, they had all come a long way from not being able to cook to being able to craft entire masterpieces on their own and without his supervision. He was forever and always would be so, so proud of the founding team for his culinary empire.

His first major life lesson came in to play as he was bringing out dessert- Frozen Orange Tortes with Cranberry Compote, which had unanimously been chosen to display an absolutely delicious delicacy from Earth- for the official members of the King’s court, and the delegates from the Atlas.

Honestly, Hunk isn’t too sure what happened at the start. He didn’t see it coming, nor did anyone else for that matter.

Between placing artfully crafted plates of delectable frozen treats down for the eager T’tka, Hunk, between one breath and the next, found himself on the ground, with his stomach burning with an almost numbing sort of hellfire.

The screaming started next- not his, no, he was too busy taking ragged breaths and feeling cold despite the hot wash of something bubbling over his front like magma.

It was interrupted by the hard shaking of the trees, and a Lion screaming- Yellow, his Lion, howling in outrage, and tearing through the forest to find him.

The sounds above him were indistinct at first- his cooking crew, the delegates, the King, all in a rush to yell something at someone. The one standing above him, however, just kept yelling, screaming, that, “The T’tka have already been subservient to the Galra once, and they will not do it for another people under another name, in the guise of an alliance!”

Hunk learned that day, that just because the Coalition came promising peace, that it did not mean that everyone saw them as anything less than the Galra they had overthrown and subsequently absorbed into their ranks.

To some, the Coalition were conquerors, just under another name and a fancy mask.

It was a blur, then- fighting, fighting, so much fighting, screaming, bodies falling, blood everywhere, and fallen deserts when tables and carts were tipped.

He was aware that the floor was cold- and that he could feel a breeze where he should not. His head had lolled to the side- he was looking at a crushed Frozen Orange Torte, with the Cranberry Compote oozing over the floor like blood. Or it might have been blood. There was…. There was a lot of it.

Hands took him- big, large, clawed hands, rocky hands, and glowing yellow eyes. His Balmeran chef was moving him, jostling him, and pain unlike anything Hunk had ever known lanced through his body.

It felt like, in being dragged, parts of him were being pulled in half.

“Kruos.” The chef’s name came to his lips with a cry of torment, “Faamolemole taofi. Faamolemole taofi, e tiga.”

It occurred to him moments later, when Kruos didn’t stop, that he had no idea what Hunk had pleaded for.

“Shh,” Large hands moved him out of the way of the scuffle, and rocky shoulders tried to shield him from items being tossed “Shh. Don’t talk, okay? Don’t talk.”

“What- what hap-?”

“The Princess.” Kruos interrupted him. “She took her claw and tore open your belly. It’s- it’s bad. I need to put this back inside you, okay? It might hurt just a little, but bear with me-” and a rocky palm pressed something- something soft and squishy and slick with blood- against Hunk’s middle to try and fit it back inside.

Hunk’s vision went white. He might have screamed.

“-unk! Hunk, come on, stay with me, please. There we go, yes, yes, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Frantic eyes stared down at him, and gentle knuckles patted his face. “You’re losing too much life essence. You’re fading your colors out, Hunk. How much can humans lose?”

“Thirty… Thirty percent?” He whispered blearily. He wasn’t sure. Thirty percent was fatal he thought. It wasn’t a biologist.

“Okay. Okay, okay.” It was chanted like a mantra. “You’re going to be okay. Keep your eyes open for me, okay? We’ll get you out.”

You’ll be okay.

Keep your eyes open.

Hunk, Hunk don’t go to sleep.

It became a mantra, accompanied by thick, Balmeran knuckles patting him back into awareness, even as the fighting died down and a stretcher was called for.

Hunk didn’t last until the stretcher got there.

He came to, tumbling out of the healing pod into Lance’s arms.

Coming out of the healing pod was often disorienting. Some people came out swinging, their minds stuck in the last place they remembered, which was usually combat. Some people came out just fine, walking on their own, talking, only to crash later and sleep for hours. Some people came out cold and shivering, and struggling to move, but otherwise fine.

Some people, like Hunk, came out feeling like he was made of ice and was carrying his Lion on his shoulders, his body too heavy for him to hold up.

Lance was a strong lad- he’d spent a couple years on earth, working with his family, and Hunk’s family, and setting up a farm. Earth had been ravaged by the Galra- the population was now down under one billion people total, so there was a lot to be done by everyone. In doing all the work, his muscles had toned up, and he was no longer the strictly lanky boy. He could toss hay with the best of them, and, on occasion, actually hold his own when wrestling with Keith.

It did not, however, mean he was ready for seven plus feet of Hunk to come toppling into his arms, completely dead weight.

Lance grunted, held him up for a few seconds, and then hit his knees with an almighty clacking noise.

Hunk was too chilled and numb from the pod to feel anything besides a dull ache that told him he’d wear a bruise on one of his shins later.

“Hunk. Come on, hermano, come on.” Rough callused hands patted his face. “Vamos, Hunk. Ábreme los ojos, chico grande. Are you with me?”

Hunk’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned softly. His throat was dry and cold, and he coughed into Lance’s shoulder. “Sí.” He rasped.

“Good. Good.” Lance’s arms tightened around him into his best attempt at a nearly crushing hug. “You’re such an asshole, you know that?”

“Nuh?”

“I leave you alone in space for two years, and you go off and get yourself nearly cut in half by some big, four armed mantis finger alien motherfuckers. If you missed me that much, you just had to say so- no need for drama.” Lance’s spindly fingers came up to cup the back of Hunk’s head, and he threaded his fingers through his hair. “Hermano, hermano mío, me vas a poner gris antes de mi tiempo.”

Hunk sighed softly into Lance’s shoulder. “You’d look good in gray hair. It’d make your marks stand out more.” He mumbled. His eyes closed again, and he sighed, slumping more.

“Hey, hey, no. You don’t get to sleep here. You’re heavy, hermano. Wake your ass up and at least help me move you over to the couches, okay?” Lance gave him a gentle jostling.

Hunk groaned. “Noooo.”

“Yeeeees. Come on, up and at’m, or I’ll break out the tickle fingers.”

“You’re an ass.” Still, Hunk struggled to his feet, his body moving slow, like molasses that had sat in a freezer. His legs quivered and shook, and threatened to give.

Lance was there, shoving up and under his arm and helping him wobble and totter his way to the day-bed like couch that was there for these such occasions. It was jokingly called the fainting couch, but it was mostly used for post-pod napping.

When Hunk was settled down, he found his lap full of Lance- with Lance’s arms around his neck.

The Cuban’s shoulders trembled minutely, but against Hunk’s chest, he could feel every quake.

“Lance… Were you exaggerating?” Hunk asked, his head lolling back against the couch, eyes at half-mast. “About...”

“No.” Lance murmured. “I wasn’t. I got a rundown of everything when I got here. Why wouldn’t I? I’m your bestie, and this was your first pod trip. I wanted to know.”

“Tell me…?”

“Okay, hermano.” Lance nestled his face against his chest and sucked in a trembling breath. “The alien princess lady- she had beef with her dad trying to make peace. So, uh… She took out who she thought was ‘leading’ the Coalition, since you do so much of the negotiations and peace talks, for like, everything. Those Titkak-”

“T’tka,” Hunk corrected with bleary instinctive accuracy.

“T’tka,” Lance continued, “have those wicked nasty blade fingers. Hers never got removed by the Galra, and they’ve all got beefy arms, even the females, so, uh… Well. Your chefs gear didn’t… put up enough resistance. When she sliced you open, she took you nearly to the spine.”

Lance’s Adam’s apple bobbed thickly in his throat, and he finally looked up at Hunk. Ocean blue eyes were glimmering wetly with dewy tears. It upset him to speak about it just as much as it did Hunk to hear it, but Lance knew the importance of knowing.

Lance had been in the pods a lot.

Hunk grimaced. “What else.” He breathed softly.

“Your Balmeran chef- Kruos- had to give you blood while they transported you back to the Atlas. Apparently Balmerans are the space equivalent of O-negative blood type. Who knew it would be the rock people?” His laugh was awkward and forced. “Your heart stopped once during surgery, hermano. Do you remember any of it? They couldn’t sedate you for fear of you not waking up enough to go into the pod.”

Hunk shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Small blessings, then.” Lance sighed. “They had to stitch you back together to put you into the pod. It, uh… The pods are miraculous things. Really, they are. It took it nearly four weeks, but it got your organs repaired, and your blood is back to mostly full volume again, and though you’re really, really pale still and kinda cold feeling, I think you’re okay… But it couldn’t heal everything.”

And there was the kicker, right there.

There were some scars that not even an ocean storm could wash away.

“How bad…?” He breathed, imagining how it might look. How low had it been? Across his ribs, his stomach, lower belly? Did it run from spine to spine, was it thick, ropy, would it affect how he moved…?

“In comparison to the pictures of the actual wound, hermano, it’s really not that bad.” Lance shifted on his lap, and up to the zipper on the side of Hunk’s suit. “Do you want to see?”

“Please.” His fingers were like leaden ice cubes. He didn’t think he could pull down the zipper if he tried.

Lance nodded, and pulled down the zipper.

Hunk’s chest was fine and clean. The cryo-pods had a unique quirk in where they sterilized anything and everything inside, so one always came out cleaner than a shower could get you. Below that, his stomach looked untouched. The dark skin was creamy and smooth, and Hunk didn’t see anything wrong with it.

Lance moved Hunk’s suit to the side. “This is the only remnants of it- it’s… kinda bad ass, if you think about it.”

It wasn’t really as big as Hunk thought it would be in the grand scheme of things. The scar was about as thick as his thumb in width, and slightly raised from where they’d had to pull the skin together. It followed his hip bone, where he’d obviously been disemboweled at the lower belly, and moved up along his side towards his back. The scar was, in total, no more than five inches long, and probably about an inch and a half at the widest point.

It was the biggest scar he had.

Hunk’s eyes closed, and his hands moved in a futile attempt to close his suit.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Lance’s hands fluttered, and he closed the suit up, before tugging Hunk’s neck down into a hug. “Hermano, shh, it’s okay. It’s a scar. We can- I don’t know. We can do something. Makeup? I know it might get in the way, but you can still get your malofie, right?”

Hunk’s arms slowly looped around Lance. “I’m not upset.” He mumbles, eyes closing. “Just… tired. I was never going to get my malofie anyway- don’t like needles. S’ just a scar. Means I survived. Why should I be upset…?”

“It doesn’t mean you can’t be upset though, Hunk. Or even scared.” He reminded him gently. “It’s okay to be upset.”

“Okay.” Hunk sighed. “Okay.” His arms tightened briefly- and he felt a hitch in his breath that wasn’t there before. “Lance? Can we stay here a little while? I’m cold.”

Lance carded his fingers through the dark strands of the Samoan man’s hair. “Sí, Hunk. Un momento, and I’ll grab us a blanket, okay?”

 Alistair glanced up from the keyboard as a willowy green and white face snaked around the corner of the dusty, dilapidated doorframe.

 “Angel, what are you doing?” Alistair asked, lowering his glasses as the Gardevoir glided into the broken down laboratory. “What part of “stay outside and watch for those goons in balaclavas” was confusing?”

 <None of it,> Angel replied snippily, hollow telepathic voice echoing in his mind. <You said I should fall back if I spotted our friends on the shore and->

 Alistair stopped, glancing at the tablet that showed a security feed of the dock where his rental boat was moored. A flash of bright light lit up the screen for one moment, blinding Alistair in the dim room for a moment before an image of a flaming boat could be clearly seen sinking into the water.

 “Ahhhh…crap, there goes my god damn deposit,” Alistair sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ughhhhhhhhhh that was like a hundred and fifty buuuuuuuuuuuuucks.”

 <You should have bought renter’s insurance,> Angel sighed.

 “That’s a scam and you know it,” Alistair said, turning back to the console.

 [ How fast can you suck up this drive, chief? ] Alistair typed, waiting for a response as he fingered the balls on his belt.

 [ As fast as I can! Estimated download time is three hours, thirteen minutes, forty-two point three three three seconds! ]

 “Well…shit,” Alistair sighed, pulling his belt off. “Okay…new plan. How many are there?”

 <Two boats, three or four per craft,> Angel said as Alistair passed her a belt. <BS is getting antsy out there; ideas?>

 “Make sure we get what we came for,” Alistair nodded, picking a few balls off the belt. “Keep your boyfriend; just in case.”

 <Oh no; please, no, take him with you,> Angel sighed, shuddering at the ball foisted in her hands. <If he accidentally saves my life I will never hear the end of it.>

 “He is your cross to bear; deal with it,” Alistair said, jogging down the hallway. “Protect the duck!”

 Charging down the broken down hallway as the rain streamed in through the punctured roof, Alistair peeked out the window to see a small series of flashlights heading up the beach accompanied by the sound of shouting from people who clearly had never heard of the word subtlety. Behind him a disgruntled whinnying chirp drew his attention, a pair of yellow eyes staring out at them from the darkness.

 “Shh shh shh shh!’” Alistair said, holding a finger up to his lips. “Chill; chill for like ten goddamn seconds. Go around the side of the building do a little dance; I got an idea.”

 The eyes narrowed, disappearing with a clack of claws on the volcanic rock surrounding the dilapidated laboratory as Alistair took a deep breath, straightened his shirt and stepped around the side of the door.

 “Evening all!” Alistair called down the beach as three flashlight beams immediately focused on him. “I seem to be a little lost; can someone point me to the Mossdeep Tourist Center?”

That was a little excessive, Alistair thought to himself as he found his legs kicked out from underneath him, face missing the jagged volcanic rock by a scant few inches.

 “Hey, mind the goddamn face, would you; I have literally no other redeeming qualities,” Alistair grunted, being hauled to his feet as the apparent head of the little group looked him up and down. “Sorry, is this your ruined shack?”

 “You have five seconds to tell us why you’re here before we start beating the reason out of you,” The commander said, extending a collapsible nightstick. “Who are you with?”

 “Currently? Kinda between dates if you know what I-” Alistair grunted as the tip of the nightstick jabbed into his stomach. “God…damn it; I usually need a drink or three before I’m down to let people hit me with sticks…”

 “Could he be a Looker?” One of the men grumbled beneath his mask.

 “You are all coming on very strong right now,” Alistair snickered, eyes glancing towards the side of the shack with a small smirk.

 “Who else is with you?” The commander demanded, shoving the nightstick under Alistair’s chin.

 “Just a duck, a monkey, and my guardian angel,” Alistair said, wincing as the man once again struck him in the stomach. “Fuck…guess I’m skipping ab day…”

 “Enough of the BS!” The commander demanded. “There’s no way you’re here by accident; who sent you? Who told you about this place?”

 “…I’m…I’m sorry did you say BS?” Alistair asked. “Because I…think I heard you say BS.”

 “What the hell are you talking about?” The commander demanded. “Yeah, we said we’ve had enough of your BS!”

 “You haven’t even met my BS yet though,” Alistair chimed in as the sound of hooves clattering on the stone could barely be heard over the rain. “You’re about to though.”

 “What the hell are you-” Alistair leaned backwards as the commander suddenly flew about twenty feet through the air into the surf at the bottom of the slope. The headlights immediately whipped around, illuminating a massive, red insect who rounded on the remaining grunts with a shrieking roar, kicking and spinning and thrusting with the long horns extending from her head as Alistair scrambled backwards over the broken volcanic rock up the slope.

 “Two and a half minutes…not bad,” Alistair shrugged, pulling himself up as the final assailant was felled with a back kick to his head. About five people in black combat gear were lying on the ground in various states of agony, disorientation, and unconsciousness. “Good hustle BS.”

 The Scolipede snorted, trotting over to her trainer’s side as one of the grunts feebly reached for a radio. Alistair’s foot came down hard on the radio as the man rolled over to look up at their former captive.

 “What…kind of name…is BS?” The man wheezed, holding his head.

 “Bug Stallion says hello,” Alistair said as the Scolipede’s hoof knocked into the side of the grunt’s head. “Well…that was fun.”

“THEY WERE NICE ENOUGH TO LET US USE THEIR BOAT!”

 The island disappeared behind him as Firewall chirped from his smart phone. A small pile of monitors slowed the speedboat down considerably but as long as they were back in Castelia by daybreak, he doubted they would run into any more trouble.

 “Why didn’t I think of just grabbing the terminals before?” Alistair sighed, glancing down at his tablet as Firewall began streaming, decrypting, and organizing the data he pulled from the lab’s computer. “What do you think?”

 “WELL I THINK YOU’RE GONNA BE PLEASED AS PUNCH TO SEE THIS!” Firewall chirped, bringing up a video on the tablet of the lab they were just at in better days…barely better days. A team of scientists and technicians, all bearing the steel blue P logo were attempting to contain a fire while a shadowy creature was being shocked in the background.

 “Bring me back to :24 and enlarge,” Alistair said, biting his nails as the movie rewound. “Come on…come on…there!”

 His wet finger mashed the pause button, turning on the overhead light so he could see better in the darkness. The image was hazy but the creature was unmistakable; purple, steel, cannon on the back.

 “Gotcha,” Alistair said, mouth splitting into a wide grin. “Well well well…looks like the rumors were true.”