All the Words

Below are links to my writing, which is collected here in one place (finally). Most of it is unfinished and contains spelling and grammar errors.

If you like what you see and want me to write you something, send me an ask.

Voltron Fanfiction

Lighthouse (incomplete)

Vigilante (incomplete)

Professional (incomplete)

Poison (one shot, complete)

Lost Memories (incomplete)

Quiet Love (complete)

Scrapbook (complete)

Return to Sender (complete)

Impossible Task (incomplete one-shot)

This strange cross between Murderbot and Voltron because I could. It was written after I'd drawn a picture (which is below).

Staring down the leader of this group was both the easiest and hardest thing Keith had ever done. It hated the emotional reaction that bloomed in its chest at the sight of Shiro alive and mostly in one piece, minus his augmented arm. The others were also alive and recovering from their myriad injuries. 

“Next time your SecUnit tells you to run,” Keith said slowly, practically glaring, “you run. You don’t stop and attempt to rescue the SecUnit.”

Sequestered in their corner of the lounge, Pidge looked up from their multiple displays. Their fingers were still typing away as they said, “But…”

Shiro shook his head, stilling whatever argument they might’ve offered. “SecUnit — Keith — is right. We did it no favors today.”

“We don’t abandon teammates,” Hunk blurted out. He was nursing a broken arm and three fractured ribs, and apparently, staying put in medical was advice for other people. The dark-haired SecUnit wanted to shake him a little.

“I can defend myself, and I’m more durable than any of you.” Keith focused on Shiro. “Including you, captain.” Before it lost momentum, it added, “Let me do my job.”

Not words the SecUnit had ever expected to say, but it stood by them with all the ferocity of a lion about to strike. This group of misfits were its humans, and it planned to keep them alive through the rest of this star-forsaken mission. 

“Sorry,” the pale-haired princess said, almost too quietly to be heard properly. 

“Well, I’m not.” The brown-haired sharpshooter jumped up from his seat and paced the room. “You doing your job and dying would make a whole lot of people unhappy.” A jab at Shiro, maybe, or just earnest belief that the team cared. Keith neither knew nor cared.

“Helpful clients account for approximately sixty-three percent of all my injuries,” it stated with a shrug.

“So what do you propose?” Lance demanded, getting so close they were practically touching noses. 

“That you back off and remember I have guns in my arms.”

“Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Solid question to which the SecUnit didn’t have an answer. Its governor module was malfunctioning, sure — Pidge’s handiwork — but its other components reported nominal activity. The optimistic numbers failed to explain the uncomfortable feelings rattling around in its organic bits.

The reassuring readouts definitely didn’t explain Keith’s singleminded desire to protect these people, or the fluttering of its non-existent heart wherever Shiro got too close. For fuck’s sake.

“I’m functioning within normal parameters.”

Lance shook his head and backed off a few steps, still very much upset.

“Perhaps we should take a break and regroup in a few hours?” Shiro recommended in his cat-herding voice. Keith had seen better men behave when the commander of this mission asked nicely. It definitely had an effect this time around.

Tension seeped out of the SecUnit’s narrow shoulders, and its eyes softened into something less feral. It stuck its hands in its pockets and took a steadying breath. 

Glancing hesitantly up at Shiro, it added, “I’m going to patrol the perimeter.”

to be continued

A snippet featuring Voltron characters having a terrible time. Finished one shot with an ambiguous but hopeful ending.

The ransom video pissed Shiro off beyond all reason.

He had every right to be angry with the nameless resistance cell who'd kidnapped his husband in the middle of a humanitarian rescue operation. The Blades had been helping in the wake of a natural disaster on a planet halfway across the galaxy whose name Shiro knew only by the virtue of a mission brief.

It should have been perfectly safe.

Should have been.

"Can we track where this came from?" the admiral asked as he turned to the communications officer.

The older officer knew a little something about the relevant technology, but he shook his head. "A Blade hand-delivered it."

That got Shiro's undivided attention. "What?"

The officer's expression twisted into something concerned. "Head of ATLAS security escorted them to an interrogation room. So far, they haven't said a word to us, but we assumed you'd want to speak with them."

"Have the Blades been contacted?"

"Yes, sir."

Shiro let the matter drop and hurried to the small, dimly lit room where he normally conversed with frightened aliens and drunk crewmembers. Calling it "interrogation" was stretching the truth, and the ATLAS bristled at the critique.

The holding room door slid open with a soft whoosh as the admiral approached, and sure enough, a small, lithe person sat on one of the chairs inside. They wore a full combat suit, complete with an opaque mask that covered their features, so Shiro couldn't see their face. The stranger's head turned to look toward Shiro when the tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room.

“I’m told you delivered the ransom… information."

The Blade nodded and then did something unusual. They rolled their neck the way Keith sometimes did in boring meetings when all the sitting took its toll.

“Can you tell us where you got it?”

That earned Shiro a shrug and a headshake.

“You know we have other means of finding out," the admiral growled, and the words hung between them.

Shiro frowned at the Blade's lopsided shoulders, hunched forward in a familiar-as-fuck slouch. He would recognize that pose anywhere. How often had he walked into yet another boring meeting and scanned the room, looking at backs and necks until he found the familiar one?

“Keith?”

It made no sense given the video.

Shiro had just watched three Galra assholes torture the man he loved, so his being here didn’t make any sense. But the Blade nodded and put his hands on the table where it became instantly obvious that he couldn’t move them.

Shiro grabbed the nearest chair and sat down beside the other man. With gentle fingers, he pulled off the mask and stared into a pair of intense, violet eyes with black bags under them.

Keith looked utterly exhausted, but he stared at Shiro fondly over the metal muzzle that completely covered the lower half of his face. Breathing be damned, the admiral thought as he noticed the outlines of cuffs beneath the smaller man's tight skinsuit. None of the restraints had obvious locks.

“Fuck!” he cursed as he scooped his husband up into his arms and held him like a bride, or like the most precious person in his universe.

Keith leaned his head against Shiro's comforting shoulder as the admiral made a beeline for medical.

The ransom, the video, the entire fucking thing was a setup for the contents of his suit, which would detonate given the right set of actions. Keith had done what he could to make sure Shiro would figure it out, but the rest was in Shiro's court.

Shiro’s target is sitting on the roof of his own house, face turned upward to take in the sparkling night sky. This far from the nearest town’s light pollution, the stars shine bright against the backdrop of the Milky Way. Somewhere in the distance, critters scurry in the desert and a cool breeze rushes across the hardscrabble rock of the nearby flatland. A single, lone cactus sits idly near the porch; it’s probably been here longer than the single-story shack Red call home.

“Might as well come up,” calls a low, raspy voice. “Ladder’s on this side.”

The hunter walks around the side of the house, past a row of hardy flowers in planters, down a narrow, well-trodden path that circles around the small building. He gets a glimpse of the well-maintained external siding decorated with rows of grey-and-black sigils.

Far beyond standard protection wards, these symbols flow and writhe as Shiro passes, as if tracking his progress. On the back side, the shack has a small back door with a couple of steps leading down toward a secondary path, and there’s a ladder propped up against the bottom of the roof.

The older man takes a moment to gather himself before clambering up to join his query. He’d known from the beginning that he couldn’t possibly sneak up on the witch — Red is the most powerful spell caster of his generation, and this is his domain.

“Didn’t think you’d come so soon,” says the dark-haired young man once Shiro is safely standing on the roof. “Huh.”

By the meager light of the night sky, Shiro can make out few details. Red is skinny and tan, his black hair messy as it curls behind his ears. He’s dressed in loose pants and a thick sweater with sleeves long enough to cover his hands. The witch has legs for days and bright, piercing eyes that watch the hunter with suspicious calm.

“Huh?” Shiro asks.

“You’re not at all what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

Red shrugs and pats the blanket he’s sitting on. “One of the exorcists, maybe? Last time, the Garrison sent three at once.”

“I’m not with the Garrison.”

“Oh, really?”

Shiro shrugs and takes the offered seat. “They put out a bounty. Nearly a hundred thousand credits. I took the job.”

“And drove straight here?” the younger man asks with a note of surprise.

“Not exactly. I did my homework first.”

Red chuckles and sips from his thermos, gaze returning to the glimmering sky above. This close, Shiro can see a recently healed scar on the man’s face and the way his hands wrap around the thermos.

“When’d you know I was here?”

“When you crossed the boundary back at the crossroads.” The witch shrugs his narrow shoulders and closes his eyes. “I can feel it when people enter my domain.”

“That’s gotta be a useful skill.”

“It comes in handy when dealing with unwanted visitors. I’m surprised you came here at all. Most people wouldn’t think of challenging a witch on their land.”

Shiro knows he’s taking a risk by coming here, but he has a few tricks up his sleeve. “I guess I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about. The Garrison insisted I was dealing with a powerful and deranged madman hellbent on taking over the world.”

That gets a full-throated laugh out of Red. The man snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “Is that what they think?”

“Are they wrong?”

“How much do you know about spell casting?”

“Enough,” Shiro answers quickly.

“It requires willpower and raw natural energy from the earth, a.k.a. magic. I have a lot of both, so yeah, I’m powerful. Deranged, though? And definitely, not hell-bent on anything.”

“I thought it was common knowledge that each witch has an agenda.”

“It’s called an impossible task. Every witch is born with one, something they must accomplish before they die or suffer the consequences. And yes, I have one of those.”

Shiro spent weeks scouring the old libraries and digging through newspaper clippings to better understand his target. The world knows Red’s pseudonym because he saved thousands of people once. From atop a mountain, he calmed the wrath of a volcano that had threatened the West Coast.

Then, he disappeared, and the Garrison took it upon themselves to capture the rogue witch. Magic might be legal, but the government loathes anything and anyone it can’t control.

“They say yours is to burn down the world.”

The quiet man behind him hums softly in answer. “Something like that.”

“They’ll never stop chasing you,” Shiro tells the witch, hands in his pockets. “If not me, then the next hunter. You can’t hide forever.”

“I know.” Red stands up and downs the rest of his drink. “I know they’ll stick me in the deepest hole they can dig and throw away the key. I’ve known my future for a long time now.”

“And yet here you sit.”

“The alternative was to live in fear, looking over my shoulder until the very end.” The man turns toward Shiro and there’s a wan half-smile on his lips. “At least this way I get to meet a handsome man.”

The hunter recoils as his cheeks grow warm. “Flattery won’t postpone the inevitable.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” The witch shrugs and kneels in front of Shiro. “My real name’s Keith. I thought you should know.”

Shiro’s heart is thumping hard in his chest. In his pocket is a sedative, a heavy dose of something that can fell a witch, and all he has to do is touch the beautiful, ethereal young man before him to activate the drug.

Keith watches him with eyes that glimmer in the dark. “It’ll be all right, you know. You can stay here afterward. I know you don’t call anywhere else home, so I tried my best to make this shack livable. The pantry’s stocked, and I’ve got year-round vegetables growing in the greenhouse. You can see for miles. No one will be able to sneak up on you here.”

“Why’re you doing this?” Shiro asks as his hands find Keith’s face and cup it, callused fingers pressing against the angles of the witch’s cheeks. “You could’ve fought back, surely.”

“Maybe. I might’ve even won. But time is like a river, and some events in it are immovable rocks. I tried to budge one, and it cost me dearly. I’ll be picking up those pieces for the rest of my life.” Keith’s eyes flutter shut. “Take care, Shiro.”

---

Shiro gingerly descends from the roof with his precious cargo pressed close to his pounding chest.

He walks into the house, Keith held in his arms like a sleeping bride, and places him with unparalleled care on the couch in the living room.

In the dim light of a corner lamp, the shorter man looks almost peaceful. His short hair spills around his head like a halo, and his dark clothes show off a gorgeous physique. Shiro slips a pillow under Keith’s head and covers him with a woven blanket.

Then he looks around the cozy home and can’t help feeling impressed. Here’s a home whose occupant cared deeply. It’s visible in every nook and cranny, from the way plants dot the windowsills to Keith’s favorite mug placed next to a coffee maker.

Shiro’s smile fades as he glances at his phone.

He has a choice to make.

Dial the number provided by the Garrison and wait for a retrieval crew to arrive, or run with his sleeping friend. Keith will awaken eventually, and they’ll need to cross state lines before dawn to stand a chance of escaping the Garrison.

Asleep, the witch looks so vulnerable and young, the sight breaks Shiro’s already fractured heart.

“Yeah, all right, all right,” he tells his conscience. “Shut it."

“Rest easy,” he whispers to the sleeper and then goes outside to prepare his truck.

It feels like shedding a lifetime of weight off his shoulders, this single moment. One moment, he’s someone’s hound, and the next, his own master. He chooses to escape, to save the raven-haired man from the horrors the Garrison has planned. The choice leaves him breathless and light.

He has a plan by the time he straps the sleeping man into the truck’s passenger seat. Or at least the beginning of one. Outrunning an organization whose tendrils touch nearly every aspect of society will be no easy task, but it’s a challenge Shiro is willing to face. He won't let Red - no, Keith - struggle to survive alone.

Keith doesn’t stir as they drive away from his home, and Shiro is glad he doesn’t have to explain himself. He will figure this out in time. For now, he’s just a lone hunter helping a person who might one day call him a friend.

Shiro doesn't remember how the rest of the paladins talked him into this, but here he is, a thirty-year-old man on a couch, watching Alien for the first time.

This is not a movie for the faint of heart, he decides when yet another bystander dies to the jaws of a creature that would probably send even the Lions scampering. This might be worse than the psychological torture he endured.

He glances over at Keith, seated next to him on an oversized couch, clearly having a good time, and shivers. How is everyone else so calm and collected about this? How are they not freaking out whenever the music subtly changes and the lights flicker?

"You all right?" his husband murmurs, leaning in close.

"Fine," Shiro practically squeaks.

"He's not fine," Pidge adds sagely from where they're perched on a cushion on the floor, bowl of popcorn in hand.

Keith reaches over and puts an arm around his husband's shoulders and nuzzles his flesh-and-blood arm reassuringly. "You gonna make it, big guy?"

Shiro swallows and holds back a whimper, just barely. "Definitely."

"Liar," Keith whispers into his ear. "Come on, let's go do something else."

"Nope, I'm fine."

Keith rolls his eyes. "We've been married long enough that I know better."

"Shhh!" Lance mutters. "We're just getting to the good part."

"Shut up, lover boy. One more word—"

Allura snickers and wraps her fiancé in her embrace. Keith is thankful she knows what to do with Lance because he certainly doesn't. Distance hasn't made his heart grow any fonder, at least not about this.

"We can turn the lights on," he offers.

"It's almost over anyway," Shiro protests, endeared at Keith's single-minded protection. "Plus, you like it."

"It's a guy in a suit. You can tell!" Keith protests.

"Well, don't tell us that," Pidge grumbles. "Next time, I'm not inviting either of you to horror movie night. Just kiss him and get it over with!"

"What?" Keith sputters, and even poor Hunk can't help chuckling.

He glares at the back of Pidge's head before turning and doing exactly that. He reaches up to hold Shiro's overheated face and presses their lips together in a gesture that's both familiar and so, so precious.

That they get to spend this life together still feels like a revelation.

Shiro returns the kiss, leans into it, and sighs.

"They're doing it again," Lance mutters quietly.

Allura takes the opportunity to do the same to shut him up.

Someone screams in the background. Hunk makes more popcorn.

At some point, the movie ended and another began. Keith dozed through some of it, exhausted almost despite himself, and woke just in time to see Shiro fiddling with his phone. The storm still raged, no quieter now than when he’d crashed an hour prior, and the world outside the window was dark.

Sitting up, he glanced at the easily-visible screen. A group chat was open, the conversation moving at a steady pace. The nicknames were unfamiliar, but they were color-coded so he could take a few educated guesses.

“We — me, the paladins, a few others — have a shared channel,” Shiro explained, hands hovering over the tiny keyboard. “I’ve been ignoring it since leaving the Atlas, and my friends are chatty.”

Shiro wanted to reassure them, but words wouldn’t come. What could he possibly tell the team if not the truth, and that truth involved Keith? Keith, who had asked for more time to think, who clearly wanted to lay low.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and Shiro looked up into a pair of overwhelming eyes. They saw right through him, he was sure of it. Keith pointed at the small device, and Shiro handed it over.

A few taps later, Keith had the camera going and took a quick, rough selfie of the two of them. Shiro looked at the resulting picture and couldn’t help the warmth spreading across his face. Here was Shiro, expression pensive, looking over at Keith who made a silly face. The scars on his neck were partially obscured by the short beard, but not fully.

Keith handed the phone back to him. “You can tell them.”

“I know you don’t remember any of them, but the paladins… we think of you as a dear and precious friend. If I show them this picture, they’ll be here in the time it takes this storm to pass.” Shiro licked his chapped lips. “They can be a lot.”

The twisting, sinking feeling in Keith’s gut only worsened. “I’m not Keith from before. I’m just a person. With scars and missing memories. They need to understand.”

He ducked his head, hands curled into fists at his side.

After a momentary debate, Shiro reached out and touched the younger man’s nose.

“You’re still you, Keith. Memories or not. Still kind and selfless, still a tinkerer at heart, still in possession of your mother’s knife.” He nodded toward the sketchbook on the coffee table, open to a page filled with theoretical designs. “Please, no matter what you decide, don’t sell yourself short.”

Slowly the fists loosened, and stormy eyes looked up at this not-quite-stranger. Keith wanted to argue that Shiro had no right to upend his current life, but that didn’t ring true.

They’d just spent five hours on Keith’s lumpy couch, watching old movies and eating snacks while thunder roared overhead and lightning danced. Keith felt like a passing asteroid pulled into Shiro’s gravity well.

Did he want to escape?

Living this life meant reconciling his old one, whatever that ledger looked like.

“I’m willing to give whatever happens a chance.” He shrugged and pulled off his sweater.

Underneath he wore a black t-shirt, and Shiro got a good look at his friend’s body. It told its own story.

“I will tell them to take it easy.” Shiro knew a little something about surviving trauma, and a world turned suddenly busy and loud wasn’t his idea of a good time. “They mean well," he added.

Keith's lopsided smile didn't reach his eyes. “I knew I couldn’t hide forever.”

“But you wanted more time,” Shiro said.

“We all do.”

Shiro ended up settling for the facts.

Keith Kogane is alive and on Altea. He doesn’t remember us. There’s a lot to discuss, but not over chat.

[Picture]

The steady flow of conversation exploded into mayhem. He saw a message from Keith’s mother, whose name was the same bright-red color as Keith’s had been, and couldn’t even begin to imagine what she must be thinking.

She’d lost her son twice now.

Krolia: Can I speak with him?

“Would you be up for a video chat?” Shiro asked his silent companion and showed him the message. “You can say no. I’m sure she would understand.”

“Yes.”

A few taps later, the face of a strong, stoic Galra woman appeared on the screen. Tears marred Krolia’s eyes as she saw her son and couldn’t help either the grin or the sadness.

Two years… a lifetime of pain crammed into mere moments.

Keith looked back and felt a wave of warmth, unlike his feelings for Shiro. Different but similar enough to recognize. They looked alike, he reflected, like mother like son.

“I love you, child,” she said softly as a doggy-shaped face shoved itself into the picture. “The space wolf misses you, too.”

The creature vanished in a puff of haze and smoke as Keith watched. Confused, he glanced at Shiro. An incoming burst of ozone was all the warning Keith got before a two-hundred-pound creature rammed into him at full speed. The wolf knocked him over and went straight for his face.

A new mind touched Keith’s, slipped easily past his shields, and settled in its familiar spot. Something clicked as the wolf nuzzled him.

“Kosmo, down!” Shiro practically yelled, horrified.

Keith grinned and nodded, and the wolf got off him as if by magic. It slid off the couch to examine the empty popcorn bowl for any signs of remaining butter.

“Good boy,” Keith signed.

The creature nuzzled his hands, begging for treats.

“I don’t have any,” the dark-haired soldier told the wolf, unsure how he knew what it wanted. To Shiro, he signed desperately, “He teleports?”

“Oh yes, your space wolf definitely teleports. He can even take people with him assuming he knows where to go.”

“I have a teleporting wolf?” Keith reiterated.

Krolia chuckled and wiped at her eyes. “Would you mind translating, Shiro? I don’t know enough sign language.”

“Of course. Uh, Keith was making sure the wolf was real.”

The wolf found a wall inside Keith's mind that hadn’t been there before. It didn’t remember coming across it in the past, and the wall felt wrong. Keith was pack, and the strange obstacle stood in the way of that.

Confused, the wolf whined at the humans.

“Hey, buddy,” Keith mouthed and scratched behind an ear. “My wolf?” he signed with utter disbelief when the furry menace calmed down enough to go explore the studio.

“You raised him,” Shiro acknowledged. “More than once he saved our collective behinds. He’s a very good boy indeed.”

He had a… pet? Keith looked at the giant creature and couldn’t shake the strange feeling that it had taken up residence in his brain. It settled on the couch beside him, head in Keith’s lap where it could get occasional pets, and closed its eyes. It took up all of the remaining sofa space and then some.

“When we lost track of you on that mission, Kosmo was with your mom on a mission. One of my biggest regrets was not insisting that he come with you,” the admiral explained.

“Kosmo?” Keith finger-spelled the name.

“You told us that he would tell you his name one day, but then… you were gone and we can’t talk to him like you can. Could. So, we had to improvise. Lance wouldn’t stop calling him Kosmo and the name stuck, eventually. He likes ‘buddy’ too, occasionally. When treats are involved.”

Krolia added, “He looked for you, for months.”

“I don’t know how to take care of him,” Keith signed and then scratched behind one enormous ear.

“He eats pretty much anything you give him and will sleep on any warm body he trusts.” His mother smiled. “But I’m sure you’ll figure it out quick. You were amazing with him when you first met him.”

Shiro buried his husband.

Whenever he closed his eyes nowadays, he couldn’t get the image of Keith lying in a coffin out of his mind. It was a body, really. Keith’s private smiles and knitted eyebrows were nowhere to be found.

Gone was the bright, burning fire that Shiro had loved so desperately.

That had been three months ago.

He was not prepared to find Keith’s dead body standing on his porch at midnight, but there it was. It was still dressed in a ceremonial Blade suit and looked largely unchanged from when Shiro had seen it last.

Its eyes were the color of the night sky, but the smile…

Shiro knew that smile.

He opened the front door.

Keith waved at him.

“What the fuck?”

Shiro drew his husband into a hug and refused to let go. The smaller man shivered in his arms, and that prompted him to usher the dead man inside and wrap him in a blanket. The strange night was taking a hard left into the bizarre.

“Uh,” Keith offered, expression open and so damn puzzled. “Short version: I don’t really know what’s going on.”

Shiro sat on the couch where they’d used to stupid cooking shows together and pulled his husband into his lap. “Keith, deity above, I’m beyond happy that you’re here. But, uh, you look… terrible.”

“I was dead,” the other admitted as he snuggled in Shiro’s embrace and closed his eyes. “Feels weird. Better though, now that I’m here.”

“Are you tired?”

“A little. It was a long walk.”

“From the cemetery?” Shiro asked with growing horror.

“Yeah. I, um, didn’t want to call in case this was… more short-term than I imagined.”

Shiro had a brief glimpse of a possible future where he received a middle-of-the-night phone call telling him that his husband’s body had been found in a gutter somewhere on its way to his house. That would have been the final straw in the breaking of his already-frayed sanity.

“Next time, call anyway,” the admiral insisted before he could think too hard about it.

“Yes, sir.”

Shiro stroked Keith’s hair and tried not to ponder the implications. “How about a hot shower and some clean clothes? Are you hungry?”

"Yes, please. To all of the above,” murmured the sleepy man in his arm.

Another knock on the door startled both of them, and the figure that marched inside wore a costume that looked far too real even for Halloween.

“Ah,” said the person in a black robe and hood, “so that’s where he went.” The stranger sighed in annoyance. “He couldn’t stay put for an hour. That one is yours. I’ll be back for the two of you at some later date.”

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shiro demanded.

"That even death isn't all-powerful. Go do whatever it is you do to keep him happy and out of my hair."

Shiro's eyes narrowed. "For how long?"

Death shrugged. "I'll be back when you're dead. However long that takes."

“That sounds ominous,” the admiral pointed out.

"Just a statement of fact. Everyone's time comes eventually." The hooded figure sighed again and turned away from the door. "You two are apparently a packaged deal, so do with that what you will."

Death left, still muttering to itself about how troublesome some people could be.

Squat, rectangular buildings rose five stories into the sky, each one identical and made out of some material Shiro didn’t recognize. Housing everyone in the wake of a war was a perpetual logistical nightmare. Occasionally the admiral felt like they were making progress.

More people had more places to live.

Then he saw the monstrosities that went up and doubted his entire existence.

Keith had no such qualms. He walked down a narrow sidewalk with the familiarity of someone who knew the way. A couple of men seated near one of the building entrances smiled at him, and he briefly signed with one of the elders.

Clearly, they knew him, and the rapid exchange of signs solidified that fact. Shiro felt a little lighter knowing that Keith wasn’t quite alone.

“Friends of yours?” he asked as they walked into the younger man’s austere studio apartment on the third floor.

“Fixed their sink two days ago.” Keith shrugged easily. “Water? Soda?”

“Water, please.”

Keith went to grab some from the kitchen while Shiro looked around. An old, worn sofa doubled as a bed, and the small apartment had the basic necessities. But the place hardly looked lived in. No pictures graced the walls, the coffee table contained a single closed notebook, and Shiro saw no hints of any personal touches or sentimental items.

He wondered if the other man moved too frequently to ever really settled down. Perhaps minimal belongings were a practical requirement of his current life. Shiro remembered Keith’s neat, empty room in the castle and couldn’t help comparing that visual silence with this one.

Had life with the paladins taught him that?

A few moments later, Keith came back with two glasses of water and ice, and handed one to Shiro. Overhead, the first peals of thunder boomed like the bitter shouts of an angry god.

The pitter-patter of rain hitting the apartment’s only window followed, growing in intensity so quickly that Shiro had the urge to go look outside.

“Guess the storm’s here,” the admiral said quietly and sipped his water.

“Big one. Sounds bad. Bet the streets will flood again.” Keith offered a lopsided smile and sat down on the couch. “Video games or terrible movies?”

“It’s been… a while since I’ve sat down and watched a movie.”

The younger man patted the couch cushion next to him, then asked, “Do you work a lot?”

“Probably more than is reasonable.” Shiro took the offer gratefully, shrugged off his jacket, and sat down beside Keith. “There are a lot of pieces to pick up. More than I imagined, I guess.”

“War is hell,” Keith agreed, and then turned on the television.

“Yeah, it is.”

To Shiro, hell had come in so many flavors that he no longer bothered counting them. Each one felt like it had ripped out his heart, and he’d kept going with the pieces that remained.

Maybe even somehow glued them back together into something usable.

Not this last time though.

With Keith gone, he’d become his job and his obligations. He thought he had no more heart left to give.

Possibly because it was sitting in front of him in the form of a very familiar person with a hesitant but open expression. Who was waiting for Shiro to select a film.

***

Shiro picked a movie almost at random from whatever was available while Keith made popcorn. The whole scene felt achingly familiar and yet… distinctly different.

He saw a couple of films that they’d watched together with the other paladins and selected one of them before he could overthink. Anything-but-quiet movie nights had been a reprieve from the horrors surrounding them in the midst of a conflict they had to solve on their own.

The smell of butter and popcorn preceded the younger man, who had a bowl in one hand and more water for himself in the other. He set both down on the worn coffee table — something plastic meant to resemble wood in name only — and glanced at the TV.

“Haven’t seen this one yet,” he signed. “Looks interesting.”

Shiro’s heart hurt. “It’s a good one,” he promised. “I think you’ll like it.”

“As long as it’s not a horror movie.” At Shiro’s puzzled expression, Keith added, “Nightmares.”

“You have them, too?”

“Less often now than before.” He took a seat on the couch again and leaned back, relaxing. “Start it?”

Shiro fumbled with the remote.

Opening credits began to play as more thunder crashed overhead. It looked dark outside now. Ominous clouds hung above the city while lightning flashed overhead. The rain ebbed and flowed in intensity just past the window.

Keith grabbed a blanket off the floor and wrapped himself in it. “Don’t like storms,” he explained before disappearing into the cocoon.

“Want to sit closer to me?” Shiro offered. “It might help with the anxiety. Well, it used to, for me.”

The younger man eyed the space between them before scooting closer. Shiro put his flesh-and-blood arm along the back of the rickety couch, and Keith practically snuggled into his embrace.

“Better?”

Keith nodded.

The admiral didn’t say it out loud, but he felt better too, with the most precious person leaning against his side. Even after two years apart, this felt like coming home.

Keith grabbed his sketchbook and wrote on an empty page. “Storms bother you, too?”

“Truth be told, a lot of things bother me.”

Shiro swallowed hard, struck with the sudden realization that Keith didn’t remember the reason he had a scar on his face.

“Years ago, by both of our reckonings, I went on a mission to Kerberos. The Galra captured us. I spent a year in their prisons and fighting arenas. And then the war… A lot of bad memories piled up. Nightmares are a small price to pay.”

The younger man reached out, slowly, and intertwined his fingers with Shiro’s. The feeling soothed him, yet another remnant of a past he wasn’t getting back.

“You came home safe,” he scribbled with his free hand awkwardly.

“That’s more than I can say for a lot of people,” Shiro agreed. “When Blades return from missions safe and sound nowadays, there’s sometimes celebration. To mark another day lived.”

Keith could believe it. He took a deep breath and sank into the comfort of Shiro’s arm and shoulder.

“You used to be a Blade,” Shiro went on.

The younger man looked up at him, a little surprised and a little sad.

“So I gathered,” he wrote. Putting the notebook aside, he sat up enough to use both arms. “The other prisoners didn’t know who I was. People I met later knew about the paladins. That and news about the war helped put the pieces together.”

“Is there anything you’d like to know?” the admiral offered.

“What were we before?”

“You and I?”

Keith nodded. “I don’t like being touched now.” He didn’t elaborate, but Shiro winced regardless. “But this—” He gestured at them, the room, all of it “—feels good. Feels right.”

“We were friends,” the other answered. “Before the end of the war, privacy was scarce, so it was easier to… set things aside. You rescued me, more than once.” Shiro took a shaky, hesitant breath. “I’ve loved the Keith I knew for a long time. Probably since before Kerberos, if I’m being honest. But I didn’t know how he felt, and I was too much of a coward to ask.”

Keith moved to ask more but Shiro shook his head.

“I thought I didn’t deserve the person I loved, and before I could tell him how much he meant to me, he was gone.”

Soft, dark eyes looked up at the older man. “You deserve happiness.”

“Maybe not after everything I’ve done.”

Keith offered him a tentative smile. “I’m not that person. Not your Keith.”

“I know that. I’m sorry if I made it seem otherwise.”

Keith put a single, long finger against Shiro’s chapped lips. “You’re not my Shiro. You are Shiro. I met you today. You seem kind and genuine.”

“And I invited myself over to your place to give you an existential crisis.”

“I was due.” The younger man grinned, then sobered. “Most likely, your Keith isn’t coming back.”

Shiro wasn’t sure he understood what the other man was trying to say. “Are you telling me to move on?”

Keith nodded. “Best advice I ever got. Live this life.”

Shiro thought about that for a moment. Maybe his Keith was never coming back, but the man curled comfortably beside him was very much here and alive.

“I’d like to be your friend,” Shiro said softly, hesitantly. “I can’t say that my past has no bearing on that. But I’d like to get to know you. This you, not the ghost living in my head.”

Keith handed him the popcorn bowl and snuggled closer to his chest. It really did feel like home.

“After the storm,” he mouthed silently.

Lunch finished, they exited the restaurant into a sun-warmed afternoon. Keith squinted up at the sky where this sun’s brightness was contrasted with dark incoming clouds.

The air felt sticky and smelled of incoming rain. The day’s forecast was coming in hard and fast.

Keith glanced over at his tall companion and felt a wave of protectiveness that nearly bowled him over. He didn’t know where the feeling came from, but it was overwhelming and so decisive that he couldn’t argue with it.

“Gonna rain hard,” he signed, gesturing at the sky. “Site closes for inclement weather.”

Shiro peered at the same clouds. “Yeah, looks like it. Sorry, I didn’t even check the weather forecast out here today.”

His excuse had been simple enough. Less than eight hours ago, he’d been aboard a city-sized, sentient spaceship where the weather had no practical meaning. On hearing the report about a Keith sighting, he’d jumped into the first available shuttle and hightailed it down here before anyone could stop him.

And now he was faced with a reality that was infinitely better than he’d imagined.

The person he cherished was alive and not some space alien ghost. Not only was Keith tangible and real but he wasn’t nearly as skittish as Shiro would’ve guessed.

Some things didn’t change.

“My place,” Keith signed, already looking both ways to cross a large, open avenue.

He didn’t relish apologizing to the foreman in the morning about walking off the job, but at this point, heading back to work was pointless. The storm would break in short order.

He stole another glance at the man walking alongside him.

Shiro.

The name didn’t stir anything in his mind, save the strange urge to protect the war hero. He wasn’t an idiot, he could put together the pieces from the Coalition posters and what he’d read about the paladins.

Without those memories, Shiro was a virtual stranger with a warm smile and tired eyes. Whatever his relationship with Keith-once-upon-time, half of it no longer existed.

“So, uh, what have you been up to recently?” said stranger asked, still hesitant, still on unsteady metaphorical footing.

“Work, mostly. I catch rides from place to place. Help rebuild where I can. Keep my head down.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Two years.”

Shiro’s breath caught on those words. “Keith,” he said softly.

The soldier rounded on him. “No pity.” The flash of anger in his eyes was unmistakable.

Shiro shook his head. “Not pity. Guilt, that you’ve had to struggle all this time while we just… went on with our lives.”

"Your lives weren't roses either."

Keith's hands felt clunky and stiff as he formed the relevant signs. The camp’s cold and damp, not to mention the endless work, had done its damage. But that wasn't the problem now.

“You didn’t know. I was no one, halfway across the galaxy."

"Maybe we could've done something... looked a little harder."

"Doesn't work that way."

Keith had long forgiven the past.

“This way,” he added, turning a corner into the temporary housing community.

They're already married and living together the first time Shiro suggests a scrapbook. Keith gives him a puzzled look — since when is his husband into scrapbooking — but whatever. A few more pictures can't hurt.

The very first picture is of them.

Keith doesn't remember the Coalition dinner where it was taken. A journalist had snapped a photo. They look… frazzled. It's an old photo; there are no rings on their fingers.

The second two entries aren't pictures at all.

They're newspaper articles about the Blades; Keith's impressive achievements are documented on paper for all to see. Shiro was adamant about adding these to their scrapbook.

"It's about you, too."

The next image pierces Keith through the heart. He touches the page like it might simply crumble to dust if he's not careful. He's in a hospital bed, hooked up to half a dozen wires, with their kiddo in his arms.

Shiro leans over him; the admiral is crying.

On the next page is Akira's birth certificate with their names on it. Papa and Daddy.

The pages after it are filled to the brim with photos of themselves and their little one.

Shiro and Akira playing catch. Akira on a hoverbike, age three, wearing Daddy's oversized goggles. Akira, Shiro, and Keith at a science museum. A water park. An alien zoo; Akira clutches their hippo for dear life. Akira and Keith's mother.

The milestones come next. First day of school. First parent-teacher conference. First report card.

Mixed in with the images are the child's drawings. They drew everything from Daddy to the space wolf to the stars.

Keith reaches Akira's college graduation. They're standing between two beaming parents and surrounded by friends. Even Matt and Pidge made it that day.

The final three pages are quiet, simple. Just Shiro and Keith again, taking long walks with the space wolf. A few snapshots of them in the desert, leaning on Keith's hover bike, kissing.

A hand appears in front of Keith's face and lands on top of his own before he can turn to the final page.

"Daddy!" a voice calls out from the driveway.

"Ready?" asks the man Keith has never stopped loving.

"They're getting married!"

"Are you scared?"

"Aren't you?" demands the Blade who once liberated colonies.

"Terrified. Let's go."

Keith scooted as far into the booth as physically possible and ducked his head. No one recognized him with the beard and braid, but sometimes he still felt like people were staring. Seated across from him, Shiro looked exactly like someone important, someone who’d won a war.

“Are you all right?” the older man asked. “Would you rather we go somewhere else?”

Keith shook his head and signed, “Here is fine.”

A waitress brought over menus, and Keith glanced over his with slowly growing concern. The food here cost more than he made in days.

Delicious smells wafted through the place, so he figured it probably tasted amazing. It was just out of his price range and maybe not the sort of place he would've gone to.

“Still OK?”

“Costs too much.”

“I invited you to lunch, Keith. I’m paying for it.”

“I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can, but you don’t actually have to this time around. Next time, you can take me to your favorite place, and then it’s all on you. Fair?”

The prospect of a next time sat heavy with Keith, but it was doable. Next time implied another meeting, implied something other than quiet solitude.

“OK,” the younger man signed and visibly relaxed.

“How’s life out here?” Shiro asked softly once they’d gotten drinks.

“Simple,” was the quick, painful answer.

Silence hung between them until Shiro finally said, “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting it. I just… I couldn’t not come, not see for myself if the man I loved was still alive somehow against all odds.”

“Alive is up for debate.” Keith let out a soundless sigh and stared at the polished table in front of him. His hands sat on the surface, too rough and dirty for the pristine setup.

“Can I ask what happened?” Shiro’s voice was so quiet that Keith wasn’t sure he heard at first, even with his superior hearing.

He wanted to say no and leave it there, build a wall between himself and this stranger who remembered him. It would be so much easier that way, but his heart wouldn’t let him take the easy way out.

“Mission failure,” he signed slowly, getting his bearings. “Concussion, amnesia, imprisonment. In that order. War ended, camp was liberated. Eventually, someone told me who I was.”

The admiral ran a shaking hand through his white bangs and hissed. “We thought we’d lost you. The Blade reported the failure, but the insurgents were long-gone by the time we got there. We tracked them a few months later, but if they’d captured prisoners, we couldn’t find them.”

“Not your fault. Not anyone’s fault.”

Shiro didn’t think he had the words to express his grief at that moment, and he’d talked plenty of Coalition members into nothing short of miracles. None of those compared to seeing his friend alive again.

The waitress returned with food this time around, sparing him the urge to apologize a dozen more times. He would let Allura know as soon as the opportunity arose, but damn if he was letting the love of his life out of his sight again.

Keith ate quickly, guided more by mild hunger than any social graces. He didn’t go long without food nowadays — the work paid enough for food and a roof over his head — but old habits died hard.

And he still remembered the damn camp.

Some of his first memories were ugly gray walls and the endless twisting of his starved insides.

“Um, listen,” Shiro said finally, barely able to look at his food. “Would… would you be offended if I hung out with you for the rest of the day? I’ll ditch the uniform and help out where you work. If you’re OK with that.”

Piercing indigo eyes stared at the admiral like he’d grown a second head, but eventually, Keith nodded. He let go of his utensils long enough to sign, “Do what you want.”

“Great. Let me let Allura… the current Altean representative know where I am. Do you want to, uh, see her?”

Keith stopped eating and set his food briefly aside. “I can’t eat and talk. I know who Allura is. She’s in the news.”

“Oh shit, sorry. My bad.”

“No worries.”

The soldier had no real recollection of Allura. On TV, she looked tall and proud, and maybe a little lonely despite that. Did he want to see her?

“Can I think about it?”

It was more than Shiro had been hoping for. “Yeah, of course, take as much time as you want.”

They say it's an illness. Another one, on top of everything else that has happened in Shiro’s relatively short life. He isn’t even surprised anymore, and he has bigger plans. The Kerberos mission is on the horizon, and he’s mentoring a kid who needs all the patience Shiro can muster.

The first petal is a bright, mesmerizing shade of purple on his lower back. It might as well be glowing.

"You, too, huh," a fellow pilot commiserates in a shared locker room.

Shiro needs a mirror to see it, and even then, the strange design doesn’t mean much to him. It could be someone’s fancy ink work, but something inside him knows better. Tattoos don’t magically appear on people — when that happens to someone, it’s a disease.

"What is it?”

"Unrequited love, they say, or a hidden one." The co-worker shrugs like it’s old news. "Happens to the best of us."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Maybe? I've heard of people covered in those tattoos. Never met one, though."

He climbs into a shuttle three weeks later and takes off for the stars. The mark doesn’t waver through years of hardships. It returns with fresh vigor when he finally escapes the astral plane. 

The body is new, but the petals are the same. 

He can’t escape love so easily, it seems. Shiro laments that his heart always knows what his mind refuses to admit, even to himself. 

The war ends, and slowly, more petals appear. There’s never any pain, but each one might as well stab him through the heart. They form a blade, a gorgeous bit of work with a hauntingly familiar design. 

He doesn’t need magic to tell him who he loves — he has always known — but this isn’t a confirmation. 

This is a mandate.

The strange ink doesn’t hesitate to mark his skin. It doesn’t have hang-ups or fears — it doesn’t know how devastating losing Keith would be. It’s merely love, if one could transform love into a work of art.

Shiro hides the almost completed blade carefully because he doesn’t want the man who is the other side of his soul to know. He fears rejection more than the white lie. 

And then, one morning, it’s complete. Petals that turn into roses turn into a blade extended. Turn into something permanent, writ large on his skin, that Shiro treasures beyond words.

That same day, he walks into a hotel room, tired and cranky, and sees the same truth decorating Keith’s tan skin. He can't believe it -- his heart can hardly bear the knowledge that he's not alone anymore. 

He doesn't remember crying.

The kiss that follows sweeps him off his feet.

"I love you, too," he whispers, flesh-and-blood hand pressed against his lover's cheek.

There's a sudden urgency to remove his own jacket and shirt. Decorum forgotten, he watches as the final piece of art shimmers into existence between them. 

Then, he turns, and Keith can only stare.

Fingers touch Shiro’s back, feather-light and reverent. “My blade.”

"It came back when I did." Shiro swallows hard, unable to stop the tears or the smiles. "It knew when I didn't."

"It's a gift," says the man he loves.

“One I would gladly share with you for as long as you’d have me.” The words come unbidden but not unwelcome. 

Perhaps they cannot promise each other a forever, but together, they will make do with a lifetime.

Keith notices the first petal almost by accident in the shower.

He’s cataloging injuries from yet another mission when he sees the intricate ink work just beneath the skin of his shoulder blade. He doesn’t remember getting any tattoos, but they’re in the middle of a war, and this minor work of art seems inconsequential in comparison to the galaxy’s troubles.

Earlier, he’d said “I love you” to a man who was not himself.

The next two petals catch him off guard, especially the pale pink one that touches the top of his arm. They’re beautiful and drawn so realistically that he can barely tell they’re ink under his skin.

They don’t hurt, and there are no “I love yous” to be had. Just furtive glances and stolen moments with his best friend.

Another oversized petal shows up one morning after a sparring session with Shiro. Keith watches it slowly bloom as he strips out of his sweat-soaked clothing.

The pattern is easily visible now but still well-hidden beneath the sleeve of his shirt. Something about it speaks to him of unyielding strength.

Still another petal flares into gorgeous life when he dances with the Admiral at a Coalition dinner. He feels it spawn along his upper arm like a barely-there touch against his skin, a cool balm to soothe his pain.

By now, he knows what they mean.

A love unspoken.

He’s surprised it took them so long to catch on. This soft, quiet love has existed for an eternity.

He traces the next few petals with trembling fingers as they materialize around his right elbow. They’re the same gray hue as the eyes of the man he loves, and there is something sad about them.

Keith feels the sadness acutely and wonders if it’s his own.

These are the last because Shiro walks into their shared hotel room at that moment, frazzled by another series of endless meetings with people he can barely stand, and sees Keith’s bare back.

The flow of the ink is familiar, echoing the lines of his prosthetic.

The meaning is unmistakable.

Keith turns to face him and finds the man he loves standing there, silent, with tears in his eyes and a soft, fond smile on his lips.

“You’re…” Shiro begins.

“In love,” Keith finishes as he looks just as fondly at the man who is the other half of his soul.

An adult now, all these years later, he stands before Shiro and feels vulnerable, afraid, hopeful.

“With me?” It sounds like a revelation.

“Who else?”

“All this time,” Shiro whispers, voice hoarse.

Keith gestures to the petals that cover his shoulder and arm. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The kiss that follows tastes sweet and sweeps away the melancholy sorry.

The last petal blooms over their hearts, shared in all the ways that matter.

War had left its mark across the universe. Keith had been a prisoner at the end of it. Physically he was free now, though he carried the scars of both combat and incarceration.

His mind never truly settled.

Anxiety plagued him during waking hours and nightmares stole their way into his dreams.

The promise of stable construction work had dragged him to New Altea so he’d caught a passing shuttle away from one destroyed planet to another.

Now he was on the largest Altean world, a sprawling planet of green and blue not unlike Terra. The architecture was different, the technology more advanced, but in the slums where he finally found himself a room to sleep in, it was hard to pinpoint the differences.

Keith barely walked onto the first available construction site, the future location of a school, when the foreman had offered him a job. That had been easier than he’d imagined, even when he could only communicate with the alien by pointing and grunting.

Months of wearing manacles had left scars on his wrists and throat, and the Galra had taken his voice along with his sanity. So, it was easier to keep quiet and not think too hard about the future.

***

Six days into his three-month-long contract, Keith had the rhythm down. It was a cool midmorning with the promise of rain on the horizon, and Keith had his favorite sweater on. It was threadbare now from years of wash cycles, but still too comfortable to part with.

He was hauling lumber from a delivery truck when a limo drove up to the site. Keith saw it before he heard it, a sleek, black thing with tinted windows and enough room to hold at least six people. He grabbed a few planks and turned to head back when the limo doors slid open.

The tall, broad-shouldered man who emerged from the car’s darkened exterior was admittedly handsome. He wore the same garb as Altean royalty, but the white hair was unmistakable. Takashi Shirogane, once the Champion, now the Admiral of the Atlas and the black paladin. Everyone knew who he was. His face was occasionally plastered on television, so he was hard to miss.

As Keith watched, the foreman practically jogged to meet the stranger.

Disinterested in the ensuing conversation and eager to keep his down, Keith started hauling again. He was about to grab another stack of planks when the paladin strode over to him.

Tall and handsome looked ever more delicious up close. His gray eyes turned down at the edges as he looked at Keith, and his expression grew sad. “Good morning, Mr. Kogane,” he said in a deep, rich voice that sent shivers down Keith’s spine.

Keith offered a lopsided half-smile and a salute.

“Would you mind taking a ride with me?” the admiral asked. “Nothing nefarious, I swear. I just want to have a conversation with you, in private.”

With a sigh, Keith put down the lumber, waved to the foreman, and nodded. He gestured vaguely toward the older man’s car and followed him out of the hard hat zone and onto what remained of a sidewalk.

The limo door whooshed open, and Keith slipped into the warm, sweet-smelling interior. He felt out of his depths as he took a seat on the nearest plush bench and looked squarely at the man who’d invited him here.

“It’s obvious you don’t remember me,” the black paladin said once the doors closed behind them. “It’s all right. My name’s Shiro. Takashi Shirogane.”

“Keith,” the younger man fingerspelled.

“I know who you are, Keith.” Shiro opened a small compartment under his seat and pulled out a manila folder. “Your file,” he said as he handed it over.

Keith shrugged and set it aside. “What do you want?” he signed.

“To see a friend I thought was dead. When I heard you were here…” The admiral’s voice trailed off. “When one of Allura’s informants thought she’d seen you on Altea, I didn’t believe her. It was impossible. And yet here we are.”

That earned him a shrug. “Sorry.”

Sorry didn’t begin to cover it, but Keith didn’t have anything else to offer.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Keith. It’s not your fault, god, no. Farthest thing from it. I’m just so relieved you’re alive. Your mom… Keith, we buried you two years ago. There’s a grave with your name on it.”

Tears rolled down Shiro’s cheeks.

“Saw it,” the younger man admitted, guilty despite himself. He’d promised not to think too hard on it.

“You did?”

“Before leaving Earth.” Keith’s hands were steady as he signed, but inside, the turmoil was back, tenfold. Nowhere to run from his own broken mind.

“Why didn’t you…”

The younger man frowned, his expression more hawk than man. “This amnesia.” He gestured to his head. “Permanent.”

“But, Keith, we would’ve welcomed you. Still welcome you, always.”

The soldier didn’t have an answer. “Just want peace.” “I can’t even begin to imagine.”

Shiro reached over and touched the other man’s cheek, finding wetness there, too. “Will you have lunch with me? Please?”

Keith’s stomach made itself known. “OK.”

Contains angst and a dying Blade. The ending is ambiguous.

Keith doesn’t even know the name of the Galra resistance leader who poisoned him. All he remembers is a grating voice telling him about a slow-acting poison running through his veins.

“Don’t worry, I have the antidote, but you’ll have to earn it.” The asshole laughs. “I’m going to let you escape, and I want you to lead your team back here. Once I’ve finished with them, you’ll get the antidote. You have three cycles. Deal?”

The Blade doesn’t even hesitate. “Deal.”

He ends up in a broken single-person flier at the nearest coalition base with coordinates he’s supposed to share with the rest of the paladins. Instead, they get on a video call, and he’s up-front about the whole ordeal. He knows he can’t avoid discussing the consequences, but in his mind, protecting the team comes first.

“It’s an ambush, nothing else. The leaders aren’t even there.” He can see Kolivan in the background, muttering to himself.

“And they let you escape?” Lance asks because of course he does.

“They said they gave me something.” Keith doesn’t elaborate. “It doesn’t matter. What does is that my ship came from their actual base. Its flight plans and navigation are scrambled to hell and back, but maybe Pidge can do something with them.”

“Already on my way,” says the bright-eyed engineer, “and I can tinker with it remotely while en route.”

“Gave you something?” Shiro asks slowly.

At this moment, the admiral is aboard the Atlas and parked somewhere around Earth. He’s ferrying Allura and Lance back to New Altea, and it’s almost time for their scheduled departure. Keith doesn’t exactly relish the upcoming conversation, but he doesn’t dwell on it either.

“He claimed it was deadly but slow. All I know.” The Blade nods to the door. “Medics took a blood sample in case they can figure out what it is.”

“And if they don’t?”

Keith shrugs. “Something, something honor. They will. Or I might get lucky. Or not. Regardless, none of you are stepping into a fucking trap setup by literal madmen on my behalf.”

---

Kolivan pings him privately about a debriefing. If his lifespan will be counted in hours, possibly complete with mental decline, they need to get as much information out of his head as physically possible in the meantime. He’s not relishing this part, either.

He shakes his head. “I need to talk to Kolivan. I know this is hard.” Keith takes the tone of a leader, the one he fucking hates. “I will speak with all of you later, I’m sure.”

He’s not looking forward to the friendly interrogation he’s about to walk into, but there’s just no time. It’s all necessary for the Blades to figure out the next steps. Kolivan’s on the other line, ready to grill him for as long as he breathes, presumably, so they can take down another separationist cell.

But all Keith wants is Shiro’s comforting warmth in his arms, and he can’t have that across the space of the universe.

Later, after the debriefing is done, Keith calls Shiro directly and asks for a private connection. He doesn’t know what to say, but silence doesn’t appear to be an option. Not when he has a dozen unread messages, and more missed calls than he dares to think about it.

He’s also married to this man, and he can’t avoid his husband for long.

“Keith!” It’s a bellow, and maybe he deserves that. “What the actual fuck?”

“Sorry.”

“I love you, Atlas and I are on our way, so you… better be there when we land.” Shiro’s expression is caught somewhere between righteous anger and endless fear. “Stars above, what happened?”

Keith doesn’t think Shiro wants another mission debrief. “I don’t know. I was careful, followed the protocol to the letter, it was supposed to be a diplomatic engagement. Blades don’t fuck up like this.”

“Shit, baby, I know. I know you. You’re not careless, and you don’t miss red flags.”

“Yeah, so…”

“Do you think they were telling the truth?”

Keith nods hesitantly and chews on his lip. “They injected me with something. I heard them whispering something about how they’ve seen this shit fuck up Galra twice the size. So, probably.”

“Fuck.” Shiro paces his living quarters like a lion trapped in a cage.

“Shiro…” Keith’s voice comes out soft and the words catch on his tongue. “I love you. I always have and always will. If I don’t get to say it again.”

“Don’t! Please, Keith.”

Keith can’t promise not to die, not when he didn’t set the timetable. The Blade feels tears burning in the corners of his eyes. He’s hollow inside like reality hasn’t quite settled in. He knows he’s dying, and understands rationally that his body is sick, but emotionally he’s still catching up.

“I miss you.”

“We’ll be there in just under three cycles.”

Neither of them mentions that it will be too late, that the cold equations of space travel and living bodies don’t lie.

“I’ll see you when you get here,” Keith offers, thinking that perhaps pretending for another five minutes that everything is fine is good enough.

Shiro looks downright horrified. “No. Keith, not, that’s not what I meant. I would rather talk to you for as long as have than sit here. I just…” He sobs. “I’ve known a lot of helplessness in life, and none of it felt like this.”

“I wish you were here.”

“What about the space wolf?”

“He’s with mom on a rescue mission, and they’re still trying to get ahold of them. On account of… you know.”

“Are you OK? Do you feel sick?” Shiro asks.

“Not yet, at least not any worse than when I got here.” That was already a flavor of awful, bruised, battered, and dehydrated.

“You should lie down. Rest. Shower. Take care of yourself.”

Keith is definitely looking forward to all of those. They’ve assigned him a room with a private restroom, small mercy that, and he plans on not letting it go to waste. “You, too.”

“Just don’t hang up, OK?”

Keith looks down at what remains of his tattered uniform and starts stripping out of it. Shiro has seen him naked plenty before, and the new bruises are what they are.

“Yeah, OK. Of course. I’m here. How was the peace accord renewal whatever it was?”

Shiro laughs through his tears, and it’s dark and agonizing. “More bullshit in one day than I usually see in months. I’m surprised Lance didn’t punch anyone given how the ambassadors behaved around his wife.”

Keith shakes his head in sympathy. “Thank goodness it’s over then.”

“For all involved,” his husband agrees. “Are you… going to say goodbye to the others?”

“I feel like I kind of should, you know?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Keith.”

“I know.” He takes his PADD to the bathroom with him and starts the shower running. “But… closure will help them more than it’s going to help me, and I want that for them.”

“Don’t you dare say goodbye to me!”

Keith smiles and closes his eyes. “It’s going to be all right, Shiro. No matter what happens, you’re going to be all right. I know it.”

“Not without you,” Shiro mutters as his husband steps into the shower and shudders with pain.

Keith sleeps fitfully for a few hours and wakes in pain. It’s a new, dull ache that covers his whole body in a way no bruise ever has — the poison, if he has to guess. His mind feels like he’s swimming through a fog, and it takes a few minutes to get his bearings.

Still at the Coalition base, still safe, still… alive.

Shiro’s already calling him like he knows Keith is awake. “How’re you feeling?” are the first words out of his mouth.

Keith hunts his nightstand for a bottle of water. “Not great.”

“You look like you didn’t get any sleep.”

“I think I dozed. Bad dreams.” Keith drinks water and sighs. He feels fatigued despite the nap, his limbs heavy. “How’d you know I was awake?”

“I might’ve called in a favor to get access to your vitals.”

“Nice use of expensive technology.”

“Shut up. You should go to medical if you’re not feeling well.”

“And do what? Everything hurts. Them handing me pain meds won’t solve the problem, and my head already feels like cotton candy.” He shrugs and lies back down. “Talking to you is nicer.”

"Keith, let them help."

"If they can find an antidote, I'm sure I'll be the first to know. Have you slept?"

Keith's husband doesn't lie. "No. Just sitting here, thinking about you. About our wedding. Remember Kosmo nearly eating the damn wedding rings?"

"Far too well. 'Bad wolf,' never sounded more appropriate."

"And then the honeymoon. I didn't think the Garrison would let us leave for long enough to actually enjoy it."

The Blade chuckles. "I still don't know what Pidge told them to get them off our backs. I'm glad she did. I think those were the best two weeks of my life."

Tears stream down Shiro's face and Keith wishes nothing more than he could hold the man he loves, could wipe those tears away. They'd gone camping together, drove across a country, marveled at the night sky in each other's arms. Keith only wishes for more time, more chances to make happy memories. He looks down at the wedding ring, dangling on a chain around his neck alongside his dog tags. 

He hopes both make it to Shiro if he doesn't.

"I love you," he says into the silence. "You were like a brother to me, when I was a kid and desperately needed someone in my corner. And then you were an unwavering friend, a leader. I don't think we would have survived the war without you. But most of all, I treasure your love. I don't know where I'd be without it, without you."

"Keith... I... More than anything in the world, in the universe. I love you, too."

"I'm tired," Keith admits, eyes fluttering closed.

Rest easy," Shiro prompts him just as another call comes in and a familiar face appears on the screen.

---

Later, while Keith is once again dozing, Shiro is plotting a painful demise for the ones responsible. He will find them and end them in ways that the galaxy is unlikely to ever forget.

The job goes south but they make it somehow. Dumping the getaway vehicle, Keith catches a ride to his apartment in a nondescript Uber and stumbles into the elevator, dead on his feet. His whole left side is one giant bruise, and he’s got a few bleeding cuts underneath the leather jacket, mostly hidden from casual view. It’s nearly seven in the evening, but the lobby is blissfully empty for a change and the mechanic thanks his lucky stars.

He almost makes it to his apartment. 

His hand is on the doorknob when a familiar little voice says, “Keith! Papa, look, it’s Keith.” She smiles up at him. “We’re going to get ice cream because I got a good grade in class!” 

Keith swallows hard and nods to Shiro, who takes one look at him and winces. “Hey, baby,” he tells his five-year-old. “I don’t think Mr. Keith is feeling well.”

The little girl deflates and whispers, “Oh,” then grabs Keith’s hand and holds on. “When Papa doesn’t feel good, we get pizza.”

Shiro opens his mouth when Keith offers, “Maybe you could bring me back some ice cream?”

“Could we watch Dora afterward?”

“Sure.”

Kairi’s exasperated father adds, “Are you sure? Kairi…” His voice trails off and his heart grows a couple of sizes at the sight of the clearly-exhausted man kneeling beside his kiddo, adding a braid to her blond hair.

“It’s fine. I just need to shower.”

“All right. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Coffee?”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I don’t usually… get sweets.”

Shiro nods and offers the other man a hand up. “We’ll be back in thirty minutes. Is that enough time?”

“Plenty.”

“See you soon!” Kairi calls as she follows her dad to the elevators. 

Keith has no idea how any of this is happening, but he can’t seem to say no to the little menace. Not to mention, after the hellish job, the promise of some quiet time with Shiro and his kid sounds like heaven, like a dream he’d never allowed himself to have. 

---

By the time Shiro and Kairi returned from their ice cream gathering adventure, Keith had showered and changed. He’d also bandaged the worst of his new injuries and cleaned the slice across his cheek. The whole thing looked way worse than it actually felt.

Keith changes into pajamas and finds himself on the couch, resting his eyes. In the shower he braced himself for explaining what happened to Shiro but now, he feels like maybe he can be honest. Maybe it’s possible for a person to understand him and the need to go fast, to feel the pumping of his heart. 

He doesn’t even bother with the door when he hears the knock. “Come in!”

Both Shiro and his kid are coded into the lock. They can get in at any time, a privilege they’ve used on a few occasions. Now, Kairi darts into the apartment and clambers easily onto the couch to cuddle with Keith. This child is slowly worming her way into Keith’s heart like no one else. 

Shiro is a little more hesitant. Keith can hear him puttering in the kitchen, probably grabbing silverware for the ice cream. Over the last month, they’ve gotten close — as close as Keith knows how to be. He keeps expecting the other shoe to drop, for Shiro to demand something the mechanic is unwilling or unable to provide. 

But he’ll take what he can get for now.

Kairi starts telling him about her day at school. “Mrs. Williams told me I was a really good student and an awesome helper.”

“She did?” Keith asks. “Is that why you got ice cream?”

“Parent-teacher conferences,” the little girl explains. “Papa said this was the first one.”

Shiro sits down on Kairi’s other side, sandwiching the girl between the two adults, and sets out various ice cream options on the coffee table in front of them. He looks tired but content. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks Keith. 

The I’m fine dies on Keith’s lips and he says with heart-breaking honesty, “Not great, but better with you guys here.”

Shiro smiles wanly and ruffles his daughter’s hair. “Well, the best cure for feeling bad is ice cream. So, dig in.”

Keith doesn’t love sweet things. Until meeting Kairi, he didn’t bother with candy — now… well, he might actually need to visit a dentist in this lifetime. He sits back though and lets the little one have her pick first. There’s no hurry; according to Pidge, the heat from the job is dying down and everything looks good so far.

He’ll take it.

---

After they’re done with ice cream, it’s time for the kiddo to go to bed so they all troop to the next-door apartment where Shiro makes a valiant effort to herd his child into bed. It’s an uphill battle that culminates with a request that Keith read to Kairi, with voices and everything. Shiro had no idea that Keith is aware of the existence of children’s books, but apparently he’d been reading to the little girl almost every time he’d had to play babysitter. Stranger still, here’s a small human who has looked at a complete stranger and decided, without prompting, that this stranger is part of the family. 

No questions asked.

Shiro doesn’t know how to take, especially after how much Kairi absolutely hated Curtis. They’d adopted the tiny toddler when she was barely two, long before children begin to form any long-term memories. And even then, when everything had been new and Curtis had been charming, the little menace would have none of it.

Shiro had incorrectly assumed that Kairi would need help forming connections to other adults, and yet here she was, content with her kindergarten teacher and welcoming Keith into her life like he belonged.

“A short book,” Keith says when Kairi asks him. “I’m tired, too, and am going to go to bed right after you.”

“Oh. OK!”

Shiro watches them walk into the kiddo’s bedroom and then putters in the kitchen, aware that he’s in a strange place where the man he loves gets along with his daughter. It’s a scenario he hadn’t imagined in his wildest dreams. 

Eventually, Keith emerges from the bedroom and gingerly closes the door behind him. He looks at Shiro and gives the older man a thumbs-up. “She’s out,” he whispers.

“Sugar crash.” Shiro gestures to a chair. “How are your, um, injuries.”

Keith takes a seat, closes his eyes. “Better than before. Thank you for the ice cream and the pleasant company.”

“Hey, anytime. I know I haven’t really asked about your job, and I’m not trying to pry, but one hell of a delivery?”

“Something like that.” Before Shiro can change the topic, Keith puts his head on the kitchen counter. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you do?”

“I drive a car,” the mechanic explains, “usually for people who have less-than-legal business to conduct. Sometimes I also do security.”

Shiro nods and hands him a glass of water. “And this time was bad?”

“Whatever we delivered wasn’t taken well, and they came at us with guns. It happens. That’s where my driving skills come in, usually, when things go south.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry, Shiro. I know the last thing you need in your life is a criminal and an adrenaline junkie.”

Gray eyes soften. “Hey, don’t do that. Do you hear me complaining?”

Keith looks up with a startled expression. “I kind of expected you to tell me to get out.”

“I’ve seen you protect my daughter, Keith. Shit, even if I hated your guts — which I don’t, just to be clear — I wouldn’t complain. As it stands, I’m sort of hoping you’ll stay the night.” He raises his hand. “Just to sleep. Thinking about the possibility of you getting hurt scared me, not gonna lie about that. Holding you will make me feel better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“OK.”

Shiro looks surprised. “Perfect. You look dead on your feet, though. If you want to crash, I just need to shower.”

“You go to bed at eight?”

“Not usually, but I think I could use the extra sleep, if I’m being honest. Work’s been hopping since the holiday rush, and I’ve had a couple of big projects that just wrapped up.” The older man smiles and adds, “Not to mention, it’s not all about me. You need sleep.”

His companion yawns and drinks the offered water. This feels new to him; people don’t normally takes his wellbeing into consideration like that. He nods and watches as Shiro’s shoulders finally release some of their tension. 

“I definitely could use some sleep, too.”

“Are you OK staying here? I know your apartment has a security system.”

“I’ll manage,” Keith reassures him. “It’s fine.”