Work Text:
Archaeology isn't easy with a prosthetic, even if it's Shiro's high-tech, top-of-the-range ZX8000 Arm. Or, perhaps - Shiro thinks he should clarify - digs are very difficult with a fake arm. After two hours in the sun, the steel is hot and threatens to give his stump third-degree burns every time he puts pressure on his shovel. He's so close, though - this could be the biggest find since the handaxe, he just needs to -
"Hey, Shiro." And there's the assistant. Shiro turns and smiles at him, pretending the right side of his body isn't shaking with exertion.
"What's up, Keith?" Shiro knows what's up, obviously. He's just playing dumb.
"Let's sit," says Keith, wiping a thin layer of sweat off his forehead and rummaging around for a bottle of water and a sandwich. "You eaten?"
Shiro thinks for a moment, then realises he hasn't. He gives Keith a sheepish look.
Keith sighs and splits his sandwich in half. "You gotta take care of yourself better, man."
Shiro smiles. "Sorry, Keith. I'm fine, though - really."
Keith looks sceptical, and Shiro has a nagging sense that Keith isn't going to give him a break until he's finished the sandwich so, favouring his left arm, he forces it down. It's been squashed in Keith's bag, and it's soggy from being in there next to the water, but Shiro supposes that it's probably better than nothing, and he appreciates Keith's sentiment. He swallows the last bite, chasing it down with water, and then turns to smile at Keith again.
"Thanks, Keith."
Keith shrugs. "It's nothing. You still doing okay?"
"Of course I am," lies Shiro, because there's really nothing he can do about the fact that his arm is burning his stump except take the whole thing off, and if there's one thing he's not up for, it's doing something dumb like that. He stands, and is almost taken aback again by how heavy his arm is. It nearly unbalances him (but it does not).
They dig for another hour and a half before Shiro's heart pounds in the roof of his mouth, thrumming with excitement. This is it - it must be. He sifts through dirt and sand with fine precision, and when he looks back at the pan, there are pieces of glass, bronze and granite gathered there. Oh, man, do they need to get this back to Hunk and Pidge at the lab.
"Keith," he rasps. "Keith, come over here."
Against his slightly dimming vision - now that he's not driven by the prospect of this finding, his arm is very nearly excruciating - he can see Keith making his way towards him. The closer he comes, the clearer Shiro can see his expression and - oh, boy - that furrowed brow can't be good.
"Shiro? You don't look so well - are you okay?"
Shiro looks back over at Keith, vaguely aware that his smile must be manic and slightly alarming, and probably won't convince Keith that he's okay, either. He doesn't bother answering the question. He just shoves the pan at Keith. "This could be massive," he says, even as one of his legs begins to buckle. "You have to get them to the lab - be careful - we don't have them dated so if they're too old they could disintegrate and that would be so crap and - hey - I think I need to go to the Emergency Room."
Keith lunges forward as Shiro's hands begin to shake and saves the pan, then meets the ground with Shiro and whips out his cell phone. Shiro rests his head against Keith's shoulder, which is cool and soft and feels really, really good with how hot he is right now. He hears Keith spitting stuff into the phone - stuff about heatstroke and metal arms - but he can't make the words out from one another, so he lets his eyes fall closed.
When he next wakes up, it is because there's something very cold against his chest, and his neck, and under his arms (arm? he giggles to himself).
"Hey, buddy, you back with us?" asks someone who looks far too young to be wearing paramedic gear.
"I'm with you," slurs Shiro, and rolls his head to the side so that he doesn't have to deal with it, because when he's holding it straight, it sort of feels like he's dealing with it, but then he realises that he's already on his side, and everything feels like too much effort to deal with. He moans.
"Great - my name's Lance." He pauses. "We'll get you to hospital in just a minute - we just need to get that arm off, alright?"
Shiro moans his acquiescence, and then there are two hands on his prosthetic, fiddling with the levers and the switches, and then it is coming off his stump and it burns. Shiro moans at the ground, hoping that paramedic-Lance will be finished soon.
"You're doing good, Shiro," says Keith, but his tone is entirely unconvincing and Shiro almost cries. He just wants to get back to the lab and look at the bronze and glass and granite.
"Nearly done," grunts paramedic-Lance. "We'll have you on some good painkillers in just a moment, Mr Shirogane."
Yes - that sounds very good. Shiro can get down with painkillers.
And then - sort of before Shiro can process it - he's being heaved onto a stretcher - and he thinks Keith might be holding onto his flesh arm, but he isn't really sure. They give him something to breathe into in the ambulance - not oxygen, he figures that out, later. They give him morphine, he thinks, although he doesn't remember anything clearly, not until paramedic-Lance is wheeling him down the halls and relaying information about him to a pair of doctors.
They give him a little more morphine, and the rest is silence.
-
The rest is silence, at least, until he wakes up three hours later with a bandaged stump and an IV running into his arm.
"Oh," says a wry voice, which Shiro dazedly matches to Pidge. "Look who's awake."
Yikes. Shiro doesn't want to be faced with this, not yet. Hell hath no fury like a tiny genius scorned. He squeezes his eyes shut.
"Nope," says another voice. "Not playing that game, big guy. Open your eyes and talk to us."
Shiro considers ignoring them until they go away, but children are not like wasps, and Keith is also conspicuously silent, so Shiro warily opens his eyes again. "Hello," he croaks.
Pidge raises an eyebrow at him and crosses her arms. "We're all pretty mad at you, Shiro."
"Sorry," mutters Shiro.
"Keith cried in the waiting room," says Hunk, and although Shiro sees and hears Keith subsequently slapping Hunk upside the head for divulging that information (he denies it, but he wouldn't slap Hunk if Hunk was just being facetious), it still cuts him more deeply than he would have expected.
"Sorry," mutters Shiro again.
Hunk sighs and seats himself next to Shiro, watching him intently. "We called your parents," he says. "Pidge talked them out of flying here, but they're gonna want to Skype you as soon as you're up for it." Another wave of guilt hums through Shiro as he thinks of his parents. He's caused them so much stress in 27 years that he's surprised they haven't both had heart attacks.
"What were you thinking?" says Pidge, suddenly but far from unexpectedly. Her voice is much harder than Hunk's.
"Wanted to fund more digs in that area," mumbled Shiro. "Neglected site. Valuable findings."
Keith crosses his arms. "You can't find shit if you're dead, man."
Against his better judgement, Shiro looks around at them all. "The artefacts - are they..."
"In the lab. Safe. Being preserved," says Pidge.
Shiro feels his muscles relax with relief, and then he's tired again. It doesn't go unnoticed by the kids, clearly, as Hunk squeezes his good shoulder and his face softens, finally. "Sleep, man. They've got you on the good stuff."
And Shiro does, and if he notices a small rubber lining around his arm's port when Pidge finally gives it back to him a week later, he says nothing.