Work Text:
Honestly?
Lance was done. Officially and irrevocably done. How did he know? Well, for one, he was in a foul mood. That circumstance alone did not come as much of a surprise. Everyone had bad days, wanted nothing to do with whatever nonsense they were forced to deal with.
But this? This was beyond just being annoyed and a bit grumpy. It was rare for Lance to feel so tense that he might snap – figuratively and literally – if even one more thing was not working perfectly and without a hitch.
Yet, here he was, sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away furiously at the keyboard of his laptop, squinting in the relatively dim room at a screen that was hurting his itching eyes. The poor device would probably get its revenge through keys not working the next day, but Lance was beyond caring.
He was, if he were being quite honest with himself, livid.
Not only had professor Iverson insisted he rework the paper, oh no, Lance had to use exactly the books he had recommended which, of fucking course, were no longer available at the library because someone else had been faster than him. So now, he was not only in a hurry to finish this thing in two days’ time, but he also had to mentally prepare himself for getting a grade that would be less than satisfactory, because Iverson cared little if you did not have the resources to purchase a volume that would cost Lance almost four weeks’ worth of food, or if you just suffered from plain bad luck.
And wasn’t it just great that Iverson had taken a whole semester to tell them that he would not accept any works submitted after this Friday?
What a joke. Iverson was probably getting a good laugh out of this.
The key he smashed gave an audible clack and Lance was almost resigned to his fate of now having a broken laptop to top everything off. With a heavy sigh he leaned back in the chair and dared a glance at the enter button, only to realize that it was still attached. He frowned, stretching out his hand he had briefly put in his lap, halting when he saw that he had actually broken off the tip of his nail.
Go figure, but it was better than destroying the laptop. At least it was a clean break without him having to go fetch scissors first.
His stomach gave a loud, unhappy grumble and Lance groaned in response, bending forward until his forehead gently met the edge of the kitchen table, staring at his frayed, maroon sweats.
What he wouldn’t give for some little divine intervention, a bit of inspiration or genius to just get this over with. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough on his plate already: finals week was looming over his head (over pretty much everyone’s heads in this apartment) and work had not been any less demanding.
Well, at least working with Keith had the perk of him leaving Lance to work at the front desk, which in turn provided Lance with time to browse through his notes, but it felt like it simply wasn’t enough. Then again, it never felt like it was ever enough.
His pout turned into thinned lips when his stomach gave not another rumble, but a taunting twinge, reminding him of its very empty state. It was almost ironic how the inside of his mouth felt like it was coated with ash.
He’d love to take a bite out of something that wasn’t just a chocolate bar, but if he had to choose between a little pain that would flare up if he sat or stood a certain way or hours-long nausea instead, then he’d definitely go with not eating anything substantial.
Although, all things considered, he did not know if he could stand one more of Hunk’s disappointed looks whenever he barely managed to finish a quarter of what was being dished up. Still, Lance had already thrown up once this week and he did not want a repeat, especially here at home where everyone would start worrying.
He closed his eyes, breathing in deep… and jolted when he felt someone putting their hand on his forehead. He jerked up with a strangled cry, arms flailing and stopping dead when his eyes fell on a wide-eyed Shiro.
Lance swallowed before trying to give an easy smile, but it was wholly ruined by the yawn he had to hide in the crook of his elbow. He blinked up at Shiro, wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes.
“Um, hi Shiro. How was the party?”
Shiro’s expression was indecipherable, but there was a small furrow to his brow as he took in Lance.
“It was okay,” he finally said, shrugging out of the one good jacket he only used on special occasions, and sat himself right next to Lance, “Ulaz was acting like he was annoyed, but I think we did a pretty good job of getting him to finally acknowledge that birthdays don’t have to be overrated and terrible.”
Lance smiled, trying to get his eyes to crinkle but he already knew it wouldn’t work.
He stared at the darkened screen of his laptop, unwilling to heave his heavy arms up and start typing again.
He went rigid as Shiro’s hand snuck up on him again, pale fingers finding their way under his bangs.
“Woah, Shiro, personal space, my man,” he tried to joke but his heart plummeted a little when the man’s nose scrunched up in the one way Lance had learned to associate with a lecture following.
“Did you know have a temperature?”
There was a lot of accusation weighing heavily on the words. Not that Lance could entirely fault Shiro, considering his past tendencies, but he wanted to show that this was not the same.
“I mean, I haven’t felt well in a while, but Shiro,” and he sought those dark eyes, hoping he somehow could make him understand by just looking hard enough, “I’ve been trying to take care of myself. It’s just… Iverson will fail me if I don’t hand this in by Friday.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a while, with Lance still trying and failing to work up the energy to pick up his work again. Shiro seemed thoughtful; his shoulders more relaxed now, his fist lightly tapping against his chin.
“Want me to have a look at it?”
Lance blinked at him slowly, trying to piece together what was going on, what he could have possibly done to earn the generous offer. It was strange and a bit worrisome how long the whole process took, and Lance fully blamed it on the fact that, while not outright cooking, his brain was obviously simmering into a gooey, useless puddle.
Hooray then for his plan of hopefully finishing this in one night.
“That’d be awesome,” he finally managed, doing his best to sound grateful. It seemed to have the desired effect at least, since Shiro’s lips quirked the tiniest bit as Lance shoved the laptop at him.
Posing both hands on the table, Lance heaved himself up and out of the chair, satisfied that at least the nausea was not messing up his sense of balance. Not yet anyway.
“You want some coffee?”
He received a hum in reply, Shiro’s eyes flying over the text at lightning speed, and Lance had to look away from how dizzying it was to watch the rapid back and forth. In a matter of a minute, the coffeemaker was gurgling and hissing. Lance kind of resented the fact that he couldn’t have some as well, but he was sure it would be nothing but a hazard at this point.
Coffee might help keep him awake, but sticking to water might do him more good and not further agitate his already upset stomach. Still, the way his insides seemed to slosh as he downed the glass was rather foreboding. The cool surface though, felt nice when pressed against his temple.
A morose sort of hopelessness filled him as he caught the time displayed on the clock on the wall. He must have fallen asleep earlier, because he distinctly remembered it not having been almost midnight when he’d had his little crisis earlier. So, he’d slept a whole hour. Wonderful. And all he had to show for it was stiff shoulders and a temperature. Fantastic.
Shiro’s voice had him returning from… wherever he had spaced out to. Finals weeks was going to be a doozy if this week was anything to go by.
“Hm?”
Shiro seemed hesitant, probably more inclined to ask Lance about his wellbeing again, but right now that was the least of Lance’s concerns. Taking purposeful strides towards his seat, Lance took his place beside Shiro and scooched closer, the scraping of the chair’s legs annoyingly loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
His joke fell a little flat as Shiro’s mouth downturned minutely. Lance could not safely say if it was out of displeasure or pity. Shiro marked a paragraph, dragging Lance’s mouse over the uneven surface of the table.
“You have a good basis. The thesis is reasonable and should be easy to prove. There are some monographs by Collins that you could use.”
He paused the moment he noticed Lance’s expression turn sour.
“Something wrong?”
Lance shook his head, regretting it a little when his stiff shoulders made pain shoot up into his skull.
“It’s not you. Thing is, I already used his works and when I talked with Iverson about them he said that he’d give me a D at best if I further supported my theory based on those.”
Shiro’s mouth opened and closed several times, obviously he was lost for words too, before clearing his throat and frowning at the digital paper, as though it had personally offended him.
“Okay,” he finally offered, his tone betraying every bit of the confusion and irritation Lance himself was feeling, “that’s… okay, I have no words to describe how unrealistic it is to write this kind of paper without actually using at least one of Collins’ essays, but fine.”
Going by the way he was grinding his teeth, it was obviously not. It did make Lance feel marginally better. So it had not been unreasonable to accuse Iverson of having made things difficult on purpose.
“Did he recommend you any other sources or materials?”
Lance moaned, wiping both his hands down his face before glancing back at Shiro pitifully. Wordlessly, he shoved his handwritten notes at him, getting up to tend to the coffee that was done brewing.
“I was trying to get them but I had no luck,” he explained, back still to Shiro, as he added a big load of cream to the drink. He trotted back, shoving the mug at his friend without really looking, letting out another yawn, “Shorry. What I was saying is someone else must have gotten them before me, and I don’t have the time to wait till they hand them back in.”
He was entirely unprepared when he turned back around to face his friend. Shiro’s eyes were fixated on the scrap of paper with Lance’s neat writing, but if Lance didn’t know any better he would have said that Shiro looked ready to murder someone.
“Hey, Shiro, everything alright?”
Grey eyes were flitted back up to Lance, and then down to the paper again. Still, he remained utterly silent while Lance could feel some sort of tension rising, making his skin crawl. Just as he was about to ask if there was anything he could do, Shiro let out a vicious swear.
“Woah, Shiro calm down.”
Lance made a placating motion with his hands but Shiro was already storming out of the kitchen, surprisingly stealthily considering how imposing his aura had been just moments ago, returning with a stack of books, deftly setting them on the table.
Lance only just had time to stop the half-empty mug from toppling over when Shiro’s attention was wholly on him again. And Lance knew, knew instinctively that he was not the target of those intense emotions, but that did not make him feel any less intimidated.
As Lance finally registered what was written on the spines of the books though, there was something inside him going numb with surprise.
He was startled out of it partially, when Shiro sat down in the chair with more force than strictly necessary.
“This is how we are going to do it,” Shiro declared, voice filled to the brim with anger that was not reserved for Lance in the least, “you brew me one last pot of coffee, then you will go to bed and sleep.”
Lance could feel his eyes bulge: “Come again?”
There was something very, very unnerving about the edge to Shiro’s smile: “You go rest, and I’ll write this.”
“Shiro, no!”
The words burst out in a shout that had Lance clapping his hands over his mouth, and both of them listening for any kind of noise. As it seemed, the others really were sleeping soundly.
When he was sure they were in the clear, Lance threw Shiro a heated look: “Are you crazy? You’ll get in trouble!”
Shiro gave a snort, with no humor whatsoever in it. It was dry and bitter.
“Lance,” he said earnestly, beginning to thumb through the table of contents of a heavy-looking hardcover, “you and I will get into far less trouble than professor Iverson, once I tell the board that he was recommending books he knew I had borrowed from the library for my Master’s thesis and was planning on keeping for the full three months available.”
Lance felt his jaw drop, and Shiro looked at him with a seriousness that was overwhelming in its intensity.
“Those were the very books he recommended to me during our last meeting in his office a week ago. He knew there were no other copies of these books in the library, and he knew Lance, he knew, that there was no way you could get them.”
Lance felt numb. Numb from anger and indignation. It felt almost as if a stranger was talking through him when he finally managed to get out one breathy swear.
Shiro gave a grim nod, turning back to the laptop.
“If you could make me some more coffee, that’d be fantastic.”
Lance did just that, his hands shaking a bit from realizing just how much of a horrible person Iverson had to be to orchestrate something like this, but the fact that his fever had obviously climbed a little did not give him the energy necessary to manifest it in any other way. Like screaming maybe. Because Lance felt about ready to.
But it felt good to know now. To know that it had not been his imagination that Iverson seemed to have it out for him, always asking him the most difficult questions, always interrupting him, always dismissing his input during discussions.
He set the pot and a small plate with a few sandwiches next to Shiro’s battlefield of a workspace, Shiro thanking him as he took a huge gulp.
Lance carefully took his seat, waiting until Shiro had finished the first sandwich before addressing him.
“But Shiro,” he said, the man stopping his typing to look at him with a raised brow, “you seriously don’t have to do this.”
“It’s okay,” Shiro riposted, ready to go on but Lance finally had enough, slamming his hand on the table and effectively startling the older man.
“No, Shiro, it’s not!”
Lance took a steadying breath, annoyed when it ended in a light cough, but he did not let that deter him, staring down Shiro.
“This could get both of us in trouble. And Shiro, as much as I appreciate you wanting to get back at Iverson on my behalf, that guy is not worth both of us risking our degrees over.”
He waited for Shiro to argue against him, but he only jerked his head, signaling him to go on.
“I have the books now, I can do this.”
Shiro’s expression became unnervingly aloof.
“And then what? You’ll allow Iverson to do this again and again, until he’s put you in a corner from where it’s impossible to escape because he’s raised the stakes so high nobody can realistically reach them?”
Lance could feel his face heat up in a way that had entirely nothing to do with his fever. The tension slowly bled out of Shiro as they continued they stare-off, until he was finally looking at Lance with nothing but concern.
“Lance, pretty much everyone in our faculty knows that professor Iverson is an incredibly gifted man when it comes to physics, but we are also aware that he is a terrible, terrible person to be around.”
It was kind of strange to know that even among his colleagues, Iverson held a bad reputation.
“I knew that. But I never would have accused him of sabotaging students in this manner. And Lance, that is not something a college professor should ever do.”
Lance nodded, regretting it immediately when his stomach suddenly rewarded that small action with a painful twist.
“This alone,” and Shiro gestured towards the screen with the blinking cursor, “would be enough to incriminate him.”
Lance tried to give an even tinier nod this time, but the result was, unfortunately, the same. The excess saliva suddenly gathering in his mouth had his hairs stand on end.
“And so, if Iverson wants to play this little game then we shall play it with him.”
Lance wished he could return the smirk, but he only had just enough time to sprint over to the sink to expel the meager contents of his stomach, the muscles in his abdomen clenching painfully.
Lance more felt than saw Shiro rushing to his side, warm flesh hand brushing back his hair, and hard prosthesis rubbing his back. As fast as it had come it was gone, leaving Lance wrung out and even shakier than he’d already been.
“Sorry,” he pressed out, clamping his mouth shut immediately in hopes of stopping a second wave.
“You good?” Shiro handed him a still half-full glass that Lance used to rinse out his mouth.
He spit into the sink and while the stench of bile and acid was not pleasant, it was a small mercy that there had been nothing to bring up but the few sips of water he had taken earlier. He turned on the faucet and gave the sink a quick rinse.
“Honestly, no,” he amended, allowing Shiro to steer him away, a steady arm holding onto his elbow, and Lance allowed himself to lean a bit more heavily into it than necessary, but he was too exhausted to do anything else. Instead of going towards the table, he was instead led out into the living room area.
Any kind of protest would fall on deaf ears now, Lance wasn’t foolish enough to believe otherwise, but he prided himself in making at least a valiant attempt, which Shiro merely rebuked by pushing him down onto the soft cushion more insistently.
“Geez, fine, okay,” he groused, more to alleviate the mood than anything else, letting Shiro drape a blanket over him.
It was disconcerting how difficult it was to keep his eyes open once he was horizontal, and they did entirely slide shut when Shiro’s cold hand rested against his forehead again.
“If you didn’t have a fever before, you definitely have one now.”
Lance made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat but did not even try to open his eyes again when Shiro withdrew, only to return with a soaked cloth and a thermometer.
When the cloth was sitting squarely on his brow and the thermometer beeped, Lance heard a sigh from Shiro that did have him glancing up questioningly.
Shiro’s smile was a touch regretful as their eyes met.
“This is nothing like the last time, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ll have to call in sick tomorrow.”
Lance gulped audibly, swallowing back frustrated tears. This was definitely not going as planned.
“Hey,” Lance turned his head only to come face to face with Shiro, who was giving him an almost paternal look. He reached out to lightly ruffle Lance’s hair, “chin up. Go to sleep, I’ll take care of everything.”
Lance had no idea how he’d ended up with such amazing friends, and especially someone as amazing as Shiro to help him out when he was literally on his last legs. The tears and sniffle came out before Lance could stop them, Shiro making some sort of amused sound. Still, Lance could not let him do that.
“Shiro,” a hum and he went on, “please don’t do it. I have no idea what happened between you and Iverson, but I wanna do this myself. I wanna show him that he wants to test me, he’ll regret it.”
He knew he was showing a lot of teeth right now and that it probably looked a lot more like a grimace, but he hoped he was getting his point across.
Shiro deflated visibly, hand reaching out to ruffle his hair.
“It’s not about what he did in the past. I’m angry because he used me to put you in a situation that could only end in failure for you. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re friends and living in the same apartment, we’d never even know.”
Ah. That would also explain his strong reaction earlier. Lance had not even given it that much thought. But yeah, he could understand Shiro being hurt by such underhanded tactics and blatant abuse of confidence. Okay, now Lance was getting riled up too. Or, as much as he could spare with how drained and miserable he was starting to feel.
“Let’s make a deal then.”
Shiro observed him but ultimately gave a nod, obviously intrigued, his eyebrow doing that thing all of them found amusing.
“I’ll still write it but with your books, and then you can proof-read. And if Iverson acts up, you’ll be the first one I’ll call.”
If the long face was anything to go by, Shiro seemed not entirely satisfied with his plan of action. Okay, different approach, pronto, before Lance’s brain fried itself and was out of commission and he couldn’t get his friend to see the truth of the matter.
“If you write this for me, out of spite or because you want to teach Iverson a lesson, I don’t know if the examination board will understand. I don’t know about you Shiro, but I’ve worked a little too hard to throw it all away in a fit of anger and delayed teenage rebellion.”
Surprise and hurt were the first emotions flickering over Shiro’s face as he took in Lance’s dead-serious expression, was closely followed by realization and finally resignation.
“You’re right,” he admitted quietly, sitting down with his back leaning against the front of the couch.
Lance was almost tempted to blow just to watch that white forelock bounce, but he wasn’t delirious enough yet to not be able to read the mood.
They allowed the quiet to settle over them like a heavy blanket, Lance somewhat startled to realize Shiro was browsing through Netflix one moment and then selecting an old animated feature.
He did not immediately push play, instead glancing back at Lance
“You okay if I watch, I’m just too keyed up right now.”
Lance more slurred than spoke his affirmative, but it was rewarded with a crinkle of Shiro’s eye.
The muted sound of cellos and horns filled the room, Shiro turning down the volume and putting on subs, and Lance was almost asleep when he heard it.
“Hm?”
He scooted closer to Shiro’s head, his friend turning so his side was pressed into the cushion and they were looking each other directly in the eye.
“I said I was sorry. For earlier, I mean,” he looked, having a hard time holding eye contact but still trying.
“S’okay. M’ angry too. Iverson can go jump in’ lake an’ drown.”
Shiro snorted: “To put it mildly.”
Unwinding his arm from his warm cocoon, Lance offered his hand, wiggling his fingers weakly, and was not disappointed when Shiro held onto it, his gentle smile brimming with affection.
They turned their attention back to the movie, watching as a tentative connection turned into a friendship filled with trust and closeness, and Lance could not even remember when he had fallen asleep, holding onto Shiro with the certainty that everything would work out.
Shiro’s steps were heavy but firm as he stalked towards professor Iverson’s office.
His brisk pace had him holding onto the clip folder with more care. He didn’t want to crease the paper. He wanted to hand this over in the most pristine condition possible. Lance had worked hard on this, and it would be a disservice if it didn’t look anything but immaculate.
Shiro was just glad to know that Pidge was there to keep an eye on their friend for the rest of the afternoon, because Lance had actually had the crazy idea of handing this in himself, when he was suffering from a fever that was hovering on the higher end of 101 degrees.
It was actually a miracle that after yesterday, he wasn’t completely knocked out or delirious.
Shiro soon found the target of his errand and ire, but he made an effort to school his expression into something cool and collected as he knocked on the doorframe of the office.
Professor Iverson looked up at that, his one good eye catching Shiro. Anger was boiling in the pit of Shiro’s stomach when the man had the gall to smile at him, as though he hadn’t abused Shiro’s trust.
“Shirogane, what is it?”
Wordlessly, Shiro walked over to the desk without taking a seat, and put the folder down, watching Iverson intently as the man stopped checking his e-mails.
“I just wanted to hand this in for a friend of mine,” he explained, as Iverson reached for the folder, his eyebrow shooting up as he read the name on the top right corner, “he has been feeling under the weather and couldn’t make it.”
The sound Iverson gave was skeptic at best, and as Shiro had expected the man instantly skimmed to the bibliography.
Shiro took a great amount of satisfaction out of the disbelief washing over Iverson’s face. He turned his chair to face Shiro fully, his mouth pinched in thinly veiled anger.
He let go of the paper and it fell back onto the desk with the clack of cheap plastic. His single eye was staring at him intently.
For all his dishonesty and meanness, Iverson wasn’t an idiot.
“You sure Mr. Pino Pozzo did this all on his own?”
There was something nasty and derisive hidden under those words, and the small upturn of Iverson’s mouth was having Shiro having to ball his hand into a fist to keep himself from doing something stupid.
He had been there yesterday to see Lance through the grueling process, had helped him find the pages and chapters he needed, but it was Lance who had put all of it together to prove the thesis. And suddenly, he realized that Lance really had saved both of their behinds when he had stopped him from doing something incredibly stupid.
“Of course. I was merely lucky to have the books at hand and to be able to lend them to him.”
He made sure to look at Iverson directly, and was satisfied when the muscles around his single good eye tightened.
Shiro took a step back, ready to leave, but there was one more thing that needed to be made perfectly clear.
“You might want to make sure to take note on what recommendations you make for students in the future, professor. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the impression that you are discriminating against students by placing them at a disadvantage.”
Iverson’s dark skin turned a shade darker still, as he openly glared at Shiro now. Bless Lance for his foresight. This felt so much better now that they had nothing to hide.
“And Sir? I would kindly ask you to refrain from having a repeat of this incident. Otherwise, the examination board might be very interested in hearing about this little mishap.”
With his piece said, Shiro cared little about watching professor Iverson’s reaction.
When he got home and Lance stared at him blearily from over the back of the couch, Shiro gave him a cheeky smile and thumbs up.
The grin in he got in return could have rivalled the sun shining through the window.