Chapter Text
The extra hours her new Black paladin spent with the gladiator bot, oftentimes at night when his fellow Humans required sleep, did not escape her attention.
Allura quickly understood that this was more than mere practice for him; more than training to keep his body honed and ready for their battles that were inevitably yet to come. Instead, Shiro fought as if facing an enemy only he could see. His narrowed eyes, which she had in so short a time come to associate with empathy and warmth, were grey chips of stone set within his face, hardly visibly through the frenetic whirl of his motions. There was a tightness to his limbs that failed to ease for movement, and his blows, she watched with a practiced eye, were overwhelmingly powerful to face the droid. He held nothing back, so much so that more than one uppercut from his Galran arm sent the practice bot sparking and stuttering – and it was built to withstand an Altean's strength, at that.
His form was impressive, she could admit; he was clearly leagues away from his fellow paladins in this regard. However, it did not take much to deduce why that was so. Shiro had a wealth of experience to draw from that his comrades, safe and nestled in peace on Earth as they'd been, did not. A year a slave for the Galra Empire, she struggled to wrap her mind around that truth, and a champion in the ring before the masses all the while. Of course he'd learned how to survive - violently so.
That thought was one she cared for but little. For his sake, she’d rather him have Keith’s unpracticed fury or Lance’s eager determination to shine. Anything but this. She wished Shiro’s demons far and away from him, no matter the sharply honed blade and emerging leader his trials had borne for her crusade. It was difficult . . . painful, even, for her to watch.
Especially when, every so often and with a randomness she could not predict, there were times when Shiro would freeze up and go still in the middle of a bout. Instead of striking, his eyes widened and his face paled. He seemingly lost track of time and place in those moments, held captive as he was to some foe and memory only he could see. Whenever this happened not even the impending threat from the bot could move him to action, and he’d go down hard, every single time.
Shiro was always slow to pick himself up after his episodes, as if he could not immediately shrug his stupor away. His stance was ever unsteady as he recovered himself, and his shoulders quivered. He made fists of both his hands, yet his shaking still did not subside.
That night, Allura refused to let him struggle alone. They’d be leaving Arus soon, and she’d see her paladins armed with every possible advantage – even for this. Especially for this.
“On Altea, we called this the warrior’s shock,” she said – announcing her presence in advance with her voice so that she wouldn't startle him with her approach. She didn't know how or where his mind was, and she wouldn't be a further burden to him if at all possible.
Thankfully, it seemed that she had given him just long enough before joining him on the training deck. Shiro’s mouth tugged in a wry line, even if his eyes were still closed and his fists remained clenched. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slow, in and out, clearly regulating his breathing to regain some semblance of control.
“We have a different name for it back on Earth – it’s not as pretty,” his voice was low to return. A long moment passed, in which she continued to let him gather himself without interruption. Finally he ran his organic hand through his hair and sighed heavily through his nose. Only then did she take a step closer. “I . . . I thought I’d have better control over it by now.”
His words were muttered – mumbled even. Though his eyes were now open, he refused to look up and meet her gaze.
For that, her own brow furrowed. Did this . . . shame him? she puzzled to understand, so foreign and alien an idea the concept was to her. Many things, however, about her Terran allies were proving to be so.
“On Altea,” she started, her voice slow and soft, “the sages philosophized that the Life Givers did not create us for battle – that was something we, instead, brought upon ourselves through mortal imperfection and standing up in justice against those imperfections. Those who fight, even honorably for others, tend to bear scars on their mind as real as any of the body. It only means that you have survived; you have endured. Like any wound, this is a scar that can heal, and fade.” Others, of course, remained – but that was something that she did not have to say aloud. Shiro understood.
“So,” he chose his words carefully, “did the sages figure out a way to fix it? Your . . . warrior’s shock?”
“It’s not something a jaunt in a cyro-pod can cure, unfortunately,” sadly, Allura shook her head. “Nothing more than time, and patience were found to be effective.”
A heartbeat passed. Shiro sighed. “I figured as much,” he was still unable to meet her eyes. Yet he slowly unfisted his Galran hand. He stared down at his inorganic palm as if he didn’t recognize it as his own. His eyes were dark, and haunted. “It’s the same on Earth. Even with all the advancements we’ve made in medicine, we still don’t have a lot of answers for how the mind works.”
In reply, she did not allow herself to second guess her actions. Instead, she reached over and covered his Galran hand with both of hers. Her skin was soft and warm and alive next to his cool metal planes and hard lines, and she held on tight, hoping that the unfamiliar tech would be able to convey those positive sensations for what they were, at the very least. Shiro had gone very, very still before her. His eyes were wide and shaded with curiosity to finally look up and meet her stare. Boldly, she held onto his gaze with a determination that was as strong and real as her desire to bring an end to Zarkon’s reign. Distantly, she wondered when the last time someone had touched him with affection had been. Even he, she suspected, regarded this part of himself as unwelcome and invasive and foreign; it never would have been kindly regarded. For the thought, she curled her fingers about his own, and held on tighter.
In answer, he did not immediately draw his hand away. Instead, a long moment passed before his hand of flesh and bone came up to cover her own. Gratefully, he squeezed, and, as much as she had set out to grant him some semblance of comfort, she found herself drawing strength from his gesture in return. There was a tell-tale heat burning behind her eyes, and her chest was tight. Perhaps, loathe as she was to admit it, he wasn’t the only one combating his demons that night.
“If you’d like,” for some curious reason, she could feel heat rising to her cheeks to say, “I could stay and help you? You’ll find I make a better partner than the bot – I won’t hit you when you’re down.”
For that, Shiro gave an amused snort – but his eyes had brightened for her words. They’d returned to that same warm shade that she thought (that a part of her knew) she was beginning to depend on. “I thought that you were too strong to practice with us breakable Earthlings?” he teased.
“For you, I think I can make an exception,” she smirked to return. She squeezed his hand one last time before letting her touch fall away. “Don’t worry, paladin, I can hold back; I’ll go easy on you.”
Slowly, Shiro smiled in reply – a real smile that she felt her own mouth stretching to return. He’d taken her challenge seriously, then. “Oh, you don’t have to hold back, Princess – never on my account.”
“Well then, let me just say that I will stick this through with you,” she offered instead. “For as long as is needed.” Until he either healed from his wounds, or accepted his scars for what they were.
Shiro looked down at his Galran hand, and then up at her, considering. In his eyes, she thought, there was the soft glow of . . . something. Something that was maybe gratitude and trust and even the beginnings of affection; the first seeds of friendship, more so than the partnership that had been established between them out of necessity. It was a bond she didn’t take lightly, not after having lost as much as she had.
“Alright then, your highness,” he walked a few paces away from her, and settled into a defensive pose. “Hit me with your best shot.”