Chapter Text
The brass put him through multiple rounds of psychological eval, back when they were working his discharge and getting him set up for his third surgery in as many weeks. Most of that time’s a blur that he’s never tried to put into order. Shiro’s not a masochist. Doesn’t need to diagram how exactly his life fell apart.
One of the few things he remembers clear is one of the psychologists—a brusque, overworked lieutenant with tired eyes—who’d told him that he better start learning what his new situation normal was. It won’t ever go back to whatever it was before, she’d said. Adapt. Startled by the blunt command, he’d let out a bark of laughter and said back, Situation normal...still all fucked up. Maybe he wasn’t the first person to make that joke to her, they were in a military hospital a hop skip from a warzone after all, but she still laughed.
Shiro doesn’t think of her much more often than he thinks of anything else surrounding his discharge, but he thinks of her now. His thumb hovers over the Send button on his phone.
Shiro 4:03 PM What’s the magic word?
Keith 4:03 PM please
Shiro 4:04 PM I want to hear you say it. Call me.
Letting his breath hiss out between his teeth, he reluctantly deletes the message and types in something normal.
Shiro 4:05 PM Stir fry it is.
No response, but he kind of figured there wouldn’t be. Keith doesn’t like texting. Barely tolerates it for his sake and usually outright ignores anyone else. Even that brief conversation was a concession. Shiro knows that.
The lack of response still grates on his nerves. Up since o dark thirty, he’s been run ragged between classes and meetings and office hours, only to be told that his entire group had decided to shift their meeting to later in the day without consulting him. It’s not fair to be annoyed. Keith doesn’t know any of this. Isn’t doing anything wrong.
But Shiro wants—in an aching, shameful, needy kind of way—to call Keith. To say, don’t you know how to say thank you? History supplies exactly how Keith’s breathing would falter and the sulky embarrassment of his mumbled thank you . After that, Shiro could step in and relieve Keith with a teasing knew you could do it . It wouldn’t matter, exactly, what they said after that. Because he’d know that Keith was willing to be good for him—to be soft and obedient and so fucking good . Just for him. Only for him. That’d be enough to ease some of the tightness in his chest.
With a frustrated grunt, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. In the end he’ll only ever take what Keith’s willing to give him.
Muscle memory carries him through the next few hours. He keeps his head through the group meeting, even when no one show up with their actual work and the whole thing is nearly a bust. He keeps his head as he goes to the hole in the wall restaurant across from the library to pick up stir fry, repacks the plastic bag to be more balanced, and heads home. He keeps his head, which on anyone else would look a lot like disassociating.
The world’s starting to blur at the edges by the time he unlocks the door and wrestles his way into their dorm. He vaguely notes the over bright sound of the TV, the warmth of the room, the early streetlights framed through the open blinds. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
“Let her die!”
Keith brings everything into focus. He’s sitting on the couch. Out in the open, and Shiro’s not going to think about how that’s becoming more common. He’s wearing those damn shorts and Shiro’s hoodie. The hoodie is too big for him, and he’s tucked his hands into the sleeves while he nibbles on one cuff absentmindedly. He’s home .
All of this registers in a split second. Shiro’s crossed the distance between them before he can think about it.
When he sits, he drops his backpack to the floor without giving a shit about the expensive textbooks or delicate notes in it. It’s only the takeout in his hands that keeps him from reaching across the distance to pull Keith into his arms. This close, the stubborn curve of Keith’s lower lip is infinitely sweet and kissable. Shiro wants to nip at that subtle pout and then kiss away the ache.
They talk—the usual easy bullshit that Shiro doesn’t have to entirely pay attention to.
Keith starts eating with his usual speed and lack of delicacy. Sometimes Shiro wonders at that. He learned to eat that way when he went to Ranger school and had ten minutes to cram in his calories for the day. Keith’s never said where he learned it, but it’s easy to guess from the way he guards his food and the way he forgets to eat when he’s stressed. One day they’ll talk about it. What matters now is how he doesn’t flinch or try to cover his food when Shiro drapes an arm over the back of the couch.
Asking why they’re watching a magical girl cartoon isn’t anything but keeping the conversation going. He’s a little surprised that Keith seems to give it actual thought.
Warmth unfurls in his chest at the little furrow between Keith’s eyebrows. It’s impossible to resist the urge to curl his fingers through the soft dark locks at Keith’s nape. Touching like this is the kind of luxury he doesn’t usually allow himself, and it leaves him feeling indulgent and overly relaxed as Keith trails into silence. “Mhm?” he prompts.
“I guess I never really watched things like this when I was little,” Keith says. He sounds unsure. It only compounds as he adds, “It seemed like it could be fun?”
A half smile quirks Shiro’s lips. Maybe he shouldn’t tease. “You mean you didn’t watch magical girl cartoons?”
“No, I just...didn’t watch things in general.” The earlier disassociation is catching up with Shiro. Later, when he debriefs himself, he won’t be able to decide if his slowed processing was a benefit or not. “I guess I might’ve, with my dad,” who Keith never talks about, except in passing, like he doesn’t like to remember what it was like to not be alone, “but after they put me in the system I— The last place I ever wanted to be was at one of the homes watching a TV show.”
Right when a mortar hits, if it’s close, there’s a moment that feels like all the oxygen’s getting sucked out of the world. People’s lungs can collapse if they’re not careful. If they don’t know how to breathe through it. Shiro never got used to it. Just learned to breathe through the aftermath. This feels a little like that. “Keith…”
Keith jolts away from him with an aborted noise. It’s achingly close to a whimper, but he doesn’t seem to realize it, too busy throwing the remote into Shiro’s lap. “We can watch something else. Your choice.”
Ignoring the urge to apologize—it’ll just make Keith shut down further—Shiro picks up the remote. The plastic doesn’t feel as good beneath his fingertips as Keith had. (Nothing feels as good as Keith does.) Carefully he backs them out of the magical girl show and tries to figure out what would work as a substitute.
Truth is he doesn’t give a shit about watching something. But six months ago, Keith’s would’ve already fled and that your choice is the closest either of them will get to a stay of execution.
A title card catches his eye. One of the guys he bunked with back in Iraq had this on DVD and pulled it out to watch it every time they had a bad patrol. Shiro tries for casual as he asks, “Did you get to watch Disney?”
The dead silence is probably answer enough, but Shiro waits it out because waiting it out is just about the only thing that’s worked tonight so far. Takes until Keith’s put down the empty takeout container and tucked his legs up into his chest—huddling in the furthest corner like he’s still expecting someone to hurt him. “Not really,” he offers up.
Lot of ways Shiro could respond to that, but he settles for something that won’t make either of them flinch. “Okay.”
By now Shiro knows to play casual. He puts down the remote and picks up his own takeout container. When he feels Keith’s eyes on him, he makes a show of digging into his food like this is normal. Like all of this— any of this—is normal. “I love this movie,” he adds, because Keith’s still staring at him and because it’s actually true. “This part is great.”
Part way through his food, he finally dares a glance Keith’s way. Still some tension in the set of his shoulders, and still tucked into a ball in the corner of the couch, but it’s not a huddle anymore. When he finishes his food, he’s confident enough to go with a full look at Keith.
His boy’s nibbling on his hoodie’s cuff again.
Shiro feels desire like a punch to the gut. It’s selfish. Better to leave well enough alone. Allow this moment to be what it is instead of trying to make it like all those fantasies he uses to get through the worst times. Keep to what stands as their situation normal. Be kinder, less greedy, better —
When Keith jolts this time, it’s more coltish than frightened. He blinks over at Shiro like the sweep of his eyelashes can substitute for Morse code. “Sorry,” Shiro lies. “Trying to get comfortable.”
“Do you want me to take the floor?”
“ No .” It’s harder than it should be not to growl that. Clinging to easy, to casual, to nonthreatening, he nudges his foot against Keith’s. “You should come over here.”
For a heartbeat—the kind that comes caught in his throat—he thinks maybe he’s hallucinating. Because Keith doesn’t even hesitate before following the soft spoken command. He crawls across the couch toward Shiro, face so fucking open and sweet, until he’s straddling Shiro’s chest. No going back now, Shiro figures as he swings both his legs up onto the couch. No going back when Keith bites at his lower lip and pauses, uncertain, or when Shiro slips his prosthetic hand under the hoodie to anchor at the small of Keith’s back.
“I said come here,” he says. Lets the command out clearer this time. Reinforces it with the press of his hand. And Keith—
Keith submits.
Shiro feels proud and selfish and warm and possessive. He keeps stroking his fingertips over Keith’s spine—gentle but firm, the way he knows Keith likes—until his boy all but melts into him. It’s a little like having a weighted blanket. Even when he hooks his leg over Keith’s, his boy stays pliant, settling back in with a murmur. This is his. Keith is his . Shiro wants to keep him exactly like this forever.
“Good?” he asks. Not sure what’s driving him, because he knows Keith would never allow this if it didn’t make him happy, but needing to hear it anyway.
“Yeah,” Keith says. His voice is small, but not in the way that it gets when he’s frightened or unsure. A new small, like how he sounded when Shiro gave him the hoodie. He shifts then, and nuzzles his face into the crook of Shiro’s neck like a kitten seeking comfort. “I like this.”
God, Shiro’d give anything to have this be his new situation normal. It’s not even a little fucked up.