Work Text:
whoever knew
there were so many species
of Always? Your bare hands
on the pale backs
of my thighs, printing bruise,
and if you said Flowers, said Always and we
could erect a forever
of something like sheets
and breakfast and an ordinary
day, my eyes would
always slide across the table toward
you
- Flowers, Always, by Cate Marvin
Thistle Do Nicely specializes in exotic plants. The shop mostly deals in special orders from collectors or the odd botanical garden, and the walk-in traffic is negligible. That’s how Matt convinces Shiro to move in after his discharge, once he’s finished with rehab and occupational therapy. Shiro accepts because he loves Matt and the Holts practically adopted him before he’d joined the service anyway, and because if he’s going to wait over a year to be fitted for a custom prosthetic, he might as well do so among friends. Plus, the shop has a little apartment on the second floor, one that’s vacant now that Matt has caved to Pidge’s demands and converted an old house into a place for the two of them.
Shiro could probably have moved in with them--there are three bedrooms--but he respects the Holt siblings’ capacity for practical jokes, and just because Shiro is disabled doesn’t mean he’s unable to live on his own. Besides, Pidge is usually up to something--Shiro is positive Matt would never ask her for input when offering up space.
Pidge is the one who picks him up at the station, anyway, and Shiro grins at the sight of her: she’s ditched the glasses she wore all through high school and college, and her skin’s ghostly white with sunscreen.
“Pidge!” Shiro hefts his rucksack higher on his good shoulder so he can wave enthusiastically at her; there’s no way she’d see him around the brim of her ridiculous sunhat otherwise. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“You’re too tall,” she grouses up at him, but hugs him anyway. It’s a nice feeling, her sharp little chin digging into his chest before she pulls away and drags him to her car. “Good luck with the ceilings in your new place.”
“What!”
“Only joking, building codes state they have to be at least seven feet high, you’ll be fine.”
At dinner that night, Shiro learns that Pidge has launched an ethically-dubious mail-order portion of the business that’s like...a cross between sending gifts to sugar babies and sponsoring an epistolary courtship.
“Don’t worry, it’s just like sending stuff to a P.O. box,” she says, ignoring Shiro’s horrified gape. “I don’t put up actual addresses, I’m not in marketing.”
“Just pictures,” Matt interjects. Of course he doesn’t disapprove. He’s a shitlord. “Our baby paparazzo!”
Pidge explains that patrons of the site mostly send plants (fulfilled by Thistle Do Nicely, natch) to recipient profiles, with no promise of a response. Matt won’t stop making “Sarah, Plain and Tall” jokes, most of which Shiro gets; he read aloud half of Pidge’s assigned reading when she was in grade school, and that one stuck.
“People...consent to be on this site?”
“Eh,” Pidge says, already thinking of something else. “No complaints yet.”
+++
Unpacking takes longer than Shiro expected. The apartment’s built-in storage is generous, but the drawer pulls are on either end, not centered, and opening them requires yanking either knob carefully, one then the other, in order to get them open. The kitchen cabinets are deep-set, and between his bulky height and one arm, it’s almost impossible to get cookware or dishes in and out. Shiro resigns himself to keeping two pans out on the cooktop at all times.
Despite the lack of accessibility, it’s not bad. It has windows on the east and west sides of the building, and there’s a single room off of the kitchen and a generous living area. The one bathroom needs some improvement--the showerhead is set low enough that it only comes up to his chest--but it’s nicer than the VA rehab facility. It’s quiet. The walls are mostly white. It’s largely empty of furnishings, save for a full-size bed and an IKEA dining set. Someone has hung blinds above the windows. Shiro hopes they were hung by a professional. Matt and Pidge are terrifying with a hammer and a level.
Shiro tells himself that he’ll get a pet, maybe. For now he cultivates a little terrarium of Venus flytraps that Pidge sent over as a housewarming gift. In the coming weeks, he’ll try to root plant cuttings from the shop, crowding the sill in front of the big picture window with an assortment of paper egg cartons, water glasses, and actual flowerpots.
The place will look nice, he thinks. Like a whole person lives here.
+++
Shiro’s only been working at the flower shop for two weeks when he sees Keith for the first time. It’s not shocking that it takes that long--Thistle Do Nicely is niche at best and Shiro spends most of his time in the back, wrestling with whatever requires wrestling--but it is memorable when it happens.
It starts with the aggressive jangle of the shop door swinging open, followed by the clomp of a potted plant hitting the counter. It’s an unmistakable sound because Shiro is usually the one responsible for making it. His interest is piqued.
Pidge is manning the front today. She’s a recipe for disaster, particularly with unhappy customers. Shiro shoulders his way closer to the front of the store, a medium-imposing banana plant resting on his hip, just in case.
“I didn’t order this,” the customer says, irritation loud and clear. (Later, Shiro will learn it’s less actual aggression and more of a deep and abiding sense of mortification.)
“Well, if it’s a gift,” Pidge starts, but she’s immediately cut off.
“I don’t want it,” the man insists. He shoves at the extravagant potted oleander on the counter. Objectively, there’s nothing wrong with the plant, though oleander is a pretty unusual gift. The leaves are glossy and the whole plant is thick with blue and purple flowers.
“C’mon, Keith, just accept the flowers like a normal human, it’s a mammalian courtship ritual,” Pidge counters, unruffled by Keith’s intensity. “Don’t make me restock something just because you’re being fussy.”
“Well, this wouldn’t happen if you could mind your fucking business and--”
“Is something wrong,” Shiro shoves into the front of the shop, forcing his spine straighter than he normally carries himself. He knows he’s imposing, and he’s counting on his bulk to diffuse the situation.
“Nah, he’s okay, Shiro,” Pidge says over the startled, horrified noise Keith makes upon realizing his tirade has been overheard. “Ungrateful, maybe, but he won’t cause more trouble than I can handle.”
“I’m not--I didn’t mean to be a tool,” Keith backtracks. He’s gone scarlet, and Shiro is momentarily overcome. It’s a pretty flush, but nobody really looks attractive when they’re flustered, and Keith seems downright ashamed. “But it’s less about the whole mail order bride thing Pidge keeps trying to do. I looked that plant up when it got delivered, and it’s--I’ve got a dog, you know? That flower’s bad for dogs.”
“Oh, shit,” Pidge winces, while Shiro quietly mouths mail order bride to himself. It’s got to be Pidge’s unethical sugar baby project. “I didn’t even check that order when I filled it.”
Keith huffs, but keeps his face pointed at the edge of the counter. “I just don’t want him to get sick.”
“Only you would get a dog that eats almost as much roughage as you do,” Pidge says. “But still, I’m sorry, I’ll keep a closer eye on orders people place for you.”
“You could also just take down that profile,” Keith says. “I really hate it.”
This is it, Shiro thinks. This is the moment where Pidge is going to get sued, or at the very least a restraining order.
“You need socialization,” Pidge chirps. “Hey, Shiro! Meet Keith. He sells personal services.”
“Every time you say that,” Keith says, going even redder, “it sounds like I’m a prostitute.”
“It’s a noble calling! And you’re so good with your hands!”
“Pidge,” Shiro says in his best Disappointed Brother tone. He only pulls it out on special occasions. This qualifies: Keith looks about ready to die. “You don’t need to shame anyone for how they earn a living.”
Keith’s buried his pretty face in his hands. “I’m a handyman.”
“That’s exactly what I said!”
Keith leaves without another word. He doesn’t take Shiro’s heart with him, but the meeting certainly does something to his attention span.
+++
It’s a few days later, and it’s Shiro’s day off. He’s wandering up and down the aisles at the local hardware store, keeping an eye out for a new showerhead, when he sees Keith.
It’s like seeing an animal in its natural habitat: Keith’s bent over several lengths of wood, marking them off with a thick triangular pencil, and there’s an enormous dog sitting patiently by his feet. Unlike when he was yelling at Pidge in the vestibule of the flower shop, Keith looks focused and competent. He’s got his hair pulled back in a scruffy ponytail, but the tie looks ready to snap at any minute. It’s arresting.
“The bride!” Shiro hears himself saying. Shit.
Keith looks up, frowning, and the dog makes a quiet bork sound. “Ah, it’s you,” Keith mumbles, his face settling into a more neutral expression. “Hi.”
“Sorry,” Shiro apologizes. “I’m Shiro, we can pretend we haven’t met.” Then he ruins it by gesturing to the dog: “This your roommate who hates flowers?”
“It’s Keith. And he likes them a little too much,” Keith says. “That’s why I worry. Kosmo, say hello.”
The dog stands--it’s huge and sturdy and fluffy in a way that Shiro suspects is murder to clean out of air vents. Shiro abandons his cart and offers his hand, which Kosmo considers for a moment before shoving his big, triangular head beneath it and leaning up into the touch.
It’s so nice and grounding that Shiro immediately drops to his knee and wraps his arm around the dog’s neck, the better to dig his fingers into the scruff and ruffle.
“...I guess you like dogs,” Keith says, squatting down beside him. “Kosmo, don’t be rude.”
Another soft bork and a mulish whine, and the big animal flops down onto its side, pulling Shiro off-balance. He can’t get his arm out from under the dog fast enough, and he doesn’t have any other way to brace--but Keith shoves himself between Shiro and the dog and the floor, so instead of hitting cement, Shiro finds himself pressed against Keith’s side.
Keith feels even nicer than the dog, lean and muscular and warm. It’s the least clinical touch Shiro has felt in a while, so he takes his time pulling back from it.
“Thanks,” he says, as if touch is a casual, everyday occurrence. “You really are handy.”
Keith helps Shiro stand in a way that is not at all condescending. “I really just do home repair,” he complains.
“Do you have a card?” Shiro jerks his head back towards his cart. “My apartment is sized for Holts, I could use a hand with the showerhead.”
Keith proves his decency by ignoring the joke and nodding seriously. Shiro leaves the store forty-five minutes later with a showerhead, a phone number, and a layer of dog hair plastered to his shins.
+++
They keep meeting after that; once Shiro gets to know him, he just sees Keith everywhere. It’s nice.
He ends up at Keith’s place eventually, a tiny cabin half-hidden by the landscape; Shiro’s out running and mostly just getting soaked by a surprise downpour when he hears Keith’s voice calling him.
“Get inside!” Keith calls again from his doorway. Shiro comes gladly, and is met with a towel. He bends down and allows Keith to dry him off; his hands feel good scrubbing against Shiro’s undercut, even when a torn nail scratches one of his ears.
“Saves me from having to shower,” Shiro jokes. He reaches back and tugs his shirt over his head, fisting the fabric and letting rainwater dribble from his hands to the flagstone floor of Keith’s entryway.
“Still haven’t fixed the height, huh,” Keith mutters, looking down at the puddle. He might be flustered; Shiro hopes so, because he works hard for his muscles and it’d be a shame for Keith not to notice them. But more likely Keith has stunned himself with this show of hospitality; he doesn’t seem to know what to do around humans.
“I still need a hand,” Shiro grins. “Know where I can find one?”
It does the trick. Keith meets his eyes again, and his smile catches a little on one of his incisors; it’s stupidly endearing. “Might be able to hook you up,” he allows.
Shiro passes the rest of the storm draped over Keith’s couch with Kosmo eeling up from the floor onto his thighs whenever Keith isn’t looking (“He’s not allowed to push people off the furniture,” Keith says, which Shiro notices is not the same as Kosmo not being allowed on the furniture at all).
Keith’s on the opposite end of the couch, sorting a bin of screws by size into color-coded containers. “Got ‘em from an estate sale,” he explains when Shiro asks. “Cheaper that way, and you never know what’ll be useful.”
Shiro tries to help, but it’s...not a good fit, even if he needs to practice dexterous tasks with his hand. He drops half of the screws he’s trying to sort onto the floor, where Kosmo’s wagging tail shoves them under the furniture. He’s not embarrassed by it. But it is frustrating.
“Still not used to it,” he mutters.” Keith doesn’t respond, but he grabs a frisbee off of a bookshelf and dumps a handful of screws into that.
“Might be easier,” he says, when Shiro stares at him. “‘S an even layer, that way.”
Shiro sorts almost half of the screws for Keith this way, dumping handfuls onto the frisbee every time he empties it. Shiro feels a little thrum of accomplishment; this is helpful. He can be of use.
“I’ll be by after six tomorrow,” Keith tells him when Shiro finally, reluctantly, leaves.
“What?” Shiro’s draping his still-damp shirt across his neck rather than putting it back on, and he’s certain he’s misheard.
“For the showerhead.” Keith doesn’t look away, and briefly reaches up to rest his hand on Shiro’s shoulder, just under the wrung-out fabric. “You helped me today. I’ll stop by tomorrow and get that hooked up.”
+++
The next night, after Keith leaves Shiro’s apartment--he stayed long after the installation was complete, poking around and helping cook pasta and meeting every single one of Shiro’s Venus flytraps--Shiro strips down and takes his first shower without needing to duck down in order to rinse. He does a little more than just shower--Shiro’s a mammal, as Pidge might say--but mostly he basks in the comfort of standing up straight.
He thinks of how Keith had looked so focused on the task in front of him, the way Keith’s hair was dark and soft against the name of his neck, the way Keith’s hands moved against the showerhead. Shiro thinks of how Keith didn’t offer to cook dinner for them both, but how he stood next to Shiro at the stove and steadied the pot while Shiro stirred the noodles into the boiling water.
When Shiro cooks alone, he almost always spills.
He thinks about the way Keith looked in Shiro’s apartment--like an addition, like a possibility.
It’s the start of something.
+++
“Keith?” Pidge says, when Shiro thinks to ask her. She’s draped herself backwards over one of his IKEA chairs and is adjusting the layers of moss in one of his terrariums; Shiro’s grown rather fond of his little Venus flytraps, especially since he always forgets to eat the last banana in the bunch and having carnivorous plants in the kitchen really cuts down on fruit flies. “Keith is fine. He’s kind of a loner, but, you know, a loner you can call in the middle of the night with a plumbing emergency. I mostly keep that profile on my site to screw with him, he’s too serious.”
“You’ve got to take that thing down, Pidge, it’s a terrible idea.”
“It’s the future of reality television, I want to feed the dataset into my next neural network.” She flops off the chair in a way that makes Shiro’s back twinge in post-thirty-year-old horror. “Wanna send him flowers? You’re new in town!”
“Katie.”
Pidge looks at him properly; whatever she sees makes her smile. “No more flowers for now.”
“How about not any more?” Shiro feels wistful even asking it, but: he helped Pidge finish her language arts homework every night when she was in the fifth grade. She’s never once treated him like less of a person, even though--what with the arm--there is less of him around these days.
“Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll take it down, and we’ll watch this space. He’s prickly, you know.”
Shiro does know. He grows carnivorous plants for fun; he especially loves the vulnerable spines around the mouths of his Venus flytraps. He knows that they’re for protection. Spines don’t grow without a reason.
+++
Keith is so delighted by the news that he’s no longer listed as one of Pidge’s mail-order brides--the term has thoroughly stuck, there’s no turning back now--that he offers to refinish the floors of Shiro’s apartment.
“It’s not that big a deal,” Shiro says. They’re hiking along the edge of town, where the road is approximately seventy percent gravel and thirty percent indeterminate spikey plant. Kosmo is refusing to play fetch with his rope toy, so every ten yards or so Keith picks it up and throws it again.
“It’s a big deal to me,” Keith insists. He’s flushed and objectively kind of sweaty--it’s hot out--but that’s doing it for Shiro. “I didn’t like it, these guys just kept sending plants that might kill my dog and letters that were weird--”
“Epistolary dick pics?”
“Ha, kind of.”
“Nice.”
They walk another half-mile. Kosmo deigns to carry his own rope toy, and Keith doesn’t speak again until they’ve made it to the tired paleta stand at the edge of town: Shiro’s true goal all along.
“I’ll get it this time,” Keith says. Shiro enjoys being treated and says so, and ends up with a mango chamoy.
He swaps licks with Keith’s hibiscus-mint, and it doesn’t occur to him until later that it might be weird to share popsicles with another person. He’s used to Pidge and her dessert tax.
“If you really wanna pay me back,” he hears himself say, probably to distract from the fact that he’s just wrapped his mouth around the same paleta Keith is now licking enthusiastically, “I could use some help at my place.”
“Yeah, you could,” Keith agrees. He’s got hibiscus juice staining his lips a deep plum-red and it’s devastating. “Your cabinets are shit.”
+++
Keith is capable in all things.
Shiro snags his favorite jeans on a nail in the woodshop when he’s allegedly helping sand the new cabinets doors Keith has built, and, after a terse back and forth, finds himself sitting on the deck in his boxer briefs while Keith mends the tear. It’s humbling and comforting. The patch is nearly invisible.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Keith says, dryly. “It’s a hazard of the job.”
He gestures to his own jeans, the denim stressed and white across the knees and thighs; just under the thinning fabric, Shiro can see the underpinning of stronger patches, held in place by an uncountable array of precise indigo stitches.
Keith has nice thighs, or at least they look nice in denim; it’s almost a shame Shiro can’t see the skin beneath. It’s a fair trade for having to sit outside in his underwear, in full view of his beautiful, oblivious friend. It’s not the first time Shiro’s been half-naked in front of Keith, and he’s starting to feel slightly insulted that Keith hasn’t said anything.
“Make do and mend, I suppose,” Shiro says, parroting one of his more environmentally-minded aunts.
“Yeah,” Keith says, and he doesn’t say much else after that. He’s concentrating on making even stitches, and Shiro enjoys the quiet, enjoys the way the sun slants across the yard and gilds the line of Keith’s face. Keith’s told Shiro about growing up in foster care; Shiro supposes that’s where Keith first learned to make do.
“My turn to pay you back,” Shiro says as he struggles into his newly-mended jeans. It’s still a challenge, pulling them over his hips and zipping the fly with only one arm. Keith never offers to help, but he stands near enough that Shiro could ask for it.
“Well,” Keith says, oddly shy. “I was thinking. Maybe you could help me find a plant?”
“Missing your admirers?” Shiro laughs at his own joke, “yeah, I can make you a terrarium. I don’t even have to raid the shop if you want, my windowsill is full of little guys who should see the wide world.”
“The flytraps?”
“Yeah.” Of course Keith likes the most self-sufficient plant in Shiro’s collection. “You get enough sun. They’re good company.”
“They learn from the best,” Keith says.
+++
Shiro probably falls in love with Keith slowly, but he only notices it when he looks across his kitchen and sees the afternoon light slanting through the window, across Keith’s face. Keith is hunched in a vulture-like posture across the counter, wrestling with a smart faucet installation.
Shiro realizes in that moment that no matter how Keith spins it--that he had the parts lying around, that he wanted to test out his skills, that he needed practice shutting water off and on in an older apartment, that he was just repaying one of Shiro’s inconsequential favors--he’s really doing this as a gift. Sometimes, after a long day, Shiro’s arm aches, and things like opening sticky cabinets or turning the faucet on and off feel like insurmountable tasks. This way he can just wave his arm, no fine motor skills required. It would never have occurred to Shiro that this was something he could ask for, let alone receive. It has also never occurred to Shiro that this is something his landlord should take care of; his landlord is Matt. It would mean something else entirely, coming from a Holt.
Shiro loves Keith, because all Keith really wants to do is make life easier, kinder for Shiro. Shiro realizes that accepting this kind of help--so freely given, so unstinting--does not make him a burden.
“Keith,” he says. “Thank you.”
“What for?” Keith tightens the water lines over the check valve with a satisfied little grunt. “There we go, now we’re in business.”
“My hero,” Shiro manages. Keith looks up at him, on the alert, but Shiro’s not really teasing.
+++
Shiro gets his prosthetic in late spring, nearly a year after coming to live above Thistle Do Nicely. It’s nothing too fancy, though he’s positive that the Holts might try to remedy that--Pidge has at least two 3D printers in her workroom, so after the fitting, he won’t need to head back to a Hero clinic unless he really wants to. The tests take all afternoon, which somehow seems longer than all of the months preceding.
Matt has about a thousand questions for Shiro on the drive home, ranging from sensation (it’s got haptic feedback) to posability (poseable wrist and thumb, and yes, Shiro had to pick up and crack almost a dozen eggs during calibration). And--”do you feel like one of the Borg now?”
“Matt!” Shiro raises the arm and, deliberately, flicks Matt’s ear. “You’re just jealous because I’m a cooler cyborg than you could ever hope to be.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re cool. The arm’s cool.” Matt turns serious, which means that he actually pays attention to the road for a minute. “You too cool to work at a flower shop now?”
It’s a valid question. “Dunno. I like it here.”
“Like it here? Or do you like who’s here?”
“Yes, Matt, I still love you, even though I don’t need you to open jars for me anymore.”
“Shiro,” Matt says. “You could do a lot better than being a stock boy--hah, stock, get it?--at a niche flower shop in the middle of nowhere.”
It took Shiro weeks to figure out that “stock” was just another name for all the green stuff Pidge likes to shove in between the weirder flowers in her arrangements. “I could do something else,” he allows. “But I’m happy. And the apartment’s nice, and my Venus flytraps are really coming along. You know Pidge said I should try pitcher plants next?”
“You’re bloodthirsty,” Matt informs him, but he sounds calm. “And that apartment’s only as nice as Keith’s made it, this year.”
“Ah,” Shiro says. “Yes, Keith.”
“You gonna tell him?”
Tell Keith he’s in love with him? Shiro’s not avoidant by nature, but he has been in this. He looks down at the new arm, mesmerized by the gleaming white and silver carapace. He can pick up eggs now, and stir a pot on the stove, and he can probably even butter toast without having to use the cutting board Keith adapted with guards to hold the bread still. He can hug someone with his whole body now, instead of just along one side. Shiro didn’t think of himself as less of a person, with just the one arm--but maybe he was waiting on the prosthetic to feel whole.
“You know,” he tells Matt, “I think I will.”
+++
It takes a week, but that’s fine. Shiro’s over at Keith’s place, checking on the terrarium he made and misting the tillandsia hanging over the sink; it likes humidity. Kosmo’s outside chewing on one of the expensive bones Keith buys for him every now and again, and the man himself is slumped on the couch. It’s a quiet evening, and they haven’t figured out what they’ll have for dinner; it’s unspoken that whatever they do, Keith and Shiro will do it together. It’s not a perfect minute, but it’s a soft one, indicative of every minute Shiro has enjoyed in Keith’s company.
“Keith,” he says. “Can you help me fix something?”
“Anything,” Keith says, absently. He looks up from the list of little fixes he’s working on; he’s always got something lined up, kind of like the way Pidge doodles SQL syntax queries on bar napkins. “What do you need?”
Shiro’s not a shy man. He sits down on the couch and leans forward to kiss Keith, soft, just his mouth pressing against the shape of Keith’s lower lip.
Keith doesn’t move.
Shiro knows Keith, though, even if it’s only been a handful of months, and he leans closer, sliding his hand up and on to Keith’s shoulder, bracing himself. “You were too far away,” Shiro tells him, resting his prosthetic against Keith’s waist.
Keith cups a hand beneath Shiro’s elbow and turns into him, kissing back. It’s artless, perfect; Shiro’s chest is tight with longing and affection. He squeezes Keith closer still, wrapping his arm around the whole breadth of Keith’s shoulders and shifting his prosthetic so the fingers catch and twist in Keith’s baggy t-shirt. “Okay?” he asks.
Keith’s gone red, really red, flushed like he was the first time Shiro ever saw him in the front room of Thistle Do Nicely. This time, Shiro doesn't think it’s anger or embarrassment.
“Shiro,” Keith croons. His name in Keith’s mouth is a reproach, an endearment. It’s a naked sound. “Shiro, of course this is okay.” He rubs his nose against Shiro’s cheek, like he’s afraid of getting lost.
“Good,” Shiro says, and he pulls Keith into his lap, so Keith is sitting across Shiro’s thighs and looking down at him. “Good, Keith, come here.”
“I’m sitting on you, I can’t--” Keith makes a little noise, overwhelmed and happy, and stops talking so he can kiss Shiro again, properly, messy and eager and wet. Turns out he can get closer; that’s good. Nobody ever seems to touch Keith, to see how much Keith deserves to be held and caressed. Shiro’s got to make up for it.
“I love you, you know,” Shiro tells him. He’s got his hands under Keith’s shirt now and he almost wants to take the prosthetic off; it’s nice being able to pull on Keith, to hold him close, but he can’t really enjoy all this skin with it in the way. “You’re just--you take such good care of me, Keith. I don’t know anyone in the world as good as you.”
“‘S a big world,” Keith gasps. “Lot of people in it--”
“Just us here,” Shiro tells him, and means it. “You and me.”
Keith cups his hands around Shiro’s jaw for a minute, rubbing against the faint stubble; it catches on his callouses, probably hurts against the odd cut or scrape Keith’s always sporting. “I love you too,” Keith says, so honest and lovely. “I wasn’t sure--but I love you, I want to take care of you. Like you care for me.”
Shiro takes the arm off after all. They eat dinner late.
+++
Keith starts studying for his general contractor’s exam. Shiro buys into Thistle Do Nicely and helps Matt and Pidge expand their mail-order business--this time without any brides, willing or unwilling.
“Don’t worry,” Pidge tells him. “I can make an exception for a groom.”