Chapter Text
Smells are surer than sounds and sights to make the heartstrings crack.
Rudyard Kipling
Shiro would have ducked if he was paying attention.
Well, obviously.
Nobody would intentionally take a rock to the face. Though the fact that the Galra soldier didn’t have a gun and had chosen to chuck stones at them really demonstrated the tenacity of the Galra in general.
He had been crouched behind a boulder, directing his team, and he had seen Lance about ten feet away line up a shot, before rethinking it and ducking behind a boulder of his own.
“What’s wrong?” Shiro asked, noticing the way Lance shook his head.
“He’s not armed,” Lance hissed. Shiro nodded in understanding. Lance never liked taking a life and taking a life of an unarmed person definitely went against his morals. Shiro let Lance decide what he was and wasn’t capable of, careful to never order him to take a shot that would cause him grief later on.
“You want me to get him?” Keith asked over the comm.
And then there was Keith, who would do the dirty work, but Shiro knew he would regret it later.
“No, no, send Hunk. Try to knock him out.”
“Shiro, he’s going towards Lance,” Pidge reported.
That was when Shiro popped up from his hiding spot and the large rock smashed him directly in the face.
His vision whited out and his throat strained with a surprised shout, even though he thought screaming from pain had been trained out of him by now.
He heard Lance’s bayard fire and the silence that followed that meant their sharpshooter had hit his mark.
Shiro collapsed to the ground, with his flesh hand flying to his face. He felt the wet that poured past his mouth and down his chin. He spat blood and fought down the nausea that began to stir and climb up his esophagus.
A swear got stuck in his throat as he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and tried to assess damage around the pain.
Did he have all his teeth? Did he get hit in the eyes? Could he see? Where was the blood coming from? His nose. His nose. Shit. An alien had broken his damn nose again.
Again, again, again….
The pain was too familiar. The panic was too familiar.
Focus. Focus.
His team was all clamoring in his ears, but in the moment he couldn’t discern what they were all saying.
Shiro breathed in and out of his mouth and, with one hand over his nose, he sat up from the dirt. The pain spiked and he found himself really wishing he'd had the full face shield down on his helmet for this mission.
Careless.
His head swam as he stuffed down the feeling of suffocation and swallowed down the acid burning up his throat.
Leaning against the boulder, he forced his eyes open and saw Lance kneeling in front of him, looking like he was about to pass out himself.
“Oh my god, Shiro. Oh my god.” Lance’s hands hung in the air between them, unsure of what to do. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!” Lance sounded like he was spiraling.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Shiro forced out. He grabbed one of Lance’s flailing hands. “Listen,” Shiro shut his eyes against a wave of pain. “I need your help, okay? Go with the others to finish looking for intel.” Shiro forced his swelling eyes open. “I’m going back to my lion. I’m not going to be much help on the ground anymore.” He hated admitting it, but he wasn’t sure if he could stand up, much less fight anyone that they came across. Luckily, this little outpost they had found didn't seem to be well guarded. It probably meant there wasn't much intel here in the first place.
As blood splattered the dusty ground, Shiro wished they hadn't bothered looking into this one.
Lance exhaled sharply. “What? I’m not leaving you like this! Do you have a concussion?”
Maybe.
“Lance,” Shiro used his best leader voice, which didn’t have the effect he was going for as more blood gushed over his lips.
“I’m walking you back to your lion at least, Shiro.”
Shiro wanted to argue, but he felt like his face was going to crack in half and any adrenaline he had, seemed to be fading away.
“Fine,” Shiro finally acquiesced. “But promise me you’ll leave me, if the others need you.”
There was a beat of silence while Shiro blinked dark spots from his eyes.
“Man," Lance huffed. "Keith is right about you actually being dark.” Lance stood up and offered both hands to Shiro. “I’m going to help everyone who needs it and I’m not leaving anyone. Okay?”
Shiro blinked up at him through blurring vision, before giving the slightest nod.
“Okay,” he forced out around the blood dripping down his throat.
When Lance got hurt, Shiro had been able to carry him. But Shiro was broader and there probably wasn't anyone on the team who could carry him comfortably.
Lance frowned. He had forced Shiro to put an arm around his shoulders so he could act as a crutch, but with the way Shiro was stumbling, he didn't think he was helping very much.
Shiro had mustered up the energy to give out a few last orders over the comm before he went silent. Though he had insisted he was alright, he could tell that Keith didn't believe him. However, Keith agreed to finish the mission at least.
Dots of blood followed them on the ground as they proceeded over uneven terrain. The comms were quiet as Shiro breathed through the pulsing headache. He was leaning forward, holding his nose and freely bleeding down his arm.
"Maybe tilt your head back?" Lance suggested weakly, feeling his own stomach turn at the sight.
Shiro let out a kind of gagging sound before swallowing thickly. Lance tried to slow their pace, but Shiro wasn't cooperating. Even stumbling, he kept moving.
"Forward is better," Shiro finally forced out.
"Are you… sure?"
Forward didn't look better. Forward looked like Shiro was bleeding out through his face.
"Back makes blood drip down," Shiro swallowed again before continuing, "your throat."
"Gross," Lance muttered without thinking. "I mean, you're not gross, Shiro. The blood is though. It's a lot of blood. I've had a bloody nose before, but not like this." Lance knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop himself.
Instead of responding, Shiro pulled his hand away from his face and stared at the red that covered his gloves and gauntlet.
He stared and stared and his feet were moving, but he wasn't taking those calming breaths anymore.
Lance tilted his head, trying to catch his eye. Shiro looked… distant.
"Hey," Lance spoke softly. "I really am sorry. About the soldier, I mean."
Shiro blinked hard and sucked in a deep breath that made him wince.
"No, don't apologize. Not your fault."
Lance’s frown deepened. How was this not his fault? He had a shot he didn't take and then Shiro's face got obliterated by a rock.
"Don't. You didn't do anything wrong." Shiro went back to holding his nose. "I've had worse. It's nothing I can't handle."
Lance looked away from the blood still dripping off Shiro's chin.
Shiro's words didn't make him feel any better.
He knew without looking that Coran was staring.
Shiro had shut his eyes as soon as he had taken a seat on the exam table in the castle infirmary.
He had removed his helmet and gone off the comms after the others had sworn they were okay and would be heading back soon. Allura promised to keep an eye on them from the castle bridge.
They were okay. They didn't need Shiro there.
Still. Lance had gone uncharacteristically quiet and Keith would worry needlessly.
"Coran," Shiro forced his eyes back open. He didn't have time to sit and be coddled. "It's broken. Just put me in the pod."
"I think you are right about that, number one." Coran stepped back, giving Shiro more room. "But I think it might need realignment. Let me prepare something for pain."
The last thing Shiro wanted was anyone coming near him right now. Lance had supported him as he walked and that had been fine, but now, sitting on a cold exam table, he felt like he might lose it if anyone laid a finger on him.
He didn't know if it was memories of spending time in hospitals when he was young or flashbacks to his time as the champion that turned his blood to ice in his veins.
He was in pain and his breathing was being impaired and if Coran touched him, he wasn't going to handle it.
"Shiro, I'm going to run a scan."
Shiro gripped the edge of the table. He heard the metal protest under the pressure from his galran hand.
"It's already damaged. Just put me in the pod. I don't even need to be in that long. I don't care about alignment." He wanted the conversation to be over.
"Well, alright," Coran spoke slowly. Something beeped and the Altean hesitated. "Ah, but you do have some fissures in your skull… wait, no these are old." Coran hit a few keys on his computer. "Sorry, no. Perhaps they are new after all."
"Coran," Shiro slipped off the table. "Just the pod, please." Shiro swallowed against a swell of nausea. "Tell Lance it wasn't bad. Tell him I'll be out soon and that it's fine."
"One moment."
Coran was suddenly there, within a foot of him and Shiro thought he must have been more out of it than he thought, if he didn't even realize the man had walked right up to him.
A damp cloth brushed past Shiro's chin and wiped away drying blood from his face.
Shiro was startled by the action and he faltered trying to remember the last time anyone had cared for him like that.
Keith would bandage up any of Shiro's wounds if he let him, but Shiro always insisted on doing things himself.
The damp cloth was withdrawn and Coran made a somewhat disapproving noise in his throat before speaking. He was inspecting Shiro’s nose critically.
"I won't lie to Lance,” Coran murmured, “but I will be careful about what I say."
"It's not a lie. I'm fine. Nothing an hour in the pod won't fix."
The Altean hummed, "That will not be enough time."
"It just needs to heal enough so I can function. I don't need to waste so much time."
Coran frowned and then pulled at his mustache, before speaking so slowly.
"If that is what you want."
Judging by the look on Coran's face, his short stint in the pod hadn't done much to improve his appearance.
Shiro had exited the pod, determined to retain his faculties and walk out steadily. However, after one step, his head swam and his vision darkened around the edges. He steadily sunk to the floor with as much dignity as he could and put his head between his knees.
Shiro avoided the look Coran was still giving him. With eyes shut, Shiro took in a slow breath.
"Did the others make it back? Everyone okay?" He forced out.
"Everyone else is fine." Coran began to step over to his computer. "What is your pain level, number one?'
Throbbing in his face, forcing him to breathe through his mouth while he fought down nausea building up in his esophagus. He swallowed down the stomach bile and pain.
"I've had worse."
There was a long pause and he felt Coran's eyes on him once more. He heard the Altean take a deep breath before speaking firmly.
"You should not have to feel pain like that if you do not have to. You are not with the Galra anymore.'
Shiro brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, flesh fingers brushing over scarred and swollen skin. It stung.
He suppressed a dark laugh from bubbling up.
He didn't remember much of his time with the Galra, except for what came flashing back in nightmares and tense moments. But he did remember Earth and a more chronic pain and doctor visits that made him feel tired and hopeless. And he remembered when he crashed his bike in the desert and walked back to the Garrison with a twisted ankle and snapped wrist because nobody knew he had gone out before dawn and they wouldn't be looking for him for hours.
Pain was familiar. No matter where he was in the universe.
And as many times as it took, he would prove that he could bear it.
He had been silent for too long. Coran clicked his tongue and cleared his throat.
"Let me run a scan at least."
Shiro hauled himself up from the floor, waving away Coran's concern and the way the room tilted.
"I need to talk to the others. Tell them we're having a debriefing. I'll meet them in the common room."
"Shiro-"
"Lance will feel guilty. I need to talk to him." And it was perhaps callous of him to bring up Lance. Shiro knew Coran had a soft spot for the blue paladin, Lance becoming something like a nephew to the Altean in the past few months. Manipulative, probably. But Shiro was right. Lance did feel guilty and if Shiro couldn't pull it together, the boy would blame himself.
Coran didn't respond, but a look flashed across his face. Something like surprise, followed by a long suffering sigh.
"If that is what you want." Coran raised an eyebrow and Shiro didn't miss the skepticism in his voice. The almost question. Is this what you want?
"Thank you, Coran."
Coran only shook his head in response.
He stopped by his room to change from the black undersuit he had gone into the pod with and into his civilian clothes.
Now that he was alone, he let desperation seep into his actions. He peeled away the dark undersuit, sure that the fabric was stained with blood though he couldn't see it. His armor had been taken away to be cleaned as he had dripped blood down the arms and chest plate.
Goosebumps formed down his left arm and he shuddered at the phantom ache that worked its way up his metallic limb.
He sat heavily on his mattress and breathed, quickly taking stock of his surroundings.
He cast his eyes around the room. There was the bare wall, the ceiling, the floor, his feet and the blanket beginning to come untucked from the neat corners he had made that morning.
He could feel the mattress beneath him, the undersuit sticking to his lower half, the blanket he was gripping under flesh fingertips, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead…
He could hear the distant thrum of the ship, nearly silent, but there if you listened. He could hear his heart beating erratically, no, think of something else, listen. He could hear the rustle of his blanket as he forced his grip to loosen from the cloth, he heard his foot tapping the cold floor.
Good, good, what else?
He could smell… Shiro forced air into his nasal cavity and he waited for his senses to kick in.
Blood. Maybe?
Or he was only imagining that.
He breathed out, feeling the air slip out slowly. It hurt. He breathed in again. Noticing that he wasn't drawing as much air through his nostrils as before.
His nose was already damaged, he knew that. The cut across the bridge had done something. He didn't know the details, but sometimes air didn't seem to come as easily. He snored every time he slept and if his nose was stuffed at all due to allergies or a cold, he couldn't force air through it.
He took a long, slow breath through his mouth, forcing himself to remain calm. He pushed himself up from the bed and found his way to the small attached bathroom. There was a small mirror above his sink and he blinked at his reflection.
Pale skin contrasted with the darkened bruises under his eyes. The pod had begun to heal it, but his nose and eyes were swollen and dark.
He hadn't spent enough time in the pod.
The image sent something loose in his mind. A jolt of panic caused him to grip the sink hard.
You're on the castleship. Your nose is clogged and broken, but you're here.
Shiro forced air into his lungs and shut his eyes tight against the constant pain.
People need you. Focus.
Shiro pried his fingers from the sink and forced himself to straighten up.
You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.
Coran met him in the hallway with a water pouch and painkillers. He offered them quietly, and didn't comment on the way Shiro nearly gagged when he swallowed them.
Shiro had never stopped feeling nauseous, but it wasn't unmanageable. He could do this.
Shiro stepped into the common room, standing tall. He wished he had managed to hide the wince from the bright lights, but he recovered quickly.
"Whoa," Hunk gasped.
"Shit," came the breathy swear from their youngest team member.
"Pidge," Shiro admonished automatically.
He knew it didn't look good. But it wasn't that bad, really.
"Shiro, are you okay?" Lance had gone pale. "I mean, I thought you were in a pod?"
"I'm fine and I was." Shiro set his hands on his hips. "It looks a lot worse than it is. Trust me. The pod healed me enough."
Shiro made the mistake of looking at Keith. He had stood up when Shiro entered the room and he was frowning hard with his fists clenched at his sides.
"I'm fine," Shiro repeated, giving Keith a pointed look.
Keith was about to say something, but Shiro shook his head. The action silenced him. After Shiro turned away, Keith crossed his arms and set his jaw, possibly actually biting his tongue as Shiro started the debriefing.
Pidge looked as though she was on the verge of saying something, but she glanced at Lance and saw the way he was blinking rapidly.
It had been an overwhelming day.
She let Shiro talk, fighting down the urge to call bullshit and instead let the meeting continue. The sooner they finished, the sooner Shiro could maybe go lay down. Or go back in the pod. Or collapse. Whatever happened first really.
Because as tall as Shiro was standing, he kept wavering back and forth as though he was standing against a strong wind. Pidge glanced to Keith who was only frowning deeper and inching forward, as though planning to catch Shiro if he did collapse.
Shiro asked a question to the group that was met with silence. Pidge glanced around, watching the entire team form dawning expressions that they were meant to respond and nobody had been listening to what Shiro was actually saying.
Shiro frowned, but the small movement must have jolted something because he winced and quickly smoothed over his features.
"We didn't gain much intelligence from the mission." Hunk was making a broad statement, hoping it was what Shiro wanted. "Next time, we'll do better?" Hunk's tone lifted, hoping to end the briefing. He had been sitting shoulder to shoulder with Lance, but as Shiro talked Lance had hunched forward, dropping his elbows on his knees and looking like he wanted to just curl up into a ball.
Shiro sighed.
"Alright, let's call it a day." Shiro rubbed at his neck, trying to ease some of the tension he was holding there. "Get some rest, we'll train in the morning."
"We will?" Hunk glanced to Shiro's face and back to Lance’s curved back. Shiro worked his jaw for a moment.
"Light training," Shiro amended. He was willing to adjust their routine for the good of Lance’s mental health. It wasn't because of his own injury. He was fine. He'd had so much worse.
As soon as the meeting was ended, he turned, meaning to go out the door, but a hand caught his elbow briefly.
"Keith?" Shiro questioned. Keith frowned and waited until the door shut behind the others filing out of the room.
"You look like shit," Keith bit out once they were alone.
"It looks bad, but I'm fine."
"If I looked like that and said I was fine, you'd be lecturing me."
"I have more than myself to think about."
"What the hell does that mean?" Keith's eyes darted back and forth. He did that when there was a social interaction that didn't make sense to him. "What does that have to do with being injured?"
"Keith. Just drop it. I don't want anyone feeling bad about what happened."
"You're worried about Lance?" Keith blinked at the realization, but then he shook his head. "You're making him worry more by walking around looking like that, Shiro!"
"Enough." Shiro held up one hand in front of him. "Enough," he repeated. Shiro didn't like cutting Keith off, even if they didn't agree, Shiro always wanted to hear him out. But right now, Shiro's head was pounding and he swore he could taste blood on his tongue, which set his stomach reeling.
The painkillers he had taken earlier didn't seem to do anything to stop the castleship's artificial lighting from sending spikes of pain through his skull.
"Shiro," softer now, "are you going to pass out?"
He thought the question was ridiculous, until he realized he had shut his eyes and leaned far to the right. He forced his spine to straighten and took a deep breath.
"I'm going to go rest. I will be okay."
Admitting he needed the rest right now seemed to be progress. Keith nodded.
"I'll walk with you."
Shiro was going to argue, but Keith caught his elbow and he didn't have it in him to shrug away from the assistance.
Without a word, they walked together out the door.
Shiro didn't so much as wake up as come back to consciousness with a shout and his fist swinging through empty air.
He remembered he was in his room in the castle and not… wherever his dreams had taken him. With a groan, he fell back against his pillow and gasped at the way the movement sent spikes of pain through him
He gasped in large breaths through his mouth before carefully wiping away the cold sweat that had formed on his brow. Something metallic was on his tongue and he quelled the urge to immediately spit out the awful taste.
The world felt like it was full of static. Like it might just fade away or cut out completely.
Shiro slowly reached up and ran cold fingers across his nose. He wiped moisture from his nostrils and squinted in the dim light, expecting to see blood on his fingertips.
Not blood. His nose was just running.
It figured he would come down with a cold on top of everything.
Get up.
Shiro let out a breath of air, aware of how the slight movement made his head ache.
Get up Get up Get up. Don't show weakness.
Shiro swallowed down building nausea and clenched his teeth shut. His eyes watered from the throbbing pain.
I'm not in danger. Shiro forced the thought through his mind. Willing it to register and calm his heart and ease tense muscles.
I am not in danger. Shiro forced himself to sit up, hoping it would calm his flight or fight response.
He rattled off the things he could see, feel, hear…. He drew a blank for smell and quickly moved to taste.
His mouth was dry and he hated that the feeling of thirst felt so familiar. As though he knew what it was like to go without water for so long and to have to fight for the little that was offered.
Shiro tasted vomit on his tongue.
He was rubbing carefully at his temples, when his blurry gaze caught something foreign in the corner of his eye.
There was a water pouch and a small bottle with a note attached sitting on the floor near his bed.
When had that been put there?
Shiro picked up the bottle and studied the note.
Take as needed.
Coran
The Altean must have slipped into his room while he slept and left the pain medicine and water.
Shiro hadn't heard him.
Shiro was infamously a light sleeper and yet he hadn't heard someone come into the room and leave something by his bed.
He felt anxiety building in his chest.
It's just Coran, he tried to quell the feeling of panic.
You're going to die, you're going to die.
Shiro inhaled sharply ignoring the way the air burned his nasal cavity. He held his breath and let it go slowly.
For several minutes, he breathed. It hurt and his nose was dripping freely now, but he slowly felt the panic ebb away.
He greedily drank the water, choked it down quickly before it was taken away, and he swallowed down the pills, hoping they would bring relief.
Maybe he could sleep a little longer. He was so tired and his head never stopped pulsing in pain.
Shiro carefully settled back down on his bed and shut his eyes.
He would rest until the pain killers kicked in at least. Then he would be up and ready to start his day.
Just a few minutes and then he would be okay.
It would all be fine.
"Shiro, Shiro, hey, Shiro."
He jerked awake with a gasp, one arm coming up to defend himself against a threat.
"Back!" Came the short shout and Shiro froze as recognition dawned on him. Keith and Coran were there.
He blinked bleary eyes and struggled to bring them into focus. Coran had a hold of Keith's arm, as though he was pulling the boy away.
Shiro realized he was still holding his Galra arm aloft and he let it fall to the side.
Slowly, he took in great gulps of air and forced himself to relax back into the pillow.
"Sorry," came his hoarse reply. "I think I have a cold." He saw Keith's frown and furrowed brow. "You okay?" He rasped.
Keith scowled at the question. "Me? Am I okay? Shiro, you're the one who slept through training."
How had he missed training? He'd been the one to say they should train. And he had been the one to sleep through it. How?
Because of a headache? Because of a cold?
He was being weak, and weakness was dangerous. Weakness was death.
His heart sped up. Get up. Get up or die.
He lurched forward, needing to stand, but feeling the world turn over, he crumbled back to the bed.
A hand touched his forehead. The gentle weight bringing his panicked thoughts to a crashing halt. Shiro brought the world around him into focus. Coran was there, standing close and checking on him with such care. He couldn't remember the last time someone had placed a hand on his forehead. As if he was a little kid. As if he needed to be looked after.
He wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to die from being sick.
"You do not feel warm," careful fingers brushed his hair from his forehead.
He wasn't the champion anymore.
"Shiro, can I help you?" Coran's words were careful, hopeful.
I don't know. Shiro swallowed and remained quiet.
"I can bring you some soup." Keith finally spoke up. "Hunk made some. Some recipe that Lance likes. It was good. I can get some. Maybe you'll feel better?" Apparently, Keith trying to take care of a sick person gave him a borderline panicked tone.
Shiro started to shake his head, but froze when the room spun. He brought flesh fingers up to press into his temple, noting the pain radiating from his head. He'd broken out into a sweat and the nausea built steadily in his throat. Why was he feeling worse?
He wanted to say something reassuring, but what came out was a pathetic, garbled sound.
He could hear Coran and Keith speaking, but their words blended into the increasing static.
The static that gave way to a blaring noise and red flashing lights.
It took too long for him to realize it was the emergency alarm and not his senses going haywire.
They were under attack.