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Keith wakes up to the smell of coffee.
Shiro, as always, is sitting at his bedside, breakfast tray balanced on his thighs. When he sees Keith, he puts aside his tablet and hands him the red mug, handle slightly misshapen, a little casualty from Lance's attempt at pottery. “Good morning,” he says softly. “Did you sleep well?”
Keith nods, wraps his hands around the warmth, trying to ignore the stiffness in his legs and spine. He’s still weaning himself off the pain meds, and it’s become a perverse sort of game to resist for as long as possible.
“Did you sleep all right, Shiro?” he asks now, taking a few sips. He knows Shiro’s insomnia after his time in Black’s consciousness has only worsened in recent months.
“I’m all right,” Shiro says, which doesn’t really answer the question. He reaches for the leg braces propped up against the nightstand, but Keith shakes his head.
“I want to shower,” he says.
Shiro immediately stands, as Keith holds onto his arm and braces himself before swinging his legs off the bed. He’s pleased that he doesn’t immediately collapse like a newborn colt, but still holds on steadily as Shiro leads him to the bathroom. Rubber mats cover the smooth tiles, and Shiro helps Keith undress and sit on the ledge, next to a lowly placed shelf and a guard rail.
He then squeezes Keith's hand. Do you need help today?
Keith shakes his head. Shiro nods, closing the door slightly behind him so he can hear, though an alarm would sound throughout the house before Keith even touches the floor. It’s another thing Pidge and Matt silently tinkered with in the house, something Keith appreciates more than the casseroles and “chin up” speeches.
Stretching his fingers, he turns the dials and reclines beneath the steaming stream. Already he’s beginning to wake up and feel a bit better, sighing as his throat and nose clear.
He still remembers the pain, legs shattered, spine in white-hot agony, lying helplessly on the ground as the battle raged past him. In the end, Keith knows, he was very lucky. He could have been struck by friendly fire or simply finished off if Shiro had faltered for a moment. He could have died on the way to the ship, in the med bay, during surgery.
It's a thing they never acknowledge, that Shiro had been preparing all these years to lose himself but not Keith. He sees it in every bandage Shiro wraps, every faltering step Shiro takes with him, every pill Shiro counts and organizes by hand. He goes through the physical therapy exercises with Keith in the morning, rubs his legs in the evening, is there like a devoted shadow in between. It’s strange to have someone looking out for him, even now, even after five years of marriage.
It’s going to be a while before he can go into the field again. If he can ever go. Keith’s not sure if he’s made peace with the alternative, knows Shiro won’t bring it up unless he does. He understands that pride, that need for self reliance.
He struggles a bit getting out of the shower, watching where he puts his feet and grabbing the edge of the sink before stepping onto the floor. Sitting on the toilet, he grabs a robe and boxers, slipping them on slowly, then brushes his teeth, hearing the sounds of pans rattling.
When Keith comes out of the bathroom, Kosmo’s there to nose him, blinking up at him, and Keith pats him on the head. The wolf’s telepathy comes in handy not only on the battlefield but at times like these. I’m better today, he tells Kosmo, who leans into him in response. Keith carefully places a hand on his back, allowing Kosmo to guide them to the kitchen.
On the way, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby window. Despite years of hardship, Keith looks like he could be a college student. Even Krolia is unsure if the quantum abyss or his Galra genes are factors, if he’ll ever age “properly.” He’s sure Pidge is conducting a case study somewhere.
By contrast, Shiro, if anything, grows more handsome over time, wayward locks of silver falling over his eyes, thin-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, fingers pinching his chin in thought. Shiro had briefly toyed with redyeing his hair, but what was the point? He’s happy to have reached “old” age, he’d said, and Keith nudged Shiro and reminded him that he was only thirty.
Keith now admires the sight, Shiro scrambling eggs and flipping sausage with the burner on blast, checking the toaster. The table is already set, with Keith’s braces leaning against the edge, mug filled with fresh coffee.
“Keith!” Shiro exclaims, turning around. “Breakfast is almost ready; let me—”
“I got it,” Keith interrupts, sitting down. Kosmo hangs by him, ostensibly to watch him but really hoping Shiro drops something on the floor.
Shiro plates the food and sits beside him, kissing Keith on the cheek once before digging in. They both eat in silence before Shiro asks, “You ready for Hunk’s birthday?”
Keith nods, jabs a thumb behind him. “There’s coconut bars in the fridge.”
Shiro laughs. “Hunk will be so mad.” His voice heightens: “I told you not to bring a thing!”
“He’s the only person I know who wants to cook everything for his own party,” Keith says. “What do you bet he’ll start trying out Coalition gala recipes on us again?”
“I can’t argue too much,” Shiro says sheepishly. He’d, after all, finished off half the tray of canapes at the last event. “Do you think you’ll be up to stay the whole time?”
“I’ll let you know if I can’t,” Keith says. His legs seem to have a mind of their own, spasming when it rains or while passing through another space travel gate. He hates admitting his limits—a trait Shiro understands too well.
They fall into silence again—it’s the first time Keith’s really been out with people since the accident. Keith studies the still-pink scars in his legs, the slightly cobbled look of his left knee, then glances at Shiro. It seemed like a miracle that Shiro had emerged relatively unscathed, save for a nasty bruise to the gut, something Shiro still beats himself up over.
To think that I could do so many things but fail in the most important way, Shiro had whispered when he thought Keith was asleep, drugged on morphine after another round of surgery. I’m so sorry, my love.
You didn’t fail, Keith wanted to say. You’ve never failed me.
He finishes his plate, mops the grease off with leftover toast, wishing he could get up and help Shiro at the sink, bumping hips and smacking each other with the dish towel like they used to. Instead, he sits as Shiro begins the tidying up, sipping the dregs of his coffee. His ring clinks against the table as he sets his hand down, fumbling for the braces.
In no time, Shiro’s there, kneeling at his feet, lacing them up so tenderly that Keith’s throat tightens for a minute.
“I’m just happy you’re safe,” Keith says. “You know that, right?”
Shiro presses his lips to Keith’s right knee, then his left. “I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere,” he begins. “The sickly kid at school, the youngest in the ranks—the only time I felt homesick was when the ship took off, when I left you standing on the Garrison launch pad. You’re my home, Keith, and if I ever—"
Keith strokes the top of his hair. “I know. Shiro, I feel the same way. I couldn’t lose you three times. I just couldn’t.”
“You took the hit for me,” Shiro whispers.
“And I would every time. We knew the dangers of getting into the Drax region. Those insurgents were fanatic, Shiro, they weren’t afraid of anything—we saw that at Allura’s coronation—but we had to help those people, the kids.” Keith trails off. “I want you to take my place as Senior Blade if I can’t make it back.”
“Keith, don’t talk that way—”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? Our hallways are enlarged, we live in a one-story, everything is voice-activated or automated. We don’t talk about it, but it’s there.”
Shiro breathes in, eyes shimmering. “I want to do right by you.”
“You always do. You saved me first, remember?” Keith reaches for Shiro’s hand, thumbs the smooth surface of his ring speckled with luxite. As many times as it takes. “Come on, let’s get ready,” he says softly, “we have a long day.”
“I’ll be by your side,” Shiro promises.
“I know,” Keith says, and leans up to kiss him.