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The mission was hell, and Keith comes back bruised and battered and bloody.
Everything fucking hurts and he needs a fucking shower.
There were more of them, a lot more of them than the Blades had anticipated, and if Keith’s being honest, he barely got out.
It’s been a long time since he’s had such a close call.
He could spare only the most basic of first aid, hands fumbling between the med kit and the controls as he fled, and he’d bled a lot before he finally had time to stitch himself and not simply rely on a patch.
He’s tired and sore, and now, hours later, he can feel his heartbeat in every wound, memories thudding with each painful beat. The impact of the bolas to his chest. The pops of ballistics and the exploding pain in his back. The hiss of the lightsword against his ribs.
Red orange starbursts flash behind his eyes. The silence of the impact rings in his ears. He sees the blooms of flame engulfing his targets. Feels the gravity and adrenaline of the asteroid field he managed to dust them in. All of it playing like a movie in his mind.
Keith is on fire, every nerve in his body alive with the fever of survival and the weight of pain.
If he didn’t have such expert control over his own limbs, he’d be shaking.
But it’s fucking done. Soon, he will be able to relax his iron grip on the controls. Because the ATLAS looms above, a white behemoth against the shadow of space, and Keith is finally home.
-
Pidge has been biding her time. It’s been eight vargas since she received a packet of intel from Keith before he promptly went dark. It’s a technique he employs when a mission went particularly to shit and he fears active pursuit.
It’s times like these when Pidge doesn’t share her Keith updates. Shiro loves Keith updates. And he’d definitely go ballistic if he knew Pidge was keeping this from him.
Which is exactly why Pidge is keeping it from him. Because the thing is, Shiro worries.
Shiro does a lot of things, one of which is holding up the universe on his back. No one ever said his ship wasn’t named aptly.
The thing is, that Keith can handle himself, and Shiro does not need a reason to attempt a rescue mission with a ship the size of a mountain. The knowledge that Keith is literally fleeing the scene of the crime is knowledge that Shiro doesn’t need.
Not yet, anyway.
And so, Pidge waits. Until exactly eight vargas and thirteen dobashes later when Keith’s ship touches down in ATLAS’s hangar.
Pidge is watching through a camera.
If Keith knew, which he likely does, he would say that Pidge was spying. And then he would high five them. Surveillance is something they have in common, after all.
Testament to their dedication, Pidge does not take their eyes off the video feed. Even as it takes a full four dobashes for Keith to exit the ramp. Which is damn abnormal.
And when Keith comes out limping, which Pidge has seen him do exactly four times since she’s known him, Pidge begins their message.
-
PIDGE: Keith’s back. Mission successful. Went straight to your quarters. Definitely injured.
PIDGE: You’re welcome.
-
The message pings Shiro at the top of the meeting’s fifth hour. Shiro’s so annoyed that he’s legitimately considering begging off.
He does not need to be involved in a discussion on how best to select new crew provisions on their next shore voyage. His attention could be better spent on literally anything else. Like charting new navigation patterns, or reading up on nearby planets. Instead, he is in a meeting whose subject is food.
Which is all fine and good. Except for the fact that this arena is the domain of Colleen Holt, and Hunk, and Shiro’s presence is completely extraneous.
Also, he hasn’t seen his husband in two movements and frankly he’s cranky about it. So when Pidge pings him, he doesn’t even try to be subtle.
Just as well. He already has their attention when he abruptly rises, tells the gathering to direct any relevant memos to Veronica, and rushes out the door.
By the time he reaches the hallway, he’s already running.
ATLAS speeds his way as she always does and for which he’s never been more grateful. He encounters no one, which is helpful, as the sight of a running Admiral would probably ruin anyone’s day. It’s nice to have ATLAS watching out for the general anxiety of his crew.
Because Shiro wouldn’t be. Not right now.
Not when his sole priority is Keith.
Upon reaching their quarters, he wastes no time before loudly calling Keith’s name. His own heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he still hears the quiet hiss of the shower and then Keith’s voice, upon which hinges Shiro’s entire world.
“In here,” he calls.
And Shiro goes.
When he enters the bathroom, it’s to find Keith in the shower, hair dripping beneath fogged glass. He’s standing, which is a good sign, but that’s all Shiro can see from here.
He doesn’t even bother undressing before opening the door and stepping in, moving to cradle Keith’s precious face in his hands, and press their foreheads together.
“Keith, are you okay?” he says, searching those dark eyes for any secret they will show him.
Keith gazes back, the light of reunion in his eyes, and Shiro brushes his fingers over Keith’s cheek and jaw, stroking the fine hair leaking rivulets over his bruised temple.
“Shiro,” he says at last, voice rough. “You’re here. Let me help you out of these clothes. You’ll be soaked.”
As his hands move toward the buttons on Shiro’s jacket, Shiro whispers his name again, insistent, and Keith smiles, haggard and tiny, but there.
“I’m okay enough for this,” he says.
He’s stubborn and beautiful and so Shiro allows it, and as Keith fumbles with his buttons, Shiro takes in his body.
His chest is peppered with blossoming scarlet bruises, perfectly round, and there’s a regeneration patch on his ribs, through which Shiro can see a wound closed with Keith’s neat stitches.
He ghosts his fingers over the edges of the patch, smooths his hand over Keith’s waist, and Keith inhales beneath his palm.
“Didn’t have a lot of other options,” he rasps.
Shiro merely nods. He’s no stranger to battlefield healing. It’s helped Keith enough to get him here and into Shiro’s arms. He’s safe and home, and now Shiro gets to put him back together.
He doesn’t speak as he lifts his hands to twine with Keiths. As he helps Keith slide the jacket from Shiro’s shoulders before they toss it over the side of the shower along with his tank.
When Keith’s bruised fingers fumble with his belt, Shiro takes them in his hands and kisses each of his wrists, waiting until those purple eyes meet his.
He stares deeply into Keith and says, “Let me take care of you.”
Keith inhales, violet searching grey. His lashes flutter as he whispers, “Shiro.”
Shiro takes it for the assent that it is. “ATLAS, switch to bath.”
The tiles rearrange. A second faucet springs to life. Shiro strips off his pants and then sinks down, leaning his back against the wall and reaching up both hands for Keith.
“Sit with me, baby.”
And when Keith turns around, grasping Shiro’s hands to lower himself into Shiro’s lap, Shiro bites his lip to hold back his gasp.
Because Keith’s left flank is black and blue, and because he didn’t hesitate to let Shiro see it anyway.
His heart swells with pride as Keith settles against him, and Shiro strokes his knee before cradling one of his bruised hands, raising it to his lips where he kisses each knuckle, soft enough to soothe and never to hurt.
“Do you want to tell me about it, Keith?” he whispers into Keith’s skin.
Keith gives a weak shake of his head. “Not right now.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” Shiro says. “Do you need me to talk?”
“No,” Keith whispers, and Shiro can feel him shiver against his chest. “Just…”
He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. Shiro knows.
Shiro tilts his head, kissing Keith’s cheekbone with the softest brush of lips. He gentles his hands over Keith’s body, soothing the aches with his touch, kissing across Keith’s shoulders, his chest, and every bruise within reach.
The soap makes for the gentlest glide and Keith sags against him, purring and nosing into Shiro’s jaw to scent him, to press his lips against his pulse point.
It soothes him, he’d told Shiro once. To take Shiro’s scent into his lungs. To feel the evidence of Shiro’s life against his mouth.
Shiro can feel the evidence of Keith’s exhaustion, and still he kisses Shiro’s neck. They sit like that, Keith sucking on Shiro’s skin as Shiro massages his wrists and kisses his head. When Keith at last surfaces from his throat, then Shiro pops the cap on the shampoo.
He’s washed Keith’s hair many times. They’ve been married for so long, and this, bathing together, is seared into Shiro’s heart as theirs. It is a well trodden memory of their marriage and he has done this a hundred times. In happy moments of indulgence, in somber moments like this.
It’s calming, tactile, and Shiro grounds himself in the feeling of touching Keith. Of working his fingers through Keith’s fine, thick hair, and massaging his scalp.
Shiro still feels as though he’s going to float away sometimes. Of all the faded wounds from the war, the memory of being dead still haunts him like a shadow.
But never with Keith. Shiro knows, down to his bones, that if he’s with Keith, then he is alive. Touching him, holding him helps anchor the unmoored feeling in Shiro’s chest. The ache drowned out by the simple act of washing his beloved’s hair.
He takes his time and they are quiet save for Shiro’s murmurs of, “Close your eyes,” before each rinse of Keith’s hair.
By the time he is finished, Keith is boneless, head lolling against Shiro’s shoulder, limbs sagging beneath the water.
Shiro kisses his cheek before gathering him to his chest and lifting them both from the bath. Keith hums against his throat, and as Shiro sets him gently down on the toilet, it pains him to have to let go and grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink, but he does, and Keith leans into him as Shiro tends his wounds.
He spreads salve over Keith’s bruises and applies a new patch to the stitches, pressing kisses into his skin and whispering sweet nothings in his ear all the while.
And when he’s finished he lays them down for bed, holding Keith against him so as not to put weight on his injuries. He says, “I’ve got you, baby.”
Keith presses his face into Shiro’s neck and whispers, “I know.”