Chapter Text
Shiro wakes up coughing, with blood hot in his throat and his teeth scraping over his tongue as he’s jostled in his seat, the black lion rattling around him as they fall. The white flash of the view screen stings at his eyes when he lifts his head, and he can’t orient himself beyond the howl of the warning alarms, the dull pulse of pain stinging at the inside of his cheek, curling along his abdomen like claws, hooked deep and pulling.
“Shiro! Hey!” A weak voice filters over the comms, almost drowned out by the shriek of the sirens, the ringing in Shiro’s ears. “Answer me!”
“Keith?”
Static crackles through the speaker, and it’s too easy for Shiro to picture Keith rolling his eyes, ducking his head to huff out an annoyed sigh against his collar.
“Yes, Keith! Pull up before you kill us both!”
Shiro swallows, his saliva coppery and thick, gummy in his mouth. He shakes his head, blinks until his eyes agree to focus, and it takes a moment for his vision to clear, for him to comprehend that the massive expanse of white displayed on screen isn’t a glitch, but the snow-covered tundra he’s hurtling towards.
He’s carrying Keith again, the red lion caught in the black lion’s jaws, weighing her down. Shiro remembers plummeting through the side of the wormhole, of crashing into the red lion and latching on. They were thrown about together, Keith yelling something over comms that Shiro couldn’t catch, his vision darkening as they were flung through space, end over end.
Shiro yanks back on the controls, pressing hard into his seat as he urges the black lion to rise. There’s a whining in his ears, a buzzing sensation that rushes over his skin and settles in his fingertips, the ones still made of flesh and bone. He reaches out to his lion, trying to recall the calm certainty he felt while free falling over Arus, the sense of something greater than himself stirring, stretching back to meet him halfway.
“Shiro!” Keith shouts, panic in his voice, and the black lion offers nothing but cold silence.
“Brace yourself,” Shiro warns, and Keith’s reply is swallowed up by the scrape of ice on metal as the black lion’s feet skid against he frozen ground. Shiro bows his head and tightens his grip, tries to keep his lion steady even as the impact shudders through his arms. For a moment he almost thinks he’ll succeed, but something catches against the red lion’s paw, a hunk of ice or massive bolder, and Shiro is thrown forward in his seat, the break in his armour cracking against the edge of the control panel.
Shiro chokes, his breath leaving him in a rush as pain flares along his side. He’s not sure if he jerks the controls or if it’s the obstruction that knocks the black lion off balance, but whatever the reason both lions are left hurtling off course, tipping over and skidding on their sides across the ice and snow, spinning away from each other as they slowly drag to a stop.
Shiro is left gasping, hunched over with a sick taste splashing at the back of his tongue. His head spins as he guides his lion into an upright position, bracing his feet against the floor, trying to steady himself as the world tips back into place.
“Keith?” Shiro croaks. “You all right, buddy?”
“Y—” Keith cuts himself off, muttering something beneath his breath as a clunking sound filters across the comms. “I’m fine. Did you pass out?”
“Yeah. Anyone else come through with us?”
“Not that I can tell. You getting a read on anything? Any chatter?”
“Nothing.” Shiro brings up the alternate control screen with a quick flick of his wrist, squinting at the readout. “How’s the red lion?”
“Not responding. There’s power, but—” a faint clicking sounds over the comms. Shiro can only assume Keith is hauling at the controls, a firm scowl set in place.
“Hey, go easy over there,” Shiro says. “Don’t try to force anything. Pidge and Hunk can take a look when we get back.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Keith asks, tone clipped, suddenly sharp.
Shiro doesn’t take the bait. “What else should I be saying?”
“Coran told me not to go after Zarkon,” Keith says, still pushing. “I didn’t listen.”
The corner of Shiro’s mouth twitches. He presses a hand over the crack in his armour, loose pieces shifting beneath his fingers, dragging against the thin soft-suit he’s wearing underneath. He clenches his teeth, a sharp hiss of air escaping between them as something throbs and pulls too far, tearing.
“You sound angry enough for the both of us,” he says, hoping that Keith can’t hear the waver in his voice. “Besides, I’m not sure I’m in the best position right now to lecture someone else about their poor choices. Can you make it over here?”
More vague sounds flood the black lion’s cockpit. Keith moving around, maybe. “Just give me a minute to gather up some supplies.”
“Those supplies include a med-kit?”
“They… can.” A beat of silence. “You’re hurt?”
Shiro pulls in a slow breath. He lifts his hand, and his palm peels away from the break in his armour, slick and red.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m hurt.”
--
Shiro decides against taking off his armour until Keith has made it over safely, and he’s glad that he does. The moment the hatch opens a gust of snow and sleet rush inside, the wind so cold that it burns against the bare skin of Shiro’s jaw. Keith hurries forward, hunched over against the squall, a supply bag clutched tight against his chest.
“I’ll have to make another trip,” Keith says, the faceplate of his helmet retracting as he hauls himself into the black lion’s cockpit. “Couldn’t bring over all of the rations. What happened?”
“Had a run in with Zarkon’s witch,” Shiro says (Haggar, a voice whispers in the back of his head. Her name is Haggar. You know it is).
He turns so Keith can see the damage for himself, trying to keep his expression neutral, sheepish, like this is more embarrassing for him than anything else.
Keith doesn’t seem to buy the act, his eyes narrowing, brows pulling inwards.
“There’s blood on your face,” Keith tells him, knuckling the corner of his own mouth when Shiro blinks in response.
“I bit my tongue.”
“Right.”
“I’d tell you if I was coughing up blood, Keith.”
Shiro pulls off his helmet and unclips his gloves, but needs Keith’s help in taking off his chest plate, the wound at his side pulling when he tries to lift his arm too high. He’s already bled through his soft-suit, the stain spreading out over his hip and stomach, stretching down towards his thigh.
Keith goes still at the sight, his face drawn and pale.
“Probably looks worse than it is,” Shiro says, peeling back the top portion of his suit, rolling it up towards his chest to get a better look.
There are three gouges running along the curve of Shiro’s waist, the lowest resting just above the jut of his hip. The edge of each cut looks tattered, like a torn strip of paper, and the surrounding skin is dark and bruised. Shiro squints, thinks he can see a thin, spider-web like pattern branching out from the wound beneath his skin, spreading out and across his abdomen.
“I don’t know,” Keith says, crossing his arms. “Looks pretty bad to me.”
“You’re picking up on Lance’s attitude, you know that, right?”
“I am not—”
“Can you stitch it?” Shiro asks. “I think the angle’s a bit awkward for me.”
The edges of Keith’s mouth tighten.
“Shiro—”
“We can’t do anything more about it now. Not until we get back to the castle.”
“I know, I just— I’ve never done that before.”
“First time for everything,” Shiro says, feigning a lightness he doesn’t feel.
Keith still looks unsure, so Shiro knocks the heel of his hand against his shoulder, putting just enough force behind the blow to make him sway where he stands.
“Come on, kiddo. I know you can do it.”
Keith scowls. “Don’t call me that. I hate that.”
“I remember,” Shiro says, smiling a little at the look it earns him.
They pool their resources, picking through the combined contents of their med-kits, putting aside as much as possible. Keith deciphers whatever it is the Altean’s use for anesthetic mostly by process of elimination, cracking open the container’s seal with a quick twist of his hand. The sharp, clean scent of it turns Shiro’s stomach, makes his throat tighten. For a moment he feels claustrophobic, enclosed, trapped, and a quick image darts to the forefront of his mind, long fingers reaching out towards him, curling tight around his wrist.
“Shiro?” Keith says.
“It’s fine.” Shiro’s metal hand twitches, humming with the slightest hint of energy. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”
There’s nowhere to lie down in the cockpit but on the floor, and even then Shiro barely manages to fit, his heels bumping against the wall when stretches out his legs. Keith kneels beside him, and despite his initial nervousness his hands are steady as he works, his stitches small and surprisingly neat. More than once Shiro has to help, pressing the flayed edges of his skin together as Keith pulls the thread through, specks of blood welling up beneath his fingers.
Keith eyes flicker, almost hidden beneath the dark fringe of his hair. At first Shiro thinks he’s looking up at him, trying to gauge Shiro’s reaction, checking to see if he’s in pain. But then it occurs to him that even though the soft-suit has only been pulled halfway up his chest, there are still scars visible on his stomach, twisted and angry, stark against his skin.
“Done,” Keith says, falling back on his heels, reaching for a roll of gauze.
“Great,” Shiro says. He pauses, gives Keith the chance to ask his questions, and then continues on when he doesn’t. “Thanks. You did a good job.”
Keith doesn’t respond. Shiro pushes himself up onto his elbow, tilts his head when Keith looks back to him. “You’ve really never done that before?”
“I… use to have to stitch up my old clothes,” Keith says, quiet but not embarrassed. “You know, when money was tight.”
Shiro nods and doesn’t say anything more about it. He lets Keith finish dressing the wound before digging out a couple of protein bars, tossing one to Keith and listening to the quiet hum of the black lion’s cockpit as they eat.
“How long can we last out here, do you think?” Keith asks.
Shiro shrugs. “If we ration the… rations and presume we can just eat the snow for water… a couple of weeks?”
“Will that be enough?”
“Allura will find us long before it’s not. She tracked down the lions once already, right?”
“The Galra will be looking, too.”
“Blindly. They’ll have no idea where to start.”
“I mean… they were the ones who messed up the wormhole. So they might.”
Shiro’s not sure how to counter that point. “Well… let’s hope not.”
“Encouraging.”
“Hey, cut me some slack. I’m injured.”
“Yeah.” Keith swallows, crinkling the ration’s wrapper in his hand. “You should get some sleep.”
“You too. It’s been a long day.”
“I can keep watch, for awhile.”
“I don’t think you have to. The lion’s sensors will pick up on anything long before we do.”
“Would they wake us, though?”
“I’m a pretty light sleeper.”
Shiro stretches out on he floor again, raising his eyebrows in a silent form of encouragement until Keith huffs out a breath and deigns to settle down next to him, leaving a gap between their arms. In truth, Shiro doubts he’ll get much rest, anyways. He can’t remember the last time he managed to sleep through the night. If it’s not the nightmares that rouse him it’s something else, the rumbling of the castle as it conducts some kind of scan, Allura’s mice skittering through the vents. No matter how harmless or common the sound may be, Shiro always wakes the same way, with his chest tight and heart racing, his hand raised and ready to strike.
“Shiro?”
“Hm?”
“I— I think I need to tell you something.”
He sounds strange, Shiro thinks. Hesitant and uncertain, not at all like the Keith Shiro knows.
“Keith?”
“Zarkon had a bayard,” Keith says, choking out the words like they’re being torn from him.
Shiro opens his eyes. For a moment it feels as though his heart has gone still in his chest before it starts to beat again, pounding hard against his ribs.
“He—” Shiro’s voice dies in his throat. He drags the sore edge of his tongue against his teeth, lets the pain ground him.
“He said some things, too,” Keith continues. “I think—he was the black lion’s paladin. Before you.”
“Allura would have known that,” Shiro says quietly, unsure of how he feels, what he should be doing with that information.
Keith says nothing, and Shiro thinks that he should pester him for more details, demand some kind of clarification. But then he remembers the Galra insignia flooding the black lion’s view screens, the controls locking under his hands and the jolt of his seat rocketing backwards, throwing him out into space, and whatever he means to ask withers and turns to dust in his mouth.
Silence stretches out between them like a taught rope, until exhaustion wins out and Keith’s breath begins to slow. Shiro tries to match it, holding up his prosthetic arm and splaying his fingers, peering up at the cockpit’s domed ceiling through the gaps.
Can you hear me? He wonders. Am I just a poor replacement? A temporary pilot until he takes you back?
Shiro doesn’t expect the black lion to respond, not now, but her silence still falls over him like a physical weight, settling deep in his chest like a stone.