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It's stupid, it's archaic, it's petty, but—whenever he shares a bed with Lance (which is becoming more and more often, lately), he finds himself intentionally taking the side of the bed that's closest to the quarters door. The idea sounds good, the idea of anything that comes through that door having to go through him, but the stupid part is that he still can't convince himself of the fact that anything dangerous coming near the door would be pretty indicative of a bigger fucking problem.
Keith's sitting up with his back against the wall while Lance is laying down beside him, fast asleep. He's pretty sure Lance could sleep through an actual battle, if given half a chance. They haven't exactly been doing—whatever this is—for very long, but as far as Keith can tell, he's got little to no problem actually getting to sleep any given night, lucky bastard. Contrast, really, when Keith's stuck like this awake at who-knows o'clock at night, unable to shake the conviction that something bad is going to happen. It's worse given just how much he relies on his instincts; how do you separate the reasonable things from the irrational crap? Having actual reasons to be paranoid just adds that much more fuel to the fire.
Considering the current galactic political climate, they're by technicality floating around in a warzone. They're fugitives in Galra eyes. How is he not supposed to be constantly wired-up?
He'll never admit it, just as he tries not to admit to pretty much anything unless absolutely necessary, but having Lance around does help. There's less noise in his brain now that he's starting to piece together what the hell Lance wants from him, now that things aren't confined to meaningless, godawful bickering—that still happens, sure, but less often and slightly less annoying. Sharing a bed with Lance is odd in ways he doesn't know how to define (so much unfamiliar proximity—he's spent most of his life on a different orbit from everybody else in the world), but not at all unpleasant, and he's been sleeping easier.
Lance. He's lying right there, face flopped into the crook of his arm, sprawled out like some kind of previously unknown non-Newtonian fluid, or maybe like a particularly content (yet very sleepy) cat. Close enough for Keith to grasp his hand without hardly moving in the slightest, and isn't that still something that bewilders him if his mind sticks on it for too long. It's hard to see anything in the quarters, the only light coming through the slit under the sliding door, but what parts of Lance's face aren't buried in a bent arm look... surprisingly calm. Most people are calm when they sleep. Only Lance could exist so blatantly, loudly, constantly that you're surprised at basic sleep behavior.
He's even skipped his typical moisturizing routine tonight, because kissing someone who is wearing an overnight face mask is about as pleasant as you'd expect, which is not at all. The way it makes his face softer is definitely not unappreciated, though, although Keith will never admit that on pain of death. Keith supposes he should be flattered that Lance is willing to interrupt his skincare routine for him. He exhales sharply.
He could go back to his own room. And do what? Languish in weird wound-up crap all night alone? Finally get to sleep, by himself in his own bed, with his knife under the pillow—and Lance always does get on his case for that, but he's never seen it as anything much more than normal. The knife is more for comfort than any real risk of threat—a reassurance, when he feels it there. He's kept it under his pillow for ages now, one of the few things he's been able to truly call his. It's felt strange, sleeping in Lance's bed without it. No, going back to his own room would be weird, and awkward in the morning. Might as well just stay here. He's stuck awake just the same either way. He pulls his eyes away from Lance and stares frustrated into the distance between himself and the wall on the other side of the room. Does it count as literally staring into space if you happen to be in space, but not actually looking out a porthole or anything?
"I don't mind getting an eyeful of your back muscles, but you look like a freaking vulture sitting up like that." Holy shit. Lance's voice (albeit sleepier and at a slower tempo) jumpstarts him back into reality, his heart going double-time in his chest. He thought Lance was impervious to external stimuli until awake! Why does everything make so much more noise when he's already mentally climbing up the walls! He turns back around by the end of the sentence, which is apparently what passes for a greeting in Lance's world, trying to even out his breathing. By some miracle Lance seems to catch on, and goes from groggy to looking at least slightly repentant. "Nevermind. Vultures aren't as easy to startle."
Keith is too tired to settle back into the usual back-and-forth routine. He gets to the point. "Did I wake you up?" There's something about going from being by yourself to not that makes you feel—different. More real, in the way that certain particles become only when observed.
Lance rubs his eye, having rolled over onto his side to face Keith. He squints, looking like he's trying to do complex mathematics to answer a yes or no question. "You were bouncing your leg. If you're trying to generate a mini earthquake, you're probably almost there. Keep trying, maybe we could hook you up to a generator and use you as auxiliary power." A brief pause, during which Lance's nose crinkles right in the space between his eyes. "Does it still count as an earthquake if we're in space?"
Keith takes a deep breath, turning away. The inner machinations of Lance's mind—there's gotta be some gears turning in there somewhere—are a fucking mystery. One he is admittedly trying to solve, but one great big mystery all the same. It doesn't help that Lance—he works on, like, all these different levels, hard to read even when he isn't trying to snag under Keith's skin. ...Wait. Leg bouncing. He was doing that? He should stop doing that. Crap. "Sorry."
A muffled noise of contentment as Lance stretches alongside him in bed. "Mm. No problem." He's smiling but something in his expression falls flat after a moment, and Keith knows a barrage of questioning is incoming. "Why are you awake at... whatever, o'clock, anyways?" His voice is softer. It's part of Lance he's noticing rarely sees the (now mostly metaphorical) light of day. Keith can't say he minds, really, but he's never been one to order words neatly, so he doubts in his response.
"Not all of us have the ability to fall asleep the moment we sit down." Smooth. Great talker. It gets the point across, though, if indirectly. Lance purses his lips. There's a rare pause, like he's considering something. Lance? Thinking before he speaks? Keith really is bordering sleep deprivation, if he's starting to see impossible things. "What's eating you?" Lance says, finally.
Keith blinks. "What?" "Dude, you're about as subtle right now as... something that isn't very subtle. Iunno, man, I just woke up." A huff. "But if something's bothering you, or something, then. I mean. We're kind of, like, sharing the same bed. If that's not intimate enough for you to mention a problem now and again then I don't know what your deal is." And with the approximate grace of the average elephant, he plops a hand on Keith's thigh.
Lance can be convincing, sometimes. Very rarely. Keith rolls his shoulders, his hand finding its way to be laid—tentatively—over Lance's. Lance doesn't put out much heat, for someone constantly bouncing off the walls with energy. "Doesn't it feel like—" he takes a second to get the words together, hard to do when all his neurons are firing in Lance's general direction "—like, something's always about to happen." When you say it out loud, it sounds pretty stupid. He should have just tried harder to go back to sleep.
"Things generally happen in a linear order, yeah, unless we're talking... some string theory shit, I don't know." Lance doesn't get it, does he? And Keith hates string theory. He opens his mouth to say something when Lance drums his fingers on the edge of Keith's thigh. "No, I getcha. Something with the Galra, or a distress signal, or an attack—stuff like that, huh? Not as peaceful out here as a crappy shack in the desert."
Sometimes he gets the sense the team doesn't give Lance enough credit (only sometimes). Lance can be one of the most observant, when he chooses (again, only sometimes). Except Keith's shack wasn't crappy. His breath is caught a little in his throat, and he has to take a second to remember to breathe before speaking. "Uh... yeah." What's he supposed to say after being called out? "Am I that obvious?"
A snort. "Keith, dude, you sleep in your clothes with a knife under your pillow. You just woke me up by rattling your foot so hard it registered on the Richter scale. I'd have to be stupid not to guess." Wow. Okay. So he is quite that obvious. It's not like he's exactly used to this level of interpersonal contact. It took him long enough to figure out how to interact with people properly in normal situations, let alone... whatever this is, whatever they are. Without thinking, he runs his thumb over the back of Lance's hand. "Lance, I don't think you're stupid."
A grin, half-buried into the mattress with the way Lance is sprawled out on his side. "Now that you've admitted my genius, will you listen to my brilliant idea?" Oh, god. He should have known that was a trap. He submits to his fate. "Oh, geez. Sure, why not."
"First, I'm gonna need you to lay back down," Lance says, pulling his hand away from Keith's to slide it up to his chest, nudging him backwards into a more comfortable position—Keith wonders, idly, if Lance can feel his heart picking up the pace. "What's second?"
"Second—" Lance doesn't move his hand from Keith's chest "—I need you to realize that, come on, dude, even if an attack does happen overnight, it's not like you're gonna sleep through it. The alarms are gonna sound, and the rest of us are going to be in our pajamas just waking up like, y'know, normal people who don't sleep with knives under their pillow, what is up with that, dude, so what's the point in being ready first? What are you gonna do, go form Voltron by yourself while the rest of us put on our shoes? Giving yourself an ulcer over this crap isn't even worth it. If it happens, it happens."
Oh, god. He knew this day would come eventually. Lance is right. He'd say hell froze over, but Lance is the one with the ice power crap, and he's up here. Keith's too tired to start shit over this. He closes his eyes. "Okay. Fine. You're right." But what's he supposed to do? Not be paranoid over the possibilities? That's like asking Lance not to tell fart jokes. It's basically an unstoppable force of nature.
"Two for two, man," Lance says, giving him a thumbs up. "Third. Check this shit out." Keith only has a few seconds to ponder what evil is about to be unleashed before Lance—flops his arm across his torso and tugs himself closer, close enough to bury his face into Keith's neck and press a kiss to his where it meets his shoulder. Keith is really glad Lance didn't put face mask on tonight. "The personal Lance seal of approval. Guaranteed safe. Any bullshit is gonna have to get through me."
Keith isn't sure what he expected. His chest feels warm, but in a calm sort of way that he isn't—isn't used to, doesn't know how to place. It's not really that he's all that reassured; paranoia is stupidly stupid, especially when it keeps you up, but having Lance around and this close helps. It does. Having him right there and knowing immediately that Lance is safe helps. He sighs. Lance's arm is already feeling like a lump on his chest. "Go back to sleep, man."