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The mission had gone wrong in the way missions so often did. Fast, loud, and with far too many dumb mistakes.
Keith insisted he was fine right up until he tried to stand on the bridge of the Red Lion and nearly fell face flat.
“Whoa, hey, nope.” Lance caught him under the arms before he hit the floor. “Absolutely not. You are not doing the dramatic injury walk. That is my thing.”
“I’m fine,” Keith muttered, face pressed briefly against Lance’s shoulder.
“You are bleeding through your shirt.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Lance looked down at the dark stain spreading along Keith’s side, then back up at him with a stare so offended it could have powered the Castle of Lions.
“You got stabbed by a Galra blade.”
“Scratched.”
“Stabbed.”
Keith squinted at him. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re injured. Shiro!” Lance called, louder still. “Pidge! Coran! Literally anyone with medical supplies and the ability to tell this idiot he can’t walk off being impaled!”
Keith made an unconvincing attempt to pull away. Lance tightened his hold.
“Don’t,” Lance said, softer now.
Something in his voice made Keith stop fighting.
___________________
Allura had declared mandatory rest. Coran had patched Keith up, explained the importance of not reopening the wound three separate times, and then somehow produced a recovery schedule with colorful little stars beside the word *sleep.*
Keith hated it.
________________
So naturally, several hours later, Lance slipped into Keith’s room carrying two blankets, a mug of tea, a container of gooey Altean goop.
Keith was awake, sitting stiffly against his pillows with his arms crossed.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Lance whispered.
Keith raised one eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Yeah, well. I tried.” Lance shut the door with his heel. “Then I remembered you got stabbed, and now I’m here.”
“Again, scratched.”
“Do you want me to get Coran’s charts?”
“No.”
“Then stabbed it is.”
Lance set the supplies down and carefully handed Keith the soup. For a while, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the castle engines and Keith reluctantly eating spoonful after spoonful because Lance watched him like a hawk.
When the container was empty, Lance took it away and tucked the blankets around Keith’s legs.
Keith stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t get cold.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You have three blankets on.”
“Then why are you adding another one?”
“Emotional support blanket,” Lance said immediately. “It’s different.”
Keith’s mouth twitched.
Lance caught it and pointed accusingly. “Was that almost a smile? Don’t distract me, Mullet. You’re on bed rest.”
“Lance.”
“What?”
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
Keith gave him a flat look.
Lance sighed, the fight leaking right out of him. “Okay. Maybe I haven’t slept much.”
“Why?”
The question was quiet. Keith’s voice had lost its usual edge, replaced with something careful.
Lance looked down at his hands. “Because you scared me.”
Keith went still.
Lance tried to laugh it off, but it came out small. “I saw you go down, and I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought I was too late.”
For once, Keith didn’t have a sharp response. He shifted slowly, wincing as he moved over in the bed.
“Come here,” he said.
Lance blinked. “What?”
“You look like you’re going to fall over.”
“I am not—”
“Lance.”
It was not quite an order. It was softer than that, and somehow harder to ignore.
Lance carefully climbed onto the far edge of the bed, clearly trying to leave plenty of space around Keith’s injury. He lay stiffly on top of the blankets, facing the ceiling.
“There,” he said. “I’m here. You can sleep now.”
Keith turned his head toward him. “You’re not comfortable.”
“I’m fine.”
Keith’s hand found Lance’s wrist under the blanket. His fingers were warm, a little rough, and steady.
“Stay,” Keith said.
Lance’s breath caught.
Then Keith, with all the confidence of someone who had apparently decided this was completely normal, tugged him closer.
“Careful,” Lance whispered, instantly alert. “Your side—”
“I know.”
“You need to tell me if it hurts.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
Keith looked at him, expression tired but fond. “I promise.”
That was enough to let Lance curl around him, loosely at first. One arm settled over Keith’s middle, avoiding the bandages; his face tucked into the space beneath Keith’s chin. Keith’s hand slipped into Lance’s hair.
Lance went very still.
Keith stroked his thumb once over the soft blue strands. “You’re warm.”
“Yeah,” Lance mumbled. “Human heater. It’s one of my many gifts.”
Keith’s quiet laugh vibrated against Lance’s forehead.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The castle felt peaceful around them. Keith’s breathing gradually evened out, and Lance listened to every inhale like it was proof that everything was okay.
Eventually, sleep began pulling at Lance harder than his worry could fight it.
“Hey, Keith?”
“Mmm?”
“If you get up to train before you’re healed, I’m telling Shiro.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
Keith’s fingers tightened gently in his hair. “Okay.”
“And I’m taking your knife privileges away.”
“That’s cruel.”
“And I’ll make Hunk put vegetables in every meal.”
Keith let out a sleepy sound that might have been a laugh. “I hate you.”
"Aw, love you too, Mullet"
“Go to sleep.”
"Don't tell me what to do."
Lance smiled against his collarbone. “Yeah. Okay.”
When Lance woke several hours later, gray morning light was spilling through the room’s window. Keith was still asleep, one arm tucked around Lance’s shoulders as if sometime during the night he had decided Lance needed protecting too.
Lance didn’t move.
He just pulled the blankets a little higher around them both, rested his cheek against Keith’s chest, and let himself fall asleep again, safe, warm, and exactly where he wanted to be.