Chapter Text
They don't dare wait for long. There's no telling when Zarkon or Sendak or Rarrek will next decide to entertain themselves with their pain.
But for all the urgency of wanting to escape, Shiro's own involvement in the plan is limited. It is Keith who will carve out a path for them. There are no outward signs of whether Keith is affected by any of this, whether he is nervous or scared or doubtful. One day, he simply steps into Shiro's cabin and gives a tight nod. It is all the sign Shiro needs.
Finally, it is time.
They have a light lunch, just something to tide them over for the next few hours without weighing them down, but then there is nothing left to do. They have no personal belongings to take with them, no one to wish farewell. They will leave no mark on this ship that has put scars on them in so many different ways. The silence between them weighs heavy, meaningful, profound.
Before they leave, however, Shiro grabs Keith by the wrist, holding him back for just a moment.
“Thank you,” he says when Keith glances back at him, “For helping me.”
But Keith just shrugs, “They did tell me to follow you orders.”
There is no remorse in his voice, no worry. All these weeks Shiro had tried to determine how loyal Keith was to the Galran Empire. And all along the answer had been: not at all.
In spite of his own nerves, Shiro finds himself grinning. Keith's lips whisper an answering smirk back at him.
And then it begins.
They make their way to the training deck, their usual routine a good excuse to move around outside without raising anyone's suspicion. Under the always curious eyes of the other prisoners, they engage in a light sparring match. It has the additional benefit of warming up their muscles before they actually might have to fight some of the guards, but for that same reason they know that they mustn't exhaust themselves just yet.
Usually, when they are here together, they train for at least two hours. But that is not an option today. So a couple of minutes in, Keith gives Shiro another almost imperceptible nod.
The next time Shiro wrestles Keith down, he keeps him there, presses him into the ground with the weight of his body, covering him. Keith struggles underneath him, bucks his hips, lets out frustrated noises. Today it's entirely for show, but completely in line with how he usually acts when he is losing a match. Shiro's reaction, however, is a new one.
Ever aware of the attentive gazes on them, Shiro takes a calming breath. Then he bears down on Keith.
“Hold still,” he growls roughly. His left hand finds the exposed skin of Keith's upper thigh where the tunic has slipped up once more. Keith's breath hitches and Shiro can't quite tell whether that is pretend as well.
Gritting his jaw, his slides his hand up higher, underneath the fabric and onto Keith's sharp hipbone.
“No,” Keith protests, his struggles intensifying, “Don't.”
“Oh?” Shiro cocks a condescending eyebrow, “That's not what you said last night.”
He could vomit with how those words feel on his tongue, but he's got to play his part.
Around them some of the aliens chuckle. Keith turns his head away, going limp in Shiro's hold.
“Not- not here,” he says, more quietly but still enough for most to hear, “Please.”
“Tsk,” Shiro huffs but retreats anyway, getting to his feet and pulling Keith up in the process. A final tug to the boy's wrist and Shiro has slung him over his shoulder.
Under derisive snorts and some whistles, Shiro carries Keith off the training deck, his intent seemingly obvious.
“That kind of exercise won't help you in the arena, Champion,” one of the guards by the door warns him good-naturedly and Shiro smirks.
“It's still good training,” he claims, jostling Keith's weight a bit, “He likes to bite.”
Keith makes an indignant noise but it's drowned out by the guards' laughter. Shiro makes his way into the direction of his cabin, but as soon as they round the corner he sets Keith down.
“Sorry,” he says in contrition.
“Don't apologize,” Keith frowns, “That was part of the plan.”
And then he is already striding down the hallway and towards the elevator, so there is nothing for Shiro but to follow.
Many of the control panels do not react if a non-Galran tries to work them, so it's Keith who presses his hand to the sensor to take them to the lowest deck. It's the cargo deck, the one where Keith has spent most of his time when he was still a pilot.
They sneak along the hallways, ducking behind corners and counting out the seconds as guards pass them, timing the movement of the patrols before they move on.
Like this it takes them close to half an hour to get to the hangar, but at least they do not run into any trouble. That is, until Keith points out their intended escape vehicle.
Because Shiro doesn't know much about Galran technology, but this thing looks like the space equivalent of a rubber dinghy.
“It's been set aside for minor repairs,” Keith explains, opening the door to the pilot's seat, while Shiro realizes that maybe he should not just have the majority of the planning to Keith without making certain that Keith knew what he was doing.
“Even if it were brand new and working,” Shiro points out, fighting down the tight feeling in his chest, “That thing will never be fast enough.”
But Keith shakes his head, already climbing into the cockpit.
“We are close to a wormhole which opens not far away from your planet,” he says, “That should do it.”
“How?” Shiro objects, scrambling up and onto the seat of the co-pilot. He is hit by an odd sense of déjà vu because somehow this reminds him of his early days as a cadet. “You don't even know where my home planet is.”
“There is a data log for every prisoner, stating their name, species and planet of origin,” Keith points out as he fires up the console. Around them, the ship hums to life.
“But-”
“And the circumstances of their capture,” Keith adds, “You were caught close to a gas giant-”
“Jupiter,”
“- and that's where the wormhole opens up.”
“It's still too far away from Earth,” Shiro gasps, “Just getting there took months. This thing is not equipped for deep space travel and-”
Keith levels him with a look. “Superior species, remember?” he says dryly, “Superior science included.”
Right. Galran ships probably moved a lot faster than Terran ones. So Shiro takes a deep breath, hoping to calm the panic that had overwhelmed him so suddenly. He can trust Keith, in this and in everything.
“Alright,” he says, making a point of leaning back in his seat and facing forward, “Take us out of here, pilot.”
“This is where you accelerate,” Keith explains, his fingers moving across the control panel so deftly that Shiro has trouble following, “It can't go very fast, so you have to be gentle with it.”
They have taken the ship to the hangar without any complications. So far, everything had gone according to plan. That means that of course something has to go wrong at some point.
“Alright,” Keith nods to himself and then lifts himself out of his seat, “You take over.”
“What?” Shiro says, alarmed because even though he paid attention he does not feel comfortable piloting this thing.
“I have to open the hangar. Can't do that from in here,” Keith explains. It would almost sound akin to exasperation, but there is something else there. A strange hush to his voice, a breathlessness. Maybe it's just the excitement.
He opens the hatch on his side of the ship and makes to climb out. Before he does, however, he stills for a moment, just looking at Shiro. Then he gives himself a push and jumps out of the opening.
Shiro quickly takes his place, craning his head to see where Keith hits the ground running and takes off into the direction of where the first doors to the separate hangars open.
That is, of course, when things start to go wrong.
Just as Keith has manually pulled the lever that opens the hangar, he is noticed by the guards on patrol.
“Hey!” one of them calls out, “Hey, what are you doing?”
Keith doesn't answer, just swivels around with a growl.
“Look at him,” the other guard says, “He's dressed like a slave.”
“There are no pick-ups scheduled for today,” the first one says, “Get that ship back where it belongs.”
Instead of even trying to come up with a credible story, Keith does what he does best. He charges right at them. Shiro resists the urge to bang his head against the headboard. Instead, he somewhat awkwardly maneuvers the ship into the hangar, though he still cranes his neck to see what is happening below.
Keith, agile and wiry, seems to be holding his own against the guards. In their surprise, he has managed to disarm one of them, while he is now wrestling the other for his phaser gun. The first one, sitting on the floor and looking a little stunned, quickly regains his bearings. He does not reach for his weapon, however, and instead grabs the communication device attached to his belt.
“Code Seven-Four-Seven,” he barks out, “Get Officer Rarrek down to hangar 14!”
Shiro has no idea what Code Seven-Four-Seven is, but he knows that he does not want to risk another encounter with Rarrek, especially not so soon after Keith has suffered under the Galra's hands.
In that moment, Keith is thrown back, landing hard on his shoulder and sliding along the ground. Unlike the guards, he is not wearing any sort of armor and when he pushes himself up his unprotected skin is scraped and sore. That, however, is the least of his problems because a moment later he finds two barrels pointed at him.
Shiro curses under his breath. Then he pushes himself out of his seat and abandons ship.
He lands right on top of one of the guards. A shot goes astray but Keith neatly ducks out of its way.
“What the-” the other Galra swears, swerving around to train his gun on Shiro instead, “The champion?”
“My bad,” Shiro says, diving forward, sliding around the ground and then kicking the man's legs from under him. The Glara goes down, hard, the gun slipping from his hands, but then Shiro is already upon him, gets an arm around his neck, and like this the armor is only feeble protection. Underneath him, the Galra is grappling at for the knife he carries in a holster strapped to his thigh, pulling it free, but the strength is already going out of him.
Shiro grits his teeth, waits for the telltale crack of bone, and then lets his opponent go.
When he gets to his feet again, he finds Keith staring at him. Numbly, it occurs to Shiro that Keith has possibly never seen him fight in the arena. Keith has never seen him kill.
Shiro bites his tongue and squares his shoulders. This is no moment for weakness. They've got to get out of here and fast.
Down the hallway, he can already hear the sound of heavy footsteps.
Rarrek, he thinks in blinding white panic, but before it can even turn into anything more concrete than that, his gaze has landed on the knife lying in the limply curled fingers of the dead guard. So Shiro bends down, takes up the unfamiliar weapon, tests the feel of it in his grip. The sharp edge gleams under the fluorescent lights.
“Keith,” he says, already reaching out and quickly pushing Keith up against the side of the poorly parked ship.
His cybernetic hand is in Keith's hair, tugging his head to the side and holding him in place. With his left, he raises the blade to Keith's neck and makes a small incision. It takes a bit of trying, a bit of digging, Keith wincing quietly, but then Shiro fumbles out the chip from underneath his skin.
When he pulls back, Keith's breath is sharp and shallow and he is staring at Shiro with wide liquid eyes.
“What on Galra was that for?” he demands angrily, but his voice cracks a little.
“The microchip,” Shiro tells him, dropping it to the floor and then crushing it with his heel for good measure, “In case we run into someone who has one of those remote controls.”
Keith's breath stutters, “A little warning would have been nice.”
Shiro blinks, only now really catching up to how his move might have been misconstrued.
“You... thought I would slit your throat?” he asks, his throat dry, but Keith just gives a violent shrug.
“Less witnesses,” he points out.
Before Shiro can say anything in reply, however, more guards show up. And they are being led by Rarrek.
“The audacity,” the officer growls as soon as he spots them. His fists are clenched at his sides, but the real threat at the armed soldiers flanking him.
“When I heard that a slave was trying to escape I hadn't dare to entertain the idea that it might be you,” he says, stepping closer, “But who else would be foolish enough to attempt such an endeavor but you, Kithnarak?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Keith snaps, tugging Shiro behind the ship to grant them momentary cover. And not too soon because a second later a phaser shot zaps past them.
“Don't kill them,” Rarrek barks at his men, “We need the champion alive.”
“But the slave-”, one of them protests.
“I want him alive, too,” Rarrek says, “He's not getting out easy this time.”
“How are we gonna do this?” Shiro asks, feebly trying to squish down the anxiety in his stomach, but the odds are not exactly in their favor right now.
“Get back into the ship,” Keith just tells him. He is crouched on the ground, peering across the hangar.
“But what about-?”
“I'll hold them back,” Keith tells him. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Next to it a trickle of blood runs along his skin.
“What?” Shiro bursts out, “No!”
“This is the only way,” Keith insists, “I know what I am doing. Now go.”
After a moment of warring with himself, Shiro does as he is told. Trust, he reminds himself. Trust is key.
“Kithnarak,” Rarrek calls out from somewhere just as Shiro is climbing back into the ship, “If you surrender yourself, I promise I'll plead your case to Commander Sendak. I can't say you'll go unpunished, but I promise to make it gentle.”
It's the exact opposite of what he had said before, and Shiro's skin crawls just listening to the words, but then he is already kicking up the engine again.
“I said, fuck off, Rarrek,” Keith hisses back. The words are so venomous, he must have been wanting to say them for a very long time.
“The champion has warped your mind,” Rarrek tells him, “Would you really rather lay with a pale-faced alien than with one of your own kind?”
“I can think of a million things that I'd rather do than you,” Keith huffs. In the shadow of the ship, he has relieved the dead guard of his helmet, slipping it onto his own head.
“Then I hope dying is among them,” Rarrek threatens and suddenly he is in front of Keith. In his hand he is holding the terrible torture device that activates the micro chip and he is pointing it right at Keith.
“What the-,” he curses a mere moment later when nothing happens, and he presses the button again, more forcefully this time.
“Sorry,” Keith smirks, “You're a little too late for that.”
He grabs the dead guard's phaser gun, trains it on Rarrek's chest, and shoots. The effect is instantaneous. Rarrek seizes up and then he crumbles down where he stands, but Keith is not even looking at him, already firing at the other soldiers.
“Disregard orders!” one of them shouts, “Kill the slave!”
Keith, in his recklessness, just makes a mad dash across the hangar.
“Shiro!” he calls, “Now!”
Shiro fumbles with the various buttons on the dashboard, gets the ship off-ground again and directs it forward where Keith is ducking behind a control panel, no doubt to open up the gate of the hangar. That's why he must have put on the helm for, so he would still be able to breathe at least, yet without a proper suit the vacuum of space would still doubtlessly harm him.
And Keith must know that, Keith must know how dangerous this is. And yet. And yet he looks so determined, so ferocious, and in that moment it occurs to Shiro that he had never asked Keith to escape with him.
It's a time-stopping thought, a heart-stilling one. It's a terrible oversight.
Keith, after all his promises of getting Shiro out of here, seems to have accepted the idea that he would be left behind. That he would sacrifice himself. That Shiro wouldn't even protest.
He couldn't be more wrong.
“Keith!” Shiro yells, throwing the hatch open, “Come with me!”
Keith, with eyes like infinite violet nebulae, stares up at him, uncomprehending.
“Please,” Shiro begs, “I can't just leave you here.”
Something jerks through Keith then, understanding or electricity, and his hand reaches for the controls.
“Put on the helmet!” he warns, barely waiting for Shiro to react, and then he flips the switch.
The guards shout and shoot and Shiro nearly drops the helmet that is mounted above the dashboard and doubtlessly connected to some sort of oxygen supply in case of emergencies.
In front of him the hangar opens with a groan, yawning wide like the maw of a terribly beast, only that is promises freedom instead of death.
Keith, with frantic grace, jumps out from his hiding place and scrambles up the side of the cargo ship. A shot zips just past his head, but then he is already squeezing in through the hatch and pulling it shut behind him. Like this, he is practically perched in Shiro's lap but, without any words, he puts his hands to the controls.
The ship purrs underneath his touch, proving just how capable of a pilot he must have been before he was demoted, and a second later Shiro is pressed back in his seat as the ship accelerates from stand-still to just this side of too fast.
Behind them, the guards are helplessly trying to hold on to something instead of being sucked out into the vastness of space, but Shiro couldn't care less about that right now.
They pass the gate of the hangar, the stars opening up in front of them, and this is not quite how Shiro ever imagined his escape because he is technically still in a Galran ship, he is still in the presence of an actual Galra, but for once he is not afraid.
“We just have to make it to the wormhole,” Keith mutters under his breath, deftly turning the ship to the left.
Just the wormhole, Shiro thinks. Just the wormhole and then some, and then he will be home. Home for the first time in months and months. He has lost his crew and his arm and a good chunk of his innocence, but the only thing on his mind right now is victory.
“Keith,” he says. With numb fingertips he pulls the helmet from his head, lets it fall onto the empty seat of the co-pilot.
“Keith,” again, when Keith does not react.
“Trying to concentrate here,” Keith growls lowly. Ahead of them, the wormhole is visible, glowing ominously.
Perhaps, he is always like this. Perhaps, when he is not wearing a figurative slave collar, when he is not subjected to someone else's will, Keith is always this terse and curt and annoyed. Perhaps this is the first time Shiro truly gets to see him.
And he wants to see him, his face and his fierce eyes, so he does the only thing that seems logical and detaches the helmet from Keith's head.
Keith hisses a little, bucks up his shoulders and then ducks free, shakes his head once, making his dark hair fly. His gaze is still directed towards their destination, but when Shiro puts his hand on his chin he moves along with it, lets his face be tilted up, so that Shiro can lean in, lean around him and dip down.
Their lips meet, salty with sweat, chapped from worrying teeth, but it's perfect like this, it's just right because this is what this moment amounts to. It's so much more than just a sign of affection, as Shiro has told himself so many times before. This is desperation and relief and liberation. This is victory.
Keith makes a quiet noise into his mouth and, when he turns them into the wormhole, his eyes finally slip shut as though he too had been waiting for this.
Around them space is infinite and, finally, Shiro is allowed to return home.