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Lance had joined the Blade of Marmora with a crooked grin and a rough handshake.
He expected the ribbing and teasing, he expected the looks of patient resignation from the surviving veterans of the Blade. But he‘d been quick to follow orders, only questioning where necessary (and saving a life in one instance), and he'd been quick to learn who to tease and who to show respect to by using the fewest words possible. Lance was the only human among the Blade, but at least he wasn’t the only non-Galra among the bunch. Oddly enough, it was the quiet veterans like Kolivan that Lance got along easiest with, aside from Keith. There were few words exchanged, fewer expectations to manage, and fewer cultural misunderstandings. He wonders sometimes if it was because he had worked with Kolivan before in the Voltron days.
These days, Lance tries not to think too much about Voltron. One memory brings another, and another, until he’s nearly drowning in them. He understands, now more than ever, that they were necessary days, not glory days. It had taken months of isolation with only his family for company, time spent on their rebuilt farm, watching seasons come and pass, getting back to the ebb and flow of life for him to unclench from the memories. Why was it harder on him than the others? Or had the others done their own sort of isolation and healing?
Pidge has her labs and the rebuilding of the legacy of Olkari. Hunk is surrounded by peace and negotiations and new culinary discoveries. Shiro, never leaving the fight proper at all, but taking it and the Atlas to the remaining pockets of Empire loyalists. Allura, guiding New Altea to a new, democratic era. Keith leading the Blade. None of them alone, but none of them together as they'd been as paladins. Sometimes Lance wonders if it was because they had to learn who they were outside of Voltron for a while, who they were to each other, without the war to bind them together. They still met, but their collective duties kept them stretched thin and their time together brief.
So when Keith came to visit to ask a question, Lance had been curious. It came after another one of their meetings. Most of them had actually made it, with the exception of Shiro and Hunk, both of them too far into deep space to make it in time.
"Yeah, man, show up whenever," Lance had said.
And he'd joined the Blade of Marmora without asking why.
It's on this mission, Keith's weight heavy and warm against him, that Lance wishes he had asked. Wishes he'd questioned and prodded and refused, had stolen Keith away from the Blade to keep him safe on Earth. Safe from the suspicions and prejudices against the few galra trying to help, trying to make things right after ten thousand years of suffering. Safe from fucking druids and their fucking lightning. The mission was supposed to be simple and safe and quick. The sentry base was supposed to be abandoned. The druids were supposed to have been gone. Get in, get some codes that could be used to remotely shut down other sentry bases so they wouldn't have to do this again in the future.
Now, Keith is leaning against Lance, breath coming in harsh, pained gasps against Lance's neck. Each moist breath sends shivers down Lance's spine and rattles his resolve just a little bit further. "Not much further, then we can blow this popsicle stand."
"Blow it up," Keith says. His words are soft and tattered and barely more than a whisper.
Lance knows without looking that Keith is trying to grin, can feel it in the way his lips curve against Lance's throat. "Yeah, maybe after we're off the damned base." He fumbles for a moment, almost sending Keith stumbling, before he can grab at Keith's belt to haul him upright again. "Your boys need better intel."
Keith snorts. "Not their fault."
"Yeah, wasn't this place supposed to be empty? Like a ticking time bomb in the sense of weeks, not hours?"
The air still reeks of ozone and dust, walls creaking around them, close to buckling with their shields down and only thin sections of alloy and hull separating them from the dark void of space. There’s another smell Lance tries really hard not to notice. It trails after them down the hallways and through the crooked intersections. He doesn’t want to think about the scent of scorched meat. He doesn’t want to think about the way Keith drags his injured leg behind him.
"Do you need to stop?" Lance asks.
"No time."
"It's, ah, not feeling good, huh?"
"No." Keith's voice is soft. He takes a deep breath, gathers words Lance knows are coming and doesn't want to hear. "Might have to... have to..."
"Might have to keep this conversation rolling!" Lance says brightly. "So, favorite color? You won't guess mine, I swear."
Keith huffs and his lips curl into another echo of a smile. "Blue."
"Close, but not close enough. What shade of blue?" Lance says.
"Ocean."
Lance digs his arm into Keith's side and hip, hand scrabbling again until his fingers can hook under Keith's breastplate. He shifts until he can grab Keith's belt again. "What time of day?" Lance grunts. Keith doesn’t respond until Lance gives him a little shake. "Tell me."
"Ocean," Keith said again. "Ocean at night. Deep. Like you can swim with stars."
Lance lets loose a sharp snort of laughter. "Damn, wasn't expecting you to remember that one! We were... what? On Arus for something? I think it was a Coalition thing. We got drunk off our asses." He’s rambling, knows it, knows he has to fill the silence with something other than the distant groan of metal and the discordant shuffle of Keith's feet.
Something like a chuckle rattles from Keith's throat. "You got drunk."
"Oh, fight me, lightweight." Lance grunts and pulls harder on Keith, tries to take on more of his weight. "You were getting ready to fistfight Coran for the right to take on the 'greatest Arusian warrior' who was like, half your size."
The darkness grows deeper around them the further they get from the control room. Emergency lights wait for them, flickering at every junction, casting pale, wavering shadows that stretch down the long hallways. Metal groans around them as detritus and rubble settle overhead. It ends with a long sigh of air breezing down the corridor.
Lance and Keith wait for a single, terrified moment before Lance pulls at Keith again. They’re reduced to a slow, staggering three legged shuffle that yanks at Lance's arms and back. The adrenaline is going to wear off soon and Lance knows it’s only going to get harder and harder to pull Keith towards the docking bay and their waiting ship the more time ticks on.
"C'mon, your turn," Lance says through gritted teeth. "Ask me something. Anything."
"Why..." Keith stiffens, arm clutching tight around Lance's shoulder. "Shit. Why'd you say yes?"
"To the Blade?"
"To me."
Lance snorts. "Same damned thing."
"Didn't say yes to the others."
"Okay, that's not fair."
"Didn't say yes to Allura," Keith said.
Lance freezes. Doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t want to. Can’t, not with time running so short for Keith. He does anyway. Stares over Keith's bowed head and down the long hallway stretching on forever in front of them. "You're different," is all he can find to say before he tugs on Keith and drags him further along.
"Royal Consort has a nice ring to it."
The closest thing to coherent Keith has managed since the druid attack and it's this shit, Lance thinks. Lance forces a chuckle and hates the ragged sound that emerges from his throat. "Well, I live to disappoint," he says.
"Never."
"Oh, sure, lots of people. Without trying, even," Lance says. The words pour from between gritted teeth. "Disappointed Shiro because I didn't want to join the Atlas, disappointed Pidge and Hunk because I didn't want to play sidekick again, disappointed Allura because I couldn't— I couldn't just— We weren't—"
"Not the same," Keith says. "It's okay." He takes a slow gasp of air. "Okay to be different from who you used to be." The concentration and air and speech take a toll on Keith and he sags his full body against Lance for a moment before getting his strong leg back underneath him.
The worn leather of Keith's belt burns in Lance's fist, close to tearing into his palm. He yanks Keith up harder anyway. "I know," is all he can think to say. "Look, we've still got time." Lance tries to keep his gaze pinned on the long and winding corridor ahead of them, resolutely not looking at Keith. He risks it, glancing down and over and immediately regretting it. Keith's skin is stark even in the shadows. "I know it hurts. We'll make it.”
"No."
Lance halts and Keith stumbles half a step ahead. "What do you mean, 'no'?" Anger crackles in his voice. "I'll drag you to hell and back if that's what it—"
Keith hangs his head, loose hair framing his face. "Doesn't hurt anymore," he says. "Just cold."
"Keith..." Lance swallows hard and the words he can't yet say get stuck in his throat. "Just. Come on. We'll make it." His eyes dart from Keith's face, to his chest, to the arm slung around his shoulder. Everywhere but Keith's leg.
Keith shudders and starts to pull away. "You have to—"
"No, nope, not happening!" Lance yanks him back into a rough embrace. "I'm not leaving you."
"Didn't ask you to," Keith said. He looks haunted, eyes shrouded in darkness. "Don't want you to."
"Then what in the hell are you saying?" Lance snaps.
"Cut it off."
The blood drains from Lance's face and he can only stare slack-jawed at Keith. "I—"
"It's spreading. Can feel it."
"You said it felt cold!" Lance shrieks. "You didn't say—"
"Please, Lance." And then Keith fumbles behind him, free hand digging for what Lance knows is that damned dagger. Pulling it free.
Offering.
Lance stares at the dagger. He’s seen it slice through sentries and through doors, through sheets of metal alloy thick enough to hold back the empty ravages of space. He knows it would take nothing for it to cut through flesh and bone.
Keith's hand shakes
"I can't Keith. That would. There's no undoing—”
"Look at it."
"What?"
Keith slumps to the floor like his strings are cut, strength blinking out of his good leg in an instant. "Look," he says again.
His lower leg rests at a liquid angle even with the tattered support of his boot. The flesh beneath has the mottled, bruised darkness of a rotten fruit. Lance plucks at what is left of Keith's boot. He pulls it away and is unable to tell the difference between melted suit and charred muscle. The round knob of Keith's ankle gleams under the distant emergency lights.
This is something a healing pod can’t fix.
Lance reaches out with quivering fingers to trace the arc of Keith’s wound up his leg. The darkness spreads up past Keith's ankle and boot and creeps up his calf halfway to his knee. A hard line separates healthy flesh from the druid's magic and it gleams a poison-bright violet.
"Fuck,” Lance says. His hands shake and he can't look any more.
Keith slumps against the wall and shivers. His dagger clatters to the floor. "Lance.”
"I can't, Keith, please."
"Gotta. Gotta get rid of it. Almost to my knee."
Lance eyes the dagger as though it might strike without either of them touching it. "Fuck," he says again. "You absolute asshole. You're the worst, you know that? The absolute worst.” He snatches the dagger, gripping it hard enough his knuckles turn white. "You're really gonna make me do this, aren't you?"
Keith fumbles at his belt again and pulls out a small package. He tears it open with his teeth and something a bitter shade of green pours out into his palm. “Here. It'll stop the bleeding. Seal it off. Hardens up when it's in contact with blood."
"You've thought this out, haven't you?"
"More than I want to," Keith says with a faint laugh.
The jewel set in the hilt of the dagger gleams. Lance twists it back and forth, watching the light glance along the Marmora symbol. He grits his teeth. "You didn't have to go this far to match Shiro, you know?"
Keith coughs and it turns thick and wet in his chest. "Catch it with my wrist next time."
"Not gonna be a next time," Lance says. He wraps his free hand over his wrist. It doesn't stop the tremors. "Look, we can get you to the pod on the ship. Put you in stasis or something, right?" His voice goes high and tight and every word has to be forced out. "Then we can—"
"No time." Keith puts his hand over Lance's, thumb stroking gently back and forth. "Spreading too fast… Faster… Can feel it."
Lance looks down. Even in the short span of time they've talked, the line of the wound had crept up. It looks like a smoldering line of embers licking away at the healthy skin of Keith's leg. "Keith..."
"Please, Lance... Do it."
He lets loose another string of curses and tears prick his eyes. Lance yanks his hand free and swipes angrily at his face. "I really hate you right now, I hope you know that."
"I'm sorry." Keith stretches out his leg and works on pulling off the remains of his boot. "Just... cut down... Don't saw… Messier."
"I refuse to believe you've done this before," Lance snaps. "Quiznak."
"Didn't… Seen it done." Keith leans back against the wall, gaze pinned both on the ceiling and some distant point a thousand miles away. "It'll cut through."
Lance shudders. "I know. I've seen you take down sentries."
"Here." Keith taps his bare leg just above the crawling line of the wound.
Tears stream freely down Lance's face. His breath stutters in his chest. "Okay. Okay, we're, uh, we're doing this." He forces one deep breath after another, drawing the stale air of the base into his lungs. Lance's heart hammers in his chest and he stares down at Keith's gently tapping finger.
Their shared med kit is a joke for something like this but Lance cleans the unbroken flesh as best he can. "Can you feel that?" Lance whispers.
"No,” Keith said, even though his skin jumps under the cool wipe.
"You're a shit liar, you know that?"
Keith has the audacity to laugh and Lance wants to hate him a little bit for it. It circles in his chest, however, bubbling over into a fitful rage he has nowhere to direct. The druid is dead or close enough. There’s no revenge to be had, no reckoning or justice to be found. There’s just the cool touch of the dagger's leather grip against his palm. Lance puts it down long enough to wrap a tourniquet just under Keith's knee. He doesn’t know if it’ll be enough to slow the blood. Doesn’t know if Keith will survive the shock long enough to be put in stasis. Doesn’t know if he'll survive at all.
Lance's hand is steady when he picks up the dagger again. "Close your eyes," he says softly. "Please."
Keith bites down hard on a tattered piece of leather. He nods once. Closes his eyes.
Lance brings the dagger down.
Keith's muffled scream rings out in the corridors, shattering against the metal of the walls and the bone of Lance's skull. Lance forces the dagger down anyway, parting flesh and blood and bone and flesh again. The dagger clatters from Lance's hand as he fumbles for the oozing green mass that was supposed to do something for the blood.
It isn’t Keith's whimpers and cries that freeze the blood in Lance's veins.
It’s the silence that follows.
Lance goes rigid for a long, paralyzed moment as Keith leans against the wall staring blankly up at the ceiling. One second ticks into another until Keith takes a sudden, shuddering breath. Lance jolts, snatching the dagger and shoving it into his own belt before he starts scrabbling at Keith's armor. He doesn’t know why he grabs the dagger first aside from some gibbering, hysterical voice telling him that Keith would be disappointed if they left it behind. He grabs Keith's arm and slings it over his shoulder, pulls as much of Keith's weight onto himself as possible, struggles to his feet in an awkward half carry and half drag as he pulls Keith behind him.
Hurry.
He tries not to think of how Keith is just a touch lighter. Tries not to think about what they left behind.
The base groans around them. Emergency lights begin to pulse in a long, low throbbing rhythm.
"Hull integrity at 75% and dropping."
The voice over the intercom is harsh and metallic and the guttural vowels of the Galra tongue sit heavy in Lance's ears even through his translator. "Hull breach in five minutes."
"Oh, no." Lance isn’t going to do the math and convert it from Imperial Standard to Altean units. He knows it isn’t enough fucking time.
Hurry.
"Keith!" Lance stumbles and pulls as much of Keith's weight as he can bear. He drags him. "Talk to me!"
Keith groans. Something that might have been a word falls from his mouth, but the syllables are too ragged to put together. He slurs Lance's name.
"Favorite color!" Lance barks. "Tell me!"
"Blue."
"Bullshit! You can't use my answer!"
Keith falters and shudders on Lance's back but his grip tightens and he tucks his strong leg underneath him to try and take on more of his own weight. "Eyes."
Klaxon alarms begin to scream.
"Hull integrity at 56%. Hull breach in four minutes." The intercom reminds them.
Lance swears and tears stream down his face. He tastes them through his gritted teeth. "You can't do math for shit, stupid base!"
The groaning of the base changes pitch, grows sharper, higher, tortured metal screaming all around them. Some distant part of Lance howls at him to drop Keith, to run, to charge ahead into the dark and shifting shadows and survive no matter the cost, no matter how much such a betrayal would ultimately kill Lance in all the ways that matter. He keeps moving forward. Keeps Keith's heavy weight dragging at his back.
A sudden breeze rushes past them and down the hallway.
"Hull integrity at—" the intercom snaps and the lights spark.
Once. Twice.
Then darkness. Silence.
It’s the fail-safes on their suits that saved them. Light pulses and swallows Lance's field of vision before he realizes it was the suit's hard light helmet rushing to cover his head. Something clacks hard against his helmet and Lance's heart lurches up his throat before he sees the dull gleam of Keith's helmet.
"Keith?" His voice is small and thin over the coms, echoing in his own ears. "C'mon my buddy, my man. How’re you holding up?"
Keith's breath whistles and hisses in harsh pants before coalescing into something resembling speech. "Gravity."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Lance says. He yanks at Keith's belt and clips it into his own. "That'll be the next thing to go."
Nothing around them. Silence as deep and dark as the space between stars swallows them. Lance taps his helmet with a hand he can’t really spare and a thin puddle of light spills out in front of them. It illuminates the walls and a sliver of the floor. Nothing else. He takes a step. Another. He tries to remember the twists and turns of the sentry base and all he can recall was the way the light of the datapad had glittered against his fingertips as he had reviewed the schematics. Doesn’t matter. Straight shot to the dock from here, their ship parked neatly on the landing array and ready for launch as soon as they board.
Keith starts to shiver, tiny persistent tremors that rattle against Lance's spine. "Your eyes." The words are soft. "Blue like you."
A sob catches in Lance's throat. "Don't. Please."
It isn’t a confession but it sounds far too close to goodbye.
"Tell me," Keith sighs.
"What?"
"Tell me why." He shudders and sags against Lance, arms slack and good leg twisting useless underneath him. "Why me."
"Because— Because it's you!" Lance carries all of Keith's weight now. His back screams and his hands are numb. Doesn't matter. One foot in front of the other. He trips. Falls. Keith spills to the floor beside him. Bitter curses fill the coms with static and noise as Lance twists and shoves his hands under Keith's arms. No carrying now, just a clumsy drag that twists Lance's spine and bounces Keith's fresh wound on the floor. The light from Lance's helmet illuminates the hallway behind them, swaying and jerking every time Lance turns around to look ahead. Both directions filled with blank darkness.
"I've always chased you, asshole!" Lance cries out. "Back at the Garrison, back when we were paladins, all the damned time!" The words spill from his mouth, half-formed and barely coherent. "It's always been you! From Blue to Red, right behind you when you got into Black! I've always been trying to reach you!"
Keith's hands close around Lance's wrists. Squeeze tight before going loose. "Got me... Always… No more chasing… Right beside me… Stay…" A terrifying sort of lucidity creeps into Keith's voice and Lance can see the fever-bright pain burning in those dark eyes. "Stay beside me."
Lance sobs in relief when the gravity finally cuts off. Keith's weight no longer pulls at his tendons, no longer stretches down his bones. He tugs weightless at Lance's wrists and waist. "Hang on. Just. Hang on, okay?" He means it for Keith's arms snaking around his waist, he means it for his own trembling hands and burning calves as he drags them both along. "Talk to me. Please," Lance begs. "What're we doing after this? Where are we going?"
"Home." Keith burrows his head between Lance's shoulder blades.
"Where's that? Earth? Daibazaal? Some Blade base you haven't told us about?"
Keith groans and Lance hears his teeth chatter. "You. Want you to be my home."
Lance keeps clawing at the floor and support struts, pulling them along in jerking bursts. "Okay! Yeah, we can work with that!" His laugh cracks open and burns his throat. Everything hurts. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Lance crawls along the floor like a turtle carrying his home on his back. "We'll get you a new foot and keep you in Varadero for a while. Sun and— and— me."
He pictures the setting sun catching on the threads of Keith's dark hair. He sees the stretch of Keith's lips curving into a soft smile. He feels Keith's weight at his back, warm and safe and whole, curling against him as the stars gleam overhead.
He reaches out and his hands close over nothing. They tumble together into the dark as the floor and walls fall away. Lance twists and turns and pulls Keith tight against him, chest to chest and helmets clattering against one another. His heart rabbits quick and feral in his chest until the light of his helmet strobes over Keith's shoulder and to the lethal, efficient lines of their ship. He can't let himself breathe yet, just squirms and adjusts until he puts himself between the ship and Keith so it’s his own back that thuds into it instead of Keith.
The airlock opens and Lance pulls them inside. Their hard light helmets fizz out of existence and properly recycled air cool the sweat clinging to Lance's brow. Keith groans beside him as the ship's gravity pulls them down and prone against the floor. One breath. Just one, long and harsh and trembling, before Lance reaches for the dagger shoved in his belt to sever the clumsy bonds still keeping him tethered to Keith. He forces his arms and legs beneath him and struggles to his feet, reaching for Keith's arm in the same clumsy motion.
No gentleness and no finesse as he drags Keith by one arm through the narrow hallway that leads to their combined medbay and surplus storage room. Lance drops Keith at the base of the stasis pod and slaps at the controls. It hisses open, door banging against Keith's shoulder. It won’t fix him like a proper healing pod, but it will keep him alive and out of pain. Lance's vision blurs and warps with exhaustion and tears as he manhandles Keith into the pod. Keith stirs and moans in his arms.
"Lance?"
"Naptime, partner." His lips stretch into a grin that burns. He pulls on the straps that will keep Keith secure during the journey, tugging them across Keith's chest. "We made it." The pod starts to chirp in dismay over Keith's readings as Lance gets him settled in. "See? It's already fussing at you."
He pulls back to close the pod but Keith's arm shoots out and grabs the back of Lance's neck. "Stay. Please?" Keith's eyes start to droop as the first stage of stasis starts to set in and his brow twists in frustration as he fights it.
Lance laughs and smiles and cries all in one sharp twist of emotion. "Yeah. I'll stay." He doesn’t know yet if he means for now or for tomorrow or forever. He leans in and rests his forehead against Keith's. "Home, right?" He pulls back just far enough to press his lips against Keith's brow. "We'll figure it out."
Keith goes slow and still, limp in the stasis pod. His eyes slip closed. The fight finally drains out of him and his breath turns soft and even. The stasis pod continues to chirp at Lance until he stumbles back and pulls it closed. It hisses and the clear lid turns opaque. Keith's vitals are steady.
Lance finally allows himself to crumble and fall. He wraps his arms around his knees, back pressed tight against the stasis pod. In a few minutes he'll get up and stagger to the bridge to launch the ship and use the codes they fought so hard for to blow this miserable place into atoms. In a few minutes he'll set the coordinates for the nearest ally that can pick up their coordinates and get Keith proper medical care. In a few minutes, he'll move.
For now, however, Lance listens to the steady rise and fall of his own breath and how neatly it syncs with the rise and fall of Keith's heartbeat in the pod.