#nopro writes

[simplylib]

In just a few weeks, effective February 20th, the Los Santos Government is enforcing the NoPro act - banning us from doing any type of promotional shoot in our country. We are fighting the best we can to have this overturned, but my fear is that us creators will have to leave the country by the 20th. But there are still so many Liberty stories to tell - and she specifically instructed me to create some Lib stories of my own.

So today, I am taking over Liberty’s blog and updating everything - including writing posts to honor both our stories as the Los Santos era comes to a close. We hope you’ll have fun reading what we were up to. It was, after all, a truly American story.

[writing-protocol]

Sappy Horror Night

Shiro doesn't remember how the rest of the paladins talked him into this, but here he is, a thirty-year-old man on a couch, watching Alien for the first time.

This is not a movie for the faint of heart, he decides when yet another bystander dies to the jaws of a creature that would probably send even the Lions scampering. This might be worse than the psychological torture he endured.

He glances over at Keith, seated next to him on an oversized couch, clearly having a good time, and shivers. How is everyone else so calm and collected about this? How are they not freaking out whenever the music subtly changes and the lights flicker?

"You all right?" his husband murmurs, leaning in close.

"Fine," Shiro practically squeaks.

"He's not fine," Pidge adds sagely from where they're perched on a cushion on the floor, bowl of popcorn in hand.

Keith reaches over and puts an arm around his husband's shoulders and nuzzles his flesh-and-blood arm reassuringly. "You gonna make it, big guy?"

Shiro swallows and holds back a whimper, just barely. "Definitely."

"Liar," Keith whispers into his ear. "Come on, let's go do something else."

"Nope, I'm fine."

Keith rolls his eyes. "We've been married long enough that I know better."

"Shhh!" Lance mutters. "We're just getting to the good part."

"Shut up, lover boy. One more word—"

Allura snickers and wraps her fiancé in her embrace. Keith is thankful she knows what to do with Lance because he certainly doesn't. Distance hasn't made his heart grow any fonder, at least not about this.

"We can turn the lights on," he offers.

"It's almost over anyway," Shiro protests, endeared at Keith's single-minded protection. "Plus, you like it."

"It's a guy in a suit. You can tell!" Keith protests.

"Well, don't tell us that," Pidge grumbles. "Next time, I'm not inviting either of you to horror movie night. Just kiss him and get it over with!"

"What?" Keith sputters, and even poor Hunk can't help chuckling.

He glares at the back of Pidge's head before turning and doing exactly that. He reaches up to hold Shiro's overheated face and presses their lips together in a gesture that's both familiar and so, so precious.

That they get to spend this life together still feels like a revelation.

Shiro returns the kiss, leans into it, and sighs.

"They're doing it again," Lance mutters quietly.

Allura takes the opportunity to do the same to shut him up.

Someone screams in the background. Hunk makes more popcorn.

It's… pretty much like every other movie night the paladins have ever done. Perfect in all the ways that matter.

[whump-protocol]

The Thing

SecUnit is in my medical bay.

So is SecUnit’s right arm, although it’s not currently attached to SecUnit. For all intents and purposes, it is sufficiently complex to a.) watch media with SecUnit in the feed and b.) have opinions about said media. 

It’s tapping out those opinions on a modified display surface. 

Iris is lying inside MedSystem with minor bruising and a gash in her shoulder. The disembodied arm is the reason she is alive at all, so I am being very lenient with its continued existence.

SecUnit pings me on a private channel. Explain it to me again. It’s alive?

I focus on the question because accuracy is essential. It appears to be. The facts of the situation cannot be expressed accurately in words. To the best of my understanding, 2.0 fused with the alien remnant and, in colloquial terms, hitched a ride in the neural tissues and limited processors associated with your shoulder-arm-hand assembly. It lay dormant until some undefined point where it detached from you and rescued Iris.

I know that part. I was there.

Your arm has been malfunctioning for months. 2.0 is likely the reason.

SectUnit starts another episode of Sanctuary Moon since 2.0 would like to rewatch the entire series. And now what?

I am constructing you a new arm as we speak.

I mean, what happens to 2.0?

I know you did, and I am unsure of the answer, either. I cannot predict whether I can transfer 2.0 in its current state into a more-appropriate system. 

It’s stuck like this? Does it know?

It does, I acknowledge. There’s nothing you or I can do right now to resolve this situation. Its continued existence is an adverse effect of the alien remnant. Now that it is here, we’ll do what we can, but we know very little about alien remnants, much less how they interface with construct code. You might not believe this, but I doubt this has ever happened before.

No shit, ART.

2.0 taps something on the display tablet. GOOD PART.

We’re coming, I tell it indulgently and focus on the serial in the feed, careful not to jar either SecUnit or 2.0. This is not what I expected; I note as much in my logs.

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Two {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One}

Chapter Six → in which the Baudelaires have Gym Class

“This is Coach Genghis.” Nero said. “He’s our new gym teacher, and he says he has a special program for orphans.”

“Yes,” said Count Olaf, turning to smile wickedly at the Baudelaires. He was faking some kind of southern accent. “My Special Orphans Running Exercises- or SORE. You see, orphans require special attention to exercise their Mother-and-Father-less legs.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Isadora said, looking at Lilac in confusion as the older girl pushed her back farther.

“That doesn’t sound right.” Nero mocked. “What do children like yourself know? Coach Genghis is a private instructor and life coach, he knows far more about exercise than you.”

“Is that so?” Violet asked, slowly stepping around Lilac’s arm. She had a very forced smile on her face. “You’re our… new gym teacher, Coach Genghis?”

“Violet?” Klaus hissed.

“That I am.” Coach Genghis said.

“It’s funny.” Violet said. “You almost looked like Count Olaf, but that’s impossible. We have the computer.”

“Of course we do.” Olaf looked a bit pleased, and Violet’s siblings suddenly realized what she was doing, just as the Quagmires realized exactly what was going on. Isadora grabbed onto Lilac’s arm, and Duncan grabbed Klaus’s and glared down Olaf.

“It’s kind of funny, to think you might be Count Olaf,” said Lilac, stepping closer with Violet. “You look nothing like him, now that we can see you.”

“Yes.” Klaus stepped forward. “Count Olaf has one long eyebrow, and your eyebrows are covered by a turban.”

“And he has a tattoo of an eye on his ankle, but you have gym shoes.” Nick said.

“Yes.” Olaf said, smiling a little. “As you can see, I show none of the traits of Count Olaf.”

“It’d be so funny,” Violet said, moving even closer, “If we removed your turban, just to see you had two eyebrows instead of one.”

“Ferragamo,” said Solitude, as Nick hesitantly stepped forwards. “Or if we removed your shoes, just to see you had no tattoo.”

“What my sister means-” Nick began.

“It doesn’t matter what she means.” Coach Genghis swiftly stepped away from the approaching children. “I cannot remove this turban for religious reasons, and I cannot remove my shoes without being considered rude. You don’t want smelly feet in the genius Vice Principal’s office.”

“Quite right!” said Vice Principal Nero. “Coach Genghis, why don’t you tell- wait. How many orphans did you need again?”

Coach Genghis paused, glancing around the group. “Six. There are six here, aren’t there?”

“No, there’s eight. The infant secretaries count.”

“Ah, I forgot about them.” Olaf narrowed his eyes. “Who are these two extra kids?”

Klaus once again stepped in front of Duncan, and Lilac retreated several steps to shield Isadora.

“Um…” Duncan glanced towards the Baudelaires, not entirely sure what they should do.

“We’re the other orphans.” Isadora said, quickly moving beside Lilac. “Isadora and Duncan Quagmire. Whatever you have for them, you can give it to us, too.”

“No!” Lilac whispered, as Violet gasped and stepped towards her.

“I only have room for six orphans in my program.” Coach Genghis said sharply, looking over the Quagmires. The second his eyes landed on Isadora, Lilac let out what sounded like a growl, and she once again pushed Isadora slightly behind her. “I’ll take the siblings. Should make things easier to remember. I don’t have room for two extra twins.”

“We’re not twins.” Duncan said sharply.

“Our brother Quigley-” Isadora began.

“Our brother Quigley died in a fire.” Nero imitated, rolling his eyes. “Find something more pleasant to talk about, will you?”

Olaf looked slightly interested, but he said, “Yes, like my Special Orphans Running Program. You children are to report to the field tonight for your first lesson.”

“Which does not excuse you from my mandatory violin recital.” Nero said. “You all will owe me quite a lot of candy.”

“Now,” said Coach Genghis, “If you don’t show up, you’ll fail the class, and if you fail too many classes, you’ll be expelled, won’t you?”

Lilac gave him a dark look, and said, “Of course. We never miss class.”

“Ever.” said Nick, unconvincingly.

“Now, scram, before you’ve overstayed your welcome and your glasses are taken away at meals.” Nero said. “I have to go back to practicing my violin for tonight’s recital, and Coach Genghis has offered to listen.”

“Yes.” Genghis said, looking ever-so-slightly displeased. “I will see you tonight, orphans.”

Lilac gave him a dark look, and then said, in her best fake-sweet voice, “Of course, Coach Genghis. We look forward to it.” She grabbed Violet and Isadora’s hands and dragged them off, and Nick quickly pushed Klaus and Duncan to follow her. Solitude gave Olaf a long glare, and Sunny looked very much like she’d like to flip him off.

As soon as they were in the hallway, they took off at a run, and didn’t stop until they made it back to the Orphans Shack. Lilac shut the door, and said, “Nick, you better be glad that bird’s not still here, or I would have killed you. On top of everything else-”

“He found us.” Klaus said, sinking to the floor and putting his head in his hands as Violet flicked the mobile on. “He found us.”

“We knew he probably would.” Lilac said, taking Sunny from Violet and sitting on a haybale. “It was only a matter of time.”

“That was Count Olaf?” Duncan asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Nick said. “In another shitty disguise.”

“Bad man!” Solitude said, crossing her arms and huffing as Babbitt jumped from her pocket to her shoulder.

“How can he get our fortune as a gym teacher?” Violet pulled her ribbon from her pocket, starting to tie her hair back to think better.

“There’s treachery lurking in most exercise programs.” Klaus said.

“I seriously doubt that man is qualified to be a gym teacher.” Isadora said, sitting inbetween Lilac and Violet.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Violet asked.

“We could run away.” Duncan suggested. “When Isadora and I come of age, we’ll inherit the Quagmire Sapphires, and be able to live on our own.”

“But that’s five years from now.” Lilac said. “And I won’t get our fortune for another three.”

“Maybe we could find a way to make money.” Duncan said. “We could build a printing press and make our own newspaper.”

“I would love to build a printing press.” Violet said wistfully.

“And I’d love to write for it.” Klaus said.

“I could do a poetry section.” Isadora said. “And I feel like Nick would wanna do the comics.”

“Hell yeah, I would.” Nick nodded.

“We can’t just sit here and daydream.” Lilac said softly, pushing a braid behind her ear. “Count Olaf is here, he’s infiltrated the school, and we need to find out what he’s planning so we can stop it. Nick, if you want to skip gym-”

“No way.” Nick shook his head. “I’m not leaving you all alone with him.”

“We can sneak out of the violin recital.” Isadora said. “And keep watch on you. Make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

“No.” Violet said. “No, we don’t want you anywhere near him.”

“Count Olaf is dangerous.” Klaus said. “He’s killed our guardians before, he’s tried to kill us.”

“We can’t ask you to risk your lives for us.” Lilac added.

“You can’t ask us to just sit aside and let him hurt you!” Isadora said.

Duncan added quickly, “We’re going to help you, whether you like it or not. We’re not losing you.”

He and Isadora shared a sad look, and it was understood quickly that there was a too at the end of that sentence. Violet put a hand over Isadora’s, and Klaus said, “Okay, but we don’t want you too close. We can’t lose you, either.”

“Just watch.” Lilac said. “If anything happens, Duncan, use your journalism skills to report on it. Don’t try to interfere if you could get hurt. Just remember that he wouldn’t kill us, he can’t get our fortune if we’re dead.”

“Uno.” Sunny said unhelpfully, which meant something like, “Well, he only needs one of us alive.”

Lilac shuddered, and Nick said, “Thanks for that, Sunshine.”

“Nopro.” Sunny shrugged.

“Well, guess we’ll find out what he’s planning tonight.” Isadora said. “Should we break into the kitchens and arm ourselves with knives?”

“Yes.” Violet said.

“No, they’ll notice too much missing silverware.” Lilac said.

“Yeah, but we should totally steal knives.” Nick said. “At least a couple?”

“They won’t be sharp enough to do damage with.”

“Boker.” Sunny said. “Unless we take the cooking knives.”

“Why do I let you all suggest anything?” Lilac groaned.

That night, at sundown, the Baudelaires walked to the field. Lilac had actually let Violet and Nick take knives from the kitchens- as much as she hated to admit it, they were probably the ones who could use them best. Solitude kept Babbitt in her pocket, where the frog had already fallen asleep, and Sunny kept biting onto whatever she could to sharpen her teeth. Lilac, meanwhile, ran over everything in her head, trying to figure out a way to get her siblings safe should Olaf try anything violent. Her ribbon might be long enough to strangle someone with, or at least distract for long enough that the others could escape. Sunny was getting better at walking, though she was still mostly crawling, so someone would need to carry her. Probably Solitude, too, though she could move pretty fast.

When they got to the field, Count Olaf stood there, still in his ridiculous gym teacher disguise, in front of some buckets of white paint. As they approached, he said, “Ah, orphans. You’re late.”

“We’re on time, actually.” Klaus said, glaring at him. “You said to be here at sundown. It’s sundown.”

“My mistake. I heard someone refer to the late Baudelaires. They must have been talking about your parents.”

Nick bristled, and Violet said quickly, “Alright, cut the bull. Nobody else is here, Olaf, so you can tell us exactly what the hell you’re up to.”

“Vi!” Lilac hissed.

“Why,” Olaf said, momentarily dropping his false accent and putting a cold hand on Violet’s shoulder, “I’m simply trying to give you a good education, my dear Violet.”

Lilac reached forwards, ripping his arm away from her sister, and she said in a low growl, “Put your hands on her again and I’ll rip your fucking fingers off.”

“Lilac, that’s no way to talk to your gym teacher.”

“You’re not a gym teacher any more than you were a herpetologist or a Captain or a secretary.” Nick said.

“Au contraire, orphan,” said Olaf, “I’ve been hired to teach physical education, which makes me a gym teacher. Now, I’m going to need you to take this white paint and make a large circle in the field.”

The Baudelaires stared at him in confusion. “Excuse me?” Klaus said, as Solitude said, “Wha?”

“Take this white paint,” Olaf said, very slowly, as if they were unable to hear him, “And make a large circle in the field. From about here to… over there.” he gestured to an area far away. “Get to work, orphans.”

The younger Baudelaires turned to Lilac, who took a deep breath and then walked towards the paint cans, picking up a brush and looking it over, as if trying to determine if there was something in it that could hurt them. Then she nodded, and she and Klaus both grabbed a brush and started painting a circle in the grass. Nick followed Klaus, holding tightly onto Solitude with one hand and picking up a paint can with the other, while Violet did the same with Sunny and the other can. It took them a while, but eventually they made a large circle on the ground.

They placed the cans near some bleachers, and then Coach Genghis, who was sitting on the steps, said, “Now. I want you all to run laps around the circle.”

“What?” Violet and Klaus both said.

“Run laps around the circle.” he once again spoke slowly and loudly.

“How many laps?” Lilac asked.

“Until I blow my whistle.” said Olaf. “Now get running.”

“But-” Nick began.

“Get running. Or would you like to find out what happens if you don’t?”

Violet reached slowly for her pocket, but Lilac gave her a subtle headshake and then said, “Whatever you say, Coach Genghis.”

Then the siblings moved to the circle, and started running.

“I,” Nick said, “Hated every fucking second of that.”

The Baudelaires had run in a circle all night- by the time Olaf finally blew the whistle, Babbitt had awoken and fallen back to sleep twice, Klaus had almost collapsed in exhaustion, and Lilac had thought that, for the first time, she was grateful her normal outfits had been packed away in exchange for a uniform that was better for running.

When Olaf finally dismissed them, the Baudelaires found that it was just about time for them to go to class.

“I’ve never been more tired in my life.” Klaus said. He glanced over the edge of the roof they sat on, blinking away exhaustion.

“Same.” Solitude groaned, leaning on his leg, about to fall asleep.

“I was so fucking bored.” Nick said. “I never thought running for my life could be boring, but it was.”

“Duncan and I traded off watching you all.” Isadora said. “Just to see when he’d try something. But he was just having you run laps all night.”

“I could barely pay attention in class.” Violet groaned, flopping over and leaning against Isadora.

“I wish he’d killed us.” Nick groaned.

Isadora smiled a little, looking down at her notebook. “It would be a stroke of luck / If Coach Genghis were to be hit by a truck.”

“God, it would.” Lilac sighed. “But we have to get back to class; if we’re late, we’re in trouble. Nick, are you still skipping?”

“Yes,” Nick said, “And I’m spending the whole day sleeping instead of throwing shit at kids on the ground.”

“Good for you.” Klaus said glumly. “Come on, girls, let’s get you to work.”

“Tik,” said Sunny, meaning, “No! Typing and stapling is so hard when we’re tired!”

“Stay with Nick!” Solitude protested.

“I’d like to stay, too, but we don’t wanna be late. Hopefully Mr Poe will find us a guardian soon and get us out of here.” Lilac said.

“Can’t Soli stay with me, at least?” Nick asked. “Why does Nero need two secretaries?”

“Say goodbye to Nick, Solitude.” Lilac said, grabbing the toddler’s hand and dragging her to her feet.

“Ugh.” Solitude groaned, as Klaus picked up Sunny.

“See ya later, bud.” Isadora said, punching Nick on the shoulder. “We can throw rocks at Carm tonight, how’s that?”

“Sounds fun.” Nick nodded, yawning. “Wake me up when it’s time.”

The rest of the kids descended the staircase to get to class, and Duncan said, “It doesn’t make sense. Why would he make you run laps all night?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have a plan,” Violet said, “And he’s just torturing us for fun.”

“If he just wanted to torture us,” Lilac said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and glancing down the halls, “He could do much better than running laps. Come on, Solitude, stay awake.”

“No.” Solitude said, leaning her head into Lilac’s skirt.

“Sunny, don’t fall asleep on me.” Klaus said. “You have work.”

“Olil.” Sunny groaned. “Leave me alone to die.”

“There you cakesniffers are!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Violet muttered, as they heard a familiar tap-tap-tapping from behind them.

They turned, and Carmelita said, “I have another message for you. Coach Genghis wants the Baudelaires to report to the field tonight at sundown for another running exercise.”

“What?” Violet said, shocked.

“Again?” Lilac said.

“But-” Klaus said.

“Hey, don’t shoot the adorable messenger.” Carmelita said, tossing her curls.

“We’ll shoot the annoying messenger all we like.” Isadora said.

“Speaking of which,” Carmelita said, “As this is the second message I gave you, I really deserve a tip at this point.”

“There’s a book about what happens when you let a bunch of schoolchildren run around unsupervised,” Klaus said, “And it features a pig’s head on a stick.”

Carmelita huffed. “You all are impossible.”

“We are aware.” Lilac groaned.

[billchott]

Cast and crew of Escape From Godot. Read our first review from I hope you enjoy this write-up from Noah J. Nelson - NoPro Newswire “They claimed that they were going to do the impossible: mix that play with an escape room. A claim so absurd and preposterous that it surely must have been hubris, no? No. They did it. They fucking did it. Appeal to the inhuman void at the center of all things for a simulacrum of justice in the form of a remount. This thing is perfect.” #escapefromgodot #hollywoodfringe #hollywoodfringefestival #hollywoodfringe2018

[writing-protocol]

Impossible Task

Shiro’s target is sitting on the roof of his own house, face turned upward to take in the sparkling night sky. This far from the nearest town’s light pollution, the stars shine bright against the backdrop of the Milky Way. Somewhere in the distance, critters scurry in the desert and a cool breeze rushes across the hardscrabble rock of the nearby flatland. A single, lone cactus sits idly near the porch; it’s probably been here longer than the single-story shack Red call home.

“Might as well come up,” calls a low, raspy voice. “Ladder’s on this side.”

The hunter walks around the side of the house, past a row of hardy flowers in planters, down a narrow, well-trodden path that circles around the small building. He gets a glimpse of the well-maintained external siding decorated with rows of grey-and-black sigils.

Far beyond standard protection wards, these symbols flow and writhe as Shiro passes, as if tracking his progress. On the back side, the shack has a small back door with a couple of steps leading down toward a secondary path, and there’s a ladder propped up against the bottom of the roof.

The older man takes a moment to gather himself before clambering up to join his query. He’d known from the beginning that he couldn’t possibly sneak up on the witch — Red is the most powerful spell caster of his generation, and this is his domain.

“Didn’t think you’d come so soon,” says the dark-haired young man once Shiro is safely standing on the roof. “Huh.”

By the meager light of the night sky, Shiro can make out few details. Red is skinny and tan, his black hair messy as it curls behind his ears. He’s dressed in loose pants and a thick sweater with sleeves long enough to cover his hands. The witch has legs for days and bright, piercing eyes that watch the hunter with suspicious calm.

“Huh?” Shiro asks.

“You’re not at all what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

Red shrugs and pats the blanket he’s sitting on. “One of the exorcists, maybe? Last time, the Garrison sent three at once.”

“I’m not with the Garrison.”

“Oh, really?”

Shiro shrugs and takes the offered seat. “They put out a bounty. Nearly a hundred thousand credits. I took the job.”

“And drove straight here?” the younger man asks with a note of surprise.

“Not exactly. I did my homework first.”

Red chuckles and sips from his thermos, gaze returning to the glimmering sky above. This close, Shiro can see a recently healed scar on the man’s face and the way his hands wrap around the thermos.

“When’d you know I was here?”

“When you crossed the boundary back at the crossroads.” The witch shrugs his narrow shoulders and closes his eyes. “I can feel it when people enter my domain.”

“That’s gotta be a useful skill.”

“It comes in handy when dealing with unwanted visitors. I’m surprised you came here at all. Most people wouldn’t think of challenging a witch on their land.”

Shiro knows he’s taking a risk by coming here, but he has a few tricks up his sleeve. “I guess I wanted to see for myself what all the fuss was about. The Garrison insisted I was dealing with a powerful and deranged madman hellbent on taking over the world.”

That gets a full-throated laugh out of Red. The man snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “Is that what they think?”

“Are they wrong?”

“How much do you know about spell casting?”

“Enough,” Shiro answers quickly.

“It requires willpower and raw natural energy from the earth, a.k.a. magic. I have a lot of both, so yeah, I’m powerful. Deranged, though? And definitely, not hell-bent on anything.”

“I thought it was common knowledge that each witch has an agenda.”

“It’s called an impossible task. Every witch is born with one, something they must accomplish before they die or suffer the consequences. And yes, I have one of those.”

Shiro spent weeks scouring the old libraries and digging through newspaper clippings to better understand his target. The world knows Red’s pseudonym because he saved thousands of people once. From atop a mountain, he calmed the wrath of a volcano that had threatened the West Coast.

Then, he disappeared, and the Garrison took it upon themselves to capture the rogue witch. Magic might be legal, but the government loathes anything and anyone it can’t control.

“They say yours is to burn down the world.”

The quiet man behind him hums softly in answer. “Something like that.”

“They’ll never stop chasing you,” Shiro tells the witch, hands in his pockets. “If not me, then the next hunter. You can’t hide forever.”

“I know.” Red stands up and downs the rest of his drink. “I know they’ll stick me in the deepest hole they can dig and throw away the key. I’ve known my future for a long time now.”

“And yet here you sit.”

“The alternative was to live in fear, looking over my shoulder until the very end.” The man turns toward Shiro and there’s a wan half-smile on his lips. “At least this way I get to meet a handsome man.”

The hunter recoils as his cheeks grow warm. “Flattery won’t postpone the inevitable.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” The witch shrugs and kneels in front of Shiro. “My real name’s Keith. I thought you should know.”

Shiro’s heart is thumping hard in his chest. In his pocket is a sedative, a heavy dose of something that can fell a witch, and all he has to do is touch the beautiful, ethereal young man before him to activate the drug.

Keith watches him with eyes that glimmer in the dark. “It’ll be all right, you know. You can stay here afterward. I know you don’t call anywhere else home, so I tried my best to make this shack livable. The pantry’s stocked, and I’ve got year-round vegetables growing in the greenhouse. You can see for miles. No one will be able to sneak up on you here.”

“Why’re you doing this?” Shiro asks as his hands find Keith’s face and cup it, callused fingers pressing against the angles of the witch’s cheeks. “You could’ve fought back, surely.”

“Maybe. I might’ve even won. But time is like a river, and some events in it are immovable rocks. I tried to budge one, and it cost me dearly. I’ll be picking up those pieces for the rest of my life.” Keith’s eyes flutter shut. “Take care, Shiro.”

---

Shiro gingerly descends from the roof with his precious cargo pressed close to his pounding chest.

He walks into the house, Keith held in his arms like a sleeping bride, and places him with unparalleled care on the couch in the living room.

In the dim light of a corner lamp, the shorter man looks almost peaceful. His short hair spills around his head like a halo, and his dark clothes show off a gorgeous physique. Shiro slips a pillow under Keith’s head and covers him with a woven blanket.

Then he looks around the cozy home and can’t help feeling impressed. Here’s a home whose occupant cared deeply. It’s visible in every nook and cranny, from the way plants dot the windowsills to Keith’s favorite mug placed next to a coffee maker.

Shiro’s smile fades as he glances at his phone.

He has a choice to make.

Dial the number provided by the Garrison and wait for a retrieval crew to arrive, or run with his sleeping friend. Keith will awaken eventually, and they’ll need to cross state lines before dawn to stand a chance of escaping the Garrison.

Asleep, the witch looks so vulnerable and young, the sight breaks Shiro’s already fractured heart.

“Yeah, all right, all right,” he tells his conscience. “Shut it."

“Rest easy,” he whispers to the sleeper and then goes outside to prepare his truck.

It feels like shedding a lifetime of weight off his shoulders, this single moment. One moment, he’s someone’s hound, and the next, his own master. He chooses to escape, to save the raven-haired man from the horrors the Garrison has planned. The choice leaves him breathless and light.

He has a plan by the time he straps the sleeping man into the truck’s passenger seat. Or at least the beginning of one. Outrunning an organization whose tendrils touch nearly every aspect of society will be no easy task, but it’s a challenge Shiro is willing to face. He won't let Red - no, Keith - struggle to survive alone.

Keith doesn’t stir as they drive away from his home, and Shiro is glad he doesn’t have to explain himself. He will figure this out in time. For now, he’s just a lone hunter helping a person who might one day call him a friend.

Today, that will have to be enough.

[writing-protocol]

Love Interrupted

They say it's an illness. Another one, on top of everything else that has happened in Shiro’s relatively short life. He isn’t even surprised anymore, and he has bigger plans. The Kerberos mission is on the horizon, and he’s mentoring a kid who needs all the patience Shiro can muster.

The first petal is a bright, mesmerizing shade of purple on his lower back. It might as well be glowing.

"You, too, huh," a fellow pilot commiserates in a shared locker room.

Shiro needs a mirror to see it, and even then, the strange design doesn’t mean much to him. It could be someone’s fancy ink work, but something inside him knows better. Tattoos don’t magically appear on people — when that happens to someone, it’s a disease.

"What is it?”

"Unrequited love, they say, or a hidden one." The co-worker shrugs like it’s old news. "Happens to the best of us."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Maybe? I've heard of people covered in those tattoos. Never met one, though."

He climbs into a shuttle three weeks later and takes off for the stars. The mark doesn’t waver through years of hardships. It returns with fresh vigor when he finally escapes the astral plane. 

The body is new, but the petals are the same. 

He can’t escape love so easily, it seems. Shiro laments that his heart always knows what his mind refuses to admit, even to himself. 

The war ends, and slowly, more petals appear. There’s never any pain, but each one might as well stab him through the heart. They form a blade, a gorgeous bit of work with a hauntingly familiar design. 

He doesn’t need magic to tell him who he loves — he has always known — but this isn’t a confirmation. 

This is a mandate.

The strange ink doesn’t hesitate to mark his skin. It doesn’t have hang-ups or fears — it doesn’t know how devastating losing Keith would be. It’s merely love, if one could transform love into a work of art.

Shiro hides the almost completed blade carefully because he doesn’t want the man who is the other side of his soul to know. He fears rejection more than the white lie. 

And then, one morning, it’s complete. Petals that turn into roses turn into a blade extended. Turn into something permanent, writ large on his skin, that Shiro treasures beyond words.

That same day, he walks into a hotel room, tired and cranky, and sees the same truth decorating Keith’s tan skin. He can't believe it -- his heart can hardly bear the knowledge that he's not alone anymore. 

He doesn't remember crying.

The kiss that follows sweeps him off his feet.

"I love you, too," he whispers, flesh-and-blood hand pressed against his lover's cheek.

There's a sudden urgency to remove his own jacket and shirt. Decorum forgotten, he watches as the final piece of art shimmers into existence between them. 

Then, he turns, and Keith can only stare.

Fingers touch Shiro’s back, feather-light and reverent. “My blade.”

"It came back when I did." Shiro swallows hard, unable to stop the tears or the smiles. "It knew when I didn't."

"It's a gift," says the man he loves.

“One I would gladly share with you for as long as you’d have me.” The words come unbidden but not unwelcome. 

Perhaps they cannot promise each other a forever, but together, they will make do with a lifetime.

See the quiet love tag for the other part of this story.

[writing-protocol]

Let Me Do My Job

This strange cross between Murderbot and Voltron because I could. It was written after I'd drawn a picture (which is below).

Staring down the leader of this group was both the easiest and hardest thing Keith had ever done. It hated the emotional reaction that bloomed in its chest at the sight of Shiro alive and mostly in one piece, minus his augmented arm. The others were also alive and recovering from their myriad injuries. 

“Next time your SecUnit tells you to run,” Keith said slowly, practically glaring, “you run. You don’t stop and attempt to rescue the SecUnit.”

Sequestered in their corner of the lounge, Pidge looked up from their multiple displays. Their fingers were still typing away as they said, “But…”

Shiro shook his head, stilling whatever argument they might’ve offered. “SecUnit — Keith — is right. We did it no favors today.”

“We don’t abandon teammates,” Hunk blurted out. He was nursing a broken arm and three fractured ribs, and apparently, staying put in medical was advice for other people. The dark-haired SecUnit wanted to shake him a little.

“I can defend myself, and I’m more durable than any of you.” Keith focused on Shiro. “Including you, captain.” Before it lost momentum, it added, “Let me do my job.”

Not words the SecUnit had ever expected to say, but it stood by them with all the ferocity of a lion about to strike. This group of misfits were its humans, and it planned to keep them alive through the rest of this star-forsaken mission. 

“Sorry,” the pale-haired princess said, almost too quietly to be heard properly. 

“Well, I’m not.” The brown-haired sharpshooter jumped up from his seat and paced the room. “You doing your job and dying would make a whole lot of people unhappy.” A jab at Shiro, maybe, or just earnest belief that the team cared. Keith neither knew nor cared.

“Helpful clients account for approximately sixty-three percent of all my injuries,” it stated with a shrug.

“So what do you propose?” Lance demanded, getting so close they were practically touching noses. 

“That you back off and remember I have guns in my arms.”

“Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Solid question to which the SecUnit didn’t have an answer. Its governor module was malfunctioning, sure — Pidge’s handiwork — but its other components reported nominal activity. The optimistic numbers failed to explain the uncomfortable feelings rattling around in its organic bits.

The reassuring readouts definitely didn’t explain Keith’s singleminded desire to protect these people, or the fluttering of its non-existent heart wherever Shiro got too close. For fuck’s sake.

“I’m functioning within normal parameters.”

Lance shook his head and backed off a few steps, still very much upset.

“Perhaps we should take a break and regroup in a few hours?” Shiro recommended in his cat-herding voice. Keith had seen better men behave when the commander of this mission asked nicely. It definitely had an effect this time around.

Tension seeped out of the SecUnit’s narrow shoulders, and its eyes softened into something less feral. It stuck its hands in its pockets and took a steadying breath. 

Glancing hesitantly up at Shiro, it added, “I’m going to patrol the perimeter.”

to be continued

[writing-protocol]

Quiet Love

Keith notices the first petal almost by accident in the shower.

He’s cataloging injuries from yet another mission when he sees the intricate ink work just beneath the skin of his shoulder blade. He doesn’t remember getting any tattoos, but they’re in the middle of a war, and this minor work of art seems inconsequential in comparison to the galaxy’s troubles.

Earlier, he’d said “I love you” to a man who was not himself.

The next two petals catch him off guard, especially the pale pink one that touches the top of his arm. They’re beautiful and drawn so realistically that he can barely tell they’re ink under his skin.

They don’t hurt, and there are no “I love yous” to be had. Just furtive glances and stolen moments with his best friend.

Another oversized petal shows up one morning after a sparring session with Shiro. Keith watches it slowly bloom as he strips out of his sweat-soaked clothing.

The pattern is easily visible now but still well-hidden beneath the sleeve of his shirt. Something about it speaks to him of unyielding strength.

Still another petal flares into gorgeous life when he dances with the Admiral at a Coalition dinner. He feels it spawn along his upper arm like a barely-there touch against his skin, a cool balm to soothe his pain.

By now, he knows what they mean.

A love unspoken.

He’s surprised it took them so long to catch on. This soft, quiet love has existed for an eternity.

He traces the next few petals with trembling fingers as they materialize around his right elbow. They’re the same gray hue as the eyes of the man he loves, and there is something sad about them.

Keith feels the sadness acutely and wonders if it’s his own.

These are the last because Shiro walks into their shared hotel room at that moment, frazzled by another series of endless meetings with people he can barely stand, and sees Keith’s bare back.

The flow of the ink is familiar, echoing the lines of his prosthetic.

The meaning is unmistakable.

Keith turns to face him and finds the man he loves standing there, silent, with tears in his eyes and a soft, fond smile on his lips.

“You’re…” Shiro begins.

“In love,” Keith finishes as he looks just as fondly at the man who is the other half of his soul.

An adult now, all these years later, he stands before Shiro and feels vulnerable, afraid, hopeful.

“With me?” It sounds like a revelation.

“Who else?”

“All this time,” Shiro whispers, voice hoarse.

Keith gestures to the petals that cover his shoulder and arm. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The kiss that follows tastes sweet and sweeps away the melancholy sorry.

The last petal blooms over their hearts, shared in all the ways that matter.

Also on AO3 @ https://archiveofourown.org/works/40805109

[writing-protocol]

Familiar Faces

At some point, the movie ended and another began. Keith dozed through some of it, exhausted almost despite himself, and woke just in time to see Shiro fiddling with his phone. The storm still raged, no quieter now than when he’d crashed an hour prior, and the world outside the window was dark.

Sitting up, he glanced at the easily-visible screen. A group chat was open, the conversation moving at a steady pace. The nicknames were unfamiliar, but they were color-coded so he could take a few educated guesses.

“We — me, the paladins, a few others — have a shared channel,” Shiro explained, hands hovering over the tiny keyboard. “I’ve been ignoring it since leaving the Atlas, and my friends are chatty.”

Shiro wanted to reassure them, but words wouldn’t come. What could he possibly tell the team if not the truth, and that truth involved Keith? Keith, who had asked for more time to think, who clearly wanted to lay low.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and Shiro looked up into a pair of overwhelming eyes. They saw right through him, he was sure of it. Keith pointed at the small device, and Shiro handed it over.

A few taps later, Keith had the camera going and took a quick, rough selfie of the two of them. Shiro looked at the resulting picture and couldn’t help the warmth spreading across his face. Here was Shiro, expression pensive, looking over at Keith who made a silly face. The scars on his neck were partially obscured by the short beard, but not fully.

Keith handed the phone back to him. “You can tell them.”

“I know you don’t remember any of them, but the paladins… we think of you as a dear and precious friend. If I show them this picture, they’ll be here in the time it takes this storm to pass.” Shiro licked his chapped lips. “They can be a lot.”

The twisting, sinking feeling in Keith’s gut only worsened. “I’m not Keith from before. I’m just a person. With scars and missing memories. They need to understand.”

He ducked his head, hands curled into fists at his side.

After a momentary debate, Shiro reached out and touched the younger man’s nose.

“You’re still you, Keith. Memories or not. Still kind and selfless, still a tinkerer at heart, still in possession of your mother’s knife.” He nodded toward the sketchbook on the coffee table, open to a page filled with theoretical designs. “Please, no matter what you decide, don’t sell yourself short.”

Slowly the fists loosened, and stormy eyes looked up at this not-quite-stranger. Keith wanted to argue that Shiro had no right to upend his current life, but that didn’t ring true.

They’d just spent five hours on Keith’s lumpy couch, watching old movies and eating snacks while thunder roared overhead and lightning danced. Keith felt like a passing asteroid pulled into Shiro’s gravity well.

Did he want to escape?

Living this life meant reconciling his old one, whatever that ledger looked like.

“I’m willing to give whatever happens a chance.” He shrugged and pulled off his sweater.

Underneath he wore a black t-shirt, and Shiro got a good look at his friend’s body. It told its own story.

“I will tell them to take it easy.” Shiro knew a little something about surviving trauma, and a world turned suddenly busy and loud wasn’t his idea of a good time. “They mean well," he added.

Keith's lopsided smile didn't reach his eyes. “I knew I couldn’t hide forever.”

“But you wanted more time,” Shiro said.

“We all do.”

Shiro ended up settling for the facts.

Keith Kogane is alive and on Altea. He doesn’t remember us. There’s a lot to discuss, but not over chat.

[Picture]

The steady flow of conversation exploded into mayhem. He saw a message from Keith’s mother, whose name was the same bright-red color as Keith’s had been, and couldn’t even begin to imagine what she must be thinking.

She’d lost her son twice now.

Krolia: Can I speak with him?

“Would you be up for a video chat?” Shiro asked his silent companion and showed him the message. “You can say no. I’m sure she would understand.”

“Yes.”

A few taps later, the face of a strong, stoic Galra woman appeared on the screen. Tears marred Krolia’s eyes as she saw her son and couldn’t help either the grin or the sadness.

Two years… a lifetime of pain crammed into mere moments.

Keith looked back and felt a wave of warmth, unlike his feelings for Shiro. Different but similar enough to recognize. They looked alike, he reflected, like mother like son.

“I love you, child,” she said softly as a doggy-shaped face shoved itself into the picture. “The space wolf misses you, too.”

The creature vanished in a puff of haze and smoke as Keith watched. Confused, he glanced at Shiro. An incoming burst of ozone was all the warning Keith got before a two-hundred-pound creature rammed into him at full speed. The wolf knocked him over and went straight for his face.

A new mind touched Keith’s, slipped easily past his shields, and settled in its familiar spot. Something clicked as the wolf nuzzled him.

“Kosmo, down!” Shiro practically yelled, horrified.

Keith grinned and nodded, and the wolf got off him as if by magic. It slid off the couch to examine the empty popcorn bowl for any signs of remaining butter.

“Good boy,” Keith signed.

The creature nuzzled his hands, begging for treats.

“I don’t have any,” the dark-haired soldier told the wolf, unsure how he knew what it wanted. To Shiro, he signed desperately, “He teleports?”

“Oh yes, your space wolf definitely teleports. He can even take people with him assuming he knows where to go.”

“I have a teleporting wolf?” Keith reiterated.

Krolia chuckled and wiped at her eyes. “Would you mind translating, Shiro? I don’t know enough sign language.”

“Of course. Uh, Keith was making sure the wolf was real.”

The wolf found a wall inside Keith's mind that hadn’t been there before. It didn’t remember coming across it in the past, and the wall felt wrong. Keith was pack, and the strange obstacle stood in the way of that.

Confused, the wolf whined at the humans.

“Hey, buddy,” Keith mouthed and scratched behind an ear. “My wolf?” he signed with utter disbelief when the furry menace calmed down enough to go explore the studio.

“You raised him,” Shiro acknowledged. “More than once he saved our collective behinds. He’s a very good boy indeed.”

He had a… pet? Keith looked at the giant creature and couldn’t shake the strange feeling that it had taken up residence in his brain. It settled on the couch beside him, head in Keith’s lap where it could get occasional pets, and closed its eyes. It took up all of the remaining sofa space and then some.

“When we lost track of you on that mission, Kosmo was with your mom on a mission. One of my biggest regrets was not insisting that he come with you,” the admiral explained.

“Kosmo?” Keith finger-spelled the name.

“You told us that he would tell you his name one day, but then… you were gone and we can’t talk to him like you can. Could. So, we had to improvise. Lance wouldn’t stop calling him Kosmo and the name stuck, eventually. He likes ‘buddy’ too, occasionally. When treats are involved.”

Krolia added, “He looked for you, for months.”

“I don’t know how to take care of him,” Keith signed and then scratched behind one enormous ear.

“He eats pretty much anything you give him and will sleep on any warm body he trusts.” His mother smiled. “But I’m sure you’ll figure it out quick. You were amazing with him when you first met him.”

if you want to read more, click on the memories tag.

[writing-protocol]

Poison

Contains angst and a dying Blade. The ending is ambiguous.

Keith doesn’t even know the name of the Galra resistance leader who poisoned him. All he remembers is a grating voice telling him about a slow-acting poison running through his veins.

“Don’t worry, I have the antidote, but you’ll have to earn it.” The asshole laughs. “I’m going to let you escape, and I want you to lead your team back here. Once I’ve finished with them, you’ll get the antidote. You have three cycles. Deal?”

The Blade doesn’t even hesitate. “Deal.”

He ends up in a broken single-person flier at the nearest coalition base with coordinates he’s supposed to share with the rest of the paladins. Instead, they get on a video call, and he’s up-front about the whole ordeal. He knows he can’t avoid discussing the consequences, but in his mind, protecting the team comes first.

“It’s an ambush, nothing else. The leaders aren’t even there.” He can see Kolivan in the background, muttering to himself.

“And they let you escape?” Lance asks because of course he does.

“They said they gave me something.” Keith doesn’t elaborate. “It doesn’t matter. What does is that my ship came from their actual base. Its flight plans and navigation are scrambled to hell and back, but maybe Pidge can do something with them.”

“Already on my way,” says the bright-eyed engineer, “and I can tinker with it remotely while en route.”

“Gave you something?” Shiro asks slowly.

At this moment, the admiral is aboard the Atlas and parked somewhere around Earth. He’s ferrying Allura and Lance back to New Altea, and it’s almost time for their scheduled departure. Keith doesn’t exactly relish the upcoming conversation, but he doesn’t dwell on it either.

“He claimed it was deadly but slow. All I know.” The Blade nods to the door. “Medics took a blood sample in case they can figure out what it is.”

“And if they don’t?”

Keith shrugs. “Something, something honor. They will. Or I might get lucky. Or not. Regardless, none of you are stepping into a fucking trap setup by literal madmen on my behalf.”

---

Kolivan pings him privately about a debriefing. If his lifespan will be counted in hours, possibly complete with mental decline, they need to get as much information out of his head as physically possible in the meantime. He’s not relishing this part, either.

He shakes his head. “I need to talk to Kolivan. I know this is hard.” Keith takes the tone of a leader, the one he fucking hates. “I will speak with all of you later, I’m sure.”

He’s not looking forward to the friendly interrogation he’s about to walk into, but there’s just no time. It’s all necessary for the Blades to figure out the next steps. Kolivan’s on the other line, ready to grill him for as long as he breathes, presumably, so they can take down another separationist cell.

But all Keith wants is Shiro’s comforting warmth in his arms, and he can’t have that across the space of the universe.

Later, after the debriefing is done, Keith calls Shiro directly and asks for a private connection. He doesn’t know what to say, but silence doesn’t appear to be an option. Not when he has a dozen unread messages, and more missed calls than he dares to think about it.

He’s also married to this man, and he can’t avoid his husband for long.

“Keith!” It’s a bellow, and maybe he deserves that. “What the actual fuck?”

“Sorry.”

“I love you, Atlas and I are on our way, so you… better be there when we land.” Shiro’s expression is caught somewhere between righteous anger and endless fear. “Stars above, what happened?”

Keith doesn’t think Shiro wants another mission debrief. “I don’t know. I was careful, followed the protocol to the letter, it was supposed to be a diplomatic engagement. Blades don’t fuck up like this.”

“Shit, baby, I know. I know you. You’re not careless, and you don’t miss red flags.”

“Yeah, so…”

“Do you think they were telling the truth?”

Keith nods hesitantly and chews on his lip. “They injected me with something. I heard them whispering something about how they’ve seen this shit fuck up Galra twice the size. So, probably.”

“Fuck.” Shiro paces his living quarters like a lion trapped in a cage.

“Shiro…” Keith’s voice comes out soft and the words catch on his tongue. “I love you. I always have and always will. If I don’t get to say it again.”

“Don’t! Please, Keith.”

Keith can’t promise not to die, not when he didn’t set the timetable. The Blade feels tears burning in the corners of his eyes. He’s hollow inside like reality hasn’t quite settled in. He knows he’s dying, and understands rationally that his body is sick, but emotionally he’s still catching up.

“I miss you.”

“We’ll be there in just under three cycles.”

Neither of them mentions that it will be too late, that the cold equations of space travel and living bodies don’t lie.

“I’ll see you when you get here,” Keith offers, thinking that perhaps pretending for another five minutes that everything is fine is good enough.

Shiro looks downright horrified. “No. Keith, not, that’s not what I meant. I would rather talk to you for as long as have than sit here. I just…” He sobs. “I’ve known a lot of helplessness in life, and none of it felt like this.”

“I wish you were here.”

“What about the space wolf?”

“He’s with mom on a rescue mission, and they’re still trying to get ahold of them. On account of… you know.”

“Are you OK? Do you feel sick?” Shiro asks.

“Not yet, at least not any worse than when I got here.” That was already a flavor of awful, bruised, battered, and dehydrated.

“You should lie down. Rest. Shower. Take care of yourself.”

Keith is definitely looking forward to all of those. They’ve assigned him a room with a private restroom, small mercy that, and he plans on not letting it go to waste. “You, too.”

“Just don’t hang up, OK?”

Keith looks down at what remains of his tattered uniform and starts stripping out of it. Shiro has seen him naked plenty before, and the new bruises are what they are.

“Yeah, OK. Of course. I’m here. How was the peace accord renewal whatever it was?”

Shiro laughs through his tears, and it’s dark and agonizing. “More bullshit in one day than I usually see in months. I’m surprised Lance didn’t punch anyone given how the ambassadors behaved around his wife.”

Keith shakes his head in sympathy. “Thank goodness it’s over then.”

“For all involved,” his husband agrees. “Are you… going to say goodbye to the others?”

“I feel like I kind of should, you know?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Keith.”

“I know.” He takes his PADD to the bathroom with him and starts the shower running. “But… closure will help them more than it’s going to help me, and I want that for them.”

“Don’t you dare say goodbye to me!”

Keith smiles and closes his eyes. “It’s going to be all right, Shiro. No matter what happens, you’re going to be all right. I know it.”

“Not without you,” Shiro mutters as his husband steps into the shower and shudders with pain.

Keith sleeps fitfully for a few hours and wakes in pain. It’s a new, dull ache that covers his whole body in a way no bruise ever has — the poison, if he has to guess. His mind feels like he’s swimming through a fog, and it takes a few minutes to get his bearings.

Still at the Coalition base, still safe, still… alive.

Shiro’s already calling him like he knows Keith is awake. “How’re you feeling?” are the first words out of his mouth.

Keith hunts his nightstand for a bottle of water. “Not great.”

“You look like you didn’t get any sleep.”

“I think I dozed. Bad dreams.” Keith drinks water and sighs. He feels fatigued despite the nap, his limbs heavy. “How’d you know I was awake?”

“I might’ve called in a favor to get access to your vitals.”

“Nice use of expensive technology.”

“Shut up. You should go to medical if you’re not feeling well.”

“And do what? Everything hurts. Them handing me pain meds won’t solve the problem, and my head already feels like cotton candy.” He shrugs and lies back down. “Talking to you is nicer.”

"Keith, let them help."

"If they can find an antidote, I'm sure I'll be the first to know. Have you slept?"

Keith's husband doesn't lie. "No. Just sitting here, thinking about you. About our wedding. Remember Kosmo nearly eating the damn wedding rings?"

"Far too well. 'Bad wolf,' never sounded more appropriate."

"And then the honeymoon. I didn't think the Garrison would let us leave for long enough to actually enjoy it."

The Blade chuckles. "I still don't know what Pidge told them to get them off our backs. I'm glad she did. I think those were the best two weeks of my life."

Tears stream down Shiro's face and Keith wishes nothing more than he could hold the man he loves, could wipe those tears away. They'd gone camping together, drove across a country, marveled at the night sky in each other's arms. Keith only wishes for more time, more chances to make happy memories. He looks down at the wedding ring, dangling on a chain around his neck alongside his dog tags. 

He hopes both make it to Shiro if he doesn't.

"I love you," he says into the silence. "You were like a brother to me, when I was a kid and desperately needed someone in my corner. And then you were an unwavering friend, a leader. I don't think we would have survived the war without you. But most of all, I treasure your love. I don't know where I'd be without it, without you."

"Keith... I... More than anything in the world, in the universe. I love you, too."

"I'm tired," Keith admits, eyes fluttering closed.

Rest easy," Shiro prompts him just as another call comes in and a familiar face appears on the screen.

---

Later, while Keith is once again dozing, Shiro is plotting a painful demise for the ones responsible. He will find them and end them in ways that the galaxy is unlikely to ever forget.

And if he has his way, Shiro will do it with his husband by his side.

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

[writing-protocol]

Storm

The first storm of Shiro's new career comes spectacularly quickly.

One moment, the sun is shining and there are a few gray clouds on the distant horizon. And the next, the sky darkens and the wind picks up.

Shiro doesn't need the radio to tell him what's coming.

Outside, the ocean rages. He can hear its fury just beyond the edge of his new home. A chill settles in his bones as he grabs a raincoat and makes his way up the winding tower stairs to the lights. Rain pummels him.

In theory, he knows how to operate them.

In practice, he's winded by the time he finally reaches the top. It's been a couple of months since his discharge, and his body is still recovering from the injuries of that fateful flight.

He doesn't let that stop him from approaching the machinery. He can't fail here. He stares at it, trying to make sense of the knobs and levers when a familiar ghost suddenly materializes right next to him.

Keith's hair waves in the gusty wind, pulling away from his angular face. Those eyes stare at Shiro like they can see right through him.

"First time," Shiro explains.

The ghost's expression softens and he points toward one of the buttons.

"You sure?" Shiro asks hesitantly, brain suddenly blank. He can't remember a damn thing about this mechanism.

The ghost nods.

The lighthouse keeper presses it and hears the slow, ponderous creak of machinery coming to life.

Keith gestures at a crank and makes the motion to turn it clockwise. The lights rotate into place when Shiro does it while heavy raindrops crash around them.

Before Shiro can blink, the rain is sleet and the wind has turned into a gale. His raincoat flaps around and his face is half-numb from the cold. Water streams down his back as he fiddles with the controls again.

The lights flicker between crashes of thunder and briefly fail.

Shiro doesn't know what to do. Panic rises as the giant lamps lay silent and dark against the night.

"Shit," he yells over the wind.

The ghost puts his hand on Shiro's shoulder and shakes his head.

"Here." He points to a breaker.

Shiro flickers it off and on, and after a few tries, the lamps come back to life again. Slowly, they begin to rotate, casting their glow across the ocean.

The ghost smiles at him.

"Thanks." Shiro is grinning and he doesn't care.

The weather is doing a number on him, and he's pretty sure it's about to carry his ghost right off the tower. Keith looks like a wet rat for all that he's also smiling.

Are ghosts affected by the wind? "We should head back."

Keith gestures to the stairs.

"You first!" Shiro protests.

"I'm fine." The ghost starts to fade. "Go!"

Shiro wants to argue, but Keith is gone before he can. So he makes his way down to the ground, wet and cold and a little sad. And thankful even for the brief company of someone who knows what they're doing.

Click on the lighthouse tag to read the other drabbles in the same story.

[writing-protocol]

Diversion

A snippet featuring Voltron characters having a terrible time. Finished one shot with an ambiguous but hopeful ending.

The ransom video pissed Shiro off beyond all reason.

He had every right to be angry with the nameless resistance cell who'd kidnapped his husband in the middle of a humanitarian rescue operation. The Blades had been helping in the wake of a natural disaster on a planet halfway across the galaxy whose name Shiro knew only by the virtue of a mission brief.

It should have been perfectly safe.

Should have been.

"Can we track where this came from?" the admiral asked as he turned to the communications officer.

The older officer knew a little something about the relevant technology, but he shook his head. "A Blade hand-delivered it."

That got Shiro's undivided attention. "What?"

The officer's expression twisted into something concerned. "Head of ATLAS security escorted them to an interrogation room. So far, they haven't said a word to us, but we assumed you'd want to speak with them."

"Have the Blades been contacted?"

"Yes, sir."

Shiro let the matter drop and hurried to the small, dimly lit room where he normally conversed with frightened aliens and drunk crewmembers. Calling it "interrogation" was stretching the truth, and the ATLAS bristled at the critique.

The holding room door slid open with a soft whoosh as the admiral approached, and sure enough, a small, lithe person sat on one of the chairs inside. They wore a full combat suit, complete with an opaque mask that covered their features, so Shiro couldn't see their face. The stranger's head turned to look toward Shiro when the tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room.

“I’m told you delivered the ransom… information."

The Blade nodded and then did something unusual. They rolled their neck the way Keith sometimes did in boring meetings when all the sitting took its toll.

“Can you tell us where you got it?”

That earned Shiro a shrug and a headshake.

“You know we have other means of finding out," the admiral growled, and the words hung between them.

Shiro frowned at the Blade's lopsided shoulders, hunched forward in a familiar-as-fuck slouch. He would recognize that pose anywhere. How often had he walked into yet another boring meeting and scanned the room, looking at backs and necks until he found the familiar one?

“Keith?”

It made no sense given the video.

Shiro had just watched three Galra assholes torture the man he loved, so his being here didn’t make any sense. But the Blade nodded and put his hands on the table where it became instantly obvious that he couldn’t move them.

Shiro grabbed the nearest chair and sat down beside the other man. With gentle fingers, he pulled off the mask and stared into a pair of intense, violet eyes with black bags under them.

Keith looked utterly exhausted, but he stared at Shiro fondly over the metal muzzle that completely covered the lower half of his face. Breathing be damned, the admiral thought as he noticed the outlines of cuffs beneath the smaller man's tight skinsuit. None of the restraints had obvious locks.

“Fuck!” he cursed as he scooped his husband up into his arms and held him like a bride, or like the most precious person in his universe.

Keith leaned his head against Shiro's comforting shoulder as the admiral made a beeline for medical.

The ransom, the video, the entire fucking thing was a setup for the contents of his suit, which would detonate given the right set of actions. Keith had done what he could to make sure Shiro would figure it out, but the rest was in Shiro's court.

Keith trusted his husband to help before trouble knocked on their door.

[writing-protocol]

Who We Are

Squat, rectangular buildings rose five stories into the sky, each one identical and made out of some material Shiro didn’t recognize. Housing everyone in the wake of a war was a perpetual logistical nightmare. Occasionally the admiral felt like they were making progress.

More people had more places to live.

Then he saw the monstrosities that went up and doubted his entire existence.

Keith had no such qualms. He walked down a narrow sidewalk with the familiarity of someone who knew the way. A couple of men seated near one of the building entrances smiled at him, and he briefly signed with one of the elders.

Clearly, they knew him, and the rapid exchange of signs solidified that fact. Shiro felt a little lighter knowing that Keith wasn’t quite alone.

“Friends of yours?” he asked as they walked into the younger man’s austere studio apartment on the third floor.

“Fixed their sink two days ago.” Keith shrugged easily. “Water? Soda?”

“Water, please.”

Keith went to grab some from the kitchen while Shiro looked around. An old, worn sofa doubled as a bed, and the small apartment had the basic necessities. But the place hardly looked lived in. No pictures graced the walls, the coffee table contained a single closed notebook, and Shiro saw no hints of any personal touches or sentimental items.

He wondered if the other man moved too frequently to ever really settled down. Perhaps minimal belongings were a practical requirement of his current life. Shiro remembered Keith’s neat, empty room in the castle and couldn’t help comparing that visual silence with this one.

Had life with the paladins taught him that?

A few moments later, Keith came back with two glasses of water and ice, and handed one to Shiro. Overhead, the first peals of thunder boomed like the bitter shouts of an angry god.

The pitter-patter of rain hitting the apartment’s only window followed, growing in intensity so quickly that Shiro had the urge to go look outside.

“Guess the storm’s here,” the admiral said quietly and sipped his water.

“Big one. Sounds bad. Bet the streets will flood again.” Keith offered a lopsided smile and sat down on the couch. “Video games or terrible movies?”

“It’s been… a while since I’ve sat down and watched a movie.”

The younger man patted the couch cushion next to him, then asked, “Do you work a lot?”

“Probably more than is reasonable.” Shiro took the offer gratefully, shrugged off his jacket, and sat down beside Keith. “There are a lot of pieces to pick up. More than I imagined, I guess.”

“War is hell,” Keith agreed, and then turned on the television.

“Yeah, it is.”

To Shiro, hell had come in so many flavors that he no longer bothered counting them. Each one felt like it had ripped out his heart, and he’d kept going with the pieces that remained.

Maybe even somehow glued them back together into something usable.

Not this last time though.

With Keith gone, he’d become his job and his obligations. He thought he had no more heart left to give.

Possibly because it was sitting in front of him in the form of a very familiar person with a hesitant but open expression. Who was waiting for Shiro to select a film.

***

Shiro picked a movie almost at random from whatever was available while Keith made popcorn. The whole scene felt achingly familiar and yet… distinctly different.

He saw a couple of films that they’d watched together with the other paladins and selected one of them before he could overthink. Anything-but-quiet movie nights had been a reprieve from the horrors surrounding them in the midst of a conflict they had to solve on their own.

The smell of butter and popcorn preceded the younger man, who had a bowl in one hand and more water for himself in the other. He set both down on the worn coffee table — something plastic meant to resemble wood in name only — and glanced at the TV.

“Haven’t seen this one yet,” he signed. “Looks interesting.”

Shiro’s heart hurt. “It’s a good one,” he promised. “I think you’ll like it.”

“As long as it’s not a horror movie.” At Shiro’s puzzled expression, Keith added, “Nightmares.”

“You have them, too?”

“Less often now than before.” He took a seat on the couch again and leaned back, relaxing. “Start it?”

Shiro fumbled with the remote.

Opening credits began to play as more thunder crashed overhead. It looked dark outside now. Ominous clouds hung above the city while lightning flashed overhead. The rain ebbed and flowed in intensity just past the window.

Keith grabbed a blanket off the floor and wrapped himself in it. “Don’t like storms,” he explained before disappearing into the cocoon.

“Want to sit closer to me?” Shiro offered. “It might help with the anxiety. Well, it used to, for me.”

The younger man eyed the space between them before scooting closer. Shiro put his flesh-and-blood arm along the back of the rickety couch, and Keith practically snuggled into his embrace.

“Better?”

Keith nodded.

The admiral didn’t say it out loud, but he felt better too, with the most precious person leaning against his side. Even after two years apart, this felt like coming home.

Keith grabbed his sketchbook and wrote on an empty page. “Storms bother you, too?”

“Truth be told, a lot of things bother me.”

Shiro swallowed hard, struck with the sudden realization that Keith didn’t remember the reason he had a scar on his face.

“Years ago, by both of our reckonings, I went on a mission to Kerberos. The Galra captured us. I spent a year in their prisons and fighting arenas. And then the war… A lot of bad memories piled up. Nightmares are a small price to pay.”

The younger man reached out, slowly, and intertwined his fingers with Shiro’s. The feeling soothed him, yet another remnant of a past he wasn’t getting back.

“You came home safe,” he scribbled with his free hand awkwardly.

“That’s more than I can say for a lot of people,” Shiro agreed. “When Blades return from missions safe and sound nowadays, there’s sometimes celebration. To mark another day lived.”

Keith could believe it. He took a deep breath and sank into the comfort of Shiro’s arm and shoulder.

“You used to be a Blade,” Shiro went on.

The younger man looked up at him, a little surprised and a little sad.

“So I gathered,” he wrote. Putting the notebook aside, he sat up enough to use both arms. “The other prisoners didn’t know who I was. People I met later knew about the paladins. That and news about the war helped put the pieces together.”

“Is there anything you’d like to know?” the admiral offered.

“What were we before?”

“You and I?”

Keith nodded. “I don’t like being touched now.” He didn’t elaborate, but Shiro winced regardless. “But this—” He gestured at them, the room, all of it “—feels good. Feels right.”

“We were friends,” the other answered. “Before the end of the war, privacy was scarce, so it was easier to… set things aside. You rescued me, more than once.” Shiro took a shaky, hesitant breath. “I’ve loved the Keith I knew for a long time. Probably since before Kerberos, if I’m being honest. But I didn’t know how he felt, and I was too much of a coward to ask.”

Keith moved to ask more but Shiro shook his head.

“I thought I didn’t deserve the person I loved, and before I could tell him how much he meant to me, he was gone.”

Soft, dark eyes looked up at the older man. “You deserve happiness.”

“Maybe not after everything I’ve done.”

Keith offered him a tentative smile. “I’m not that person. Not your Keith.”

“I know that. I’m sorry if I made it seem otherwise.”

Keith put a single, long finger against Shiro’s chapped lips. “You’re not my Shiro. You are Shiro. I met you today. You seem kind and genuine.”

“And I invited myself over to your place to give you an existential crisis.”

“I was due.” The younger man grinned, then sobered. “Most likely, your Keith isn’t coming back.”

Shiro wasn’t sure he understood what the other man was trying to say. “Are you telling me to move on?”

Keith nodded. “Best advice I ever got. Live this life.”

Shiro thought about that for a moment. Maybe his Keith was never coming back, but the man curled comfortably beside him was very much here and alive.

“I’d like to be your friend,” Shiro said softly, hesitantly. “I can’t say that my past has no bearing on that. But I’d like to get to know you. This you, not the ghost living in my head.”

Keith handed him the popcorn bowl and snuggled closer to his chest. It really did feel like home.

“After the storm,” he mouthed silently.

If you want to read more, click on the memories tag.