llamamamarisen92 · 2 months ago
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The Wolf and the Lion
Chapter 3 - A Bottle of Wine Between Bedfellows
Chapter 2 link:
https://www.tumblr.com/llamamamarisen92/760433510540541952/the-wolf-and-the-lion?source=share
Named Dark Urge
Pre-BG3 Dark Urge/Gortash Head Canon
Warning: dangerous amounts of sweet, sweet villainous tension.
Characters: Johim (Durge), Gortash
Word Count: 1,400ish
By: Jesh Llamas
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Gortash watched from his window as Bhaal's rumored son continued to serenade the crowd, staring directly at him. Filled with a little disbelief that his plan had worked.
There were many who talked in hushed tones about the current ruler of Bhaal's cult. A menacing white dragon. Humorlessly stalking around the streets in dark robes. There wasn't much deviation in their descriptions of him. He sent his spies out for anything he could grasp onto. A lead of some sort.
It had been a hot afternoon the day one of his spies slipped him a discreet note. It had a name on it. An idol merchant that set up shop near Candulhallow's Tombstones. He changed out of his oil stained clothes. Donning the robes he designed himself. Patterns subtly denoting symbols of Bane. To the untrained eye it was simply a beautifully ornate piece of clothing. But it was a signal to those who worked with him in the shadows.
When he arrived at the idol merchant he noticed the man had two idols of interest. One matching the dragon he recognized through his men's descriptions. But the other looked like no one in the pantheon he recognized. He picked it up scanning the features of what appeared to be a handsome half-elf. When he asked the merchant what god it was the man looked around nervously.
"A young woman came lookin’ at my stock. She was displeased by my Bhaal statues and claimed to have some authority on the matter. Sayin’ the dragon was all wrong." He watched as Gortash examined the bronzed features. Rubies set in the eye sockets.
"I never imagined Bhaal to care much about looking good while he ordered his cultists to stick a dagger through someone's heart." He mused.
The man snickered. "It's not Bhaal. It's his son."
He watched the man carefully, taking his measure.
"His son you say?"
"Yeah, the lady told me that Bhaal's big strong leader is none other than his own son. Believe me when I say I was just as surprised as you are now when she described him. A dazzling lion sitting upon his father's throne. Crowned with long flamin' hair."
Gortash examined the idol a bit more closely. "There hasn't been talk of a Bhaalspawn rising up since the days of Sarovek."
Gortash wasn't even alive at that time. Roughly 120 years ago. Could Bhaal really have a new scion out to play?
"Thank you for the information. Did you happen to catch the name of the woman who gave you the information."
He shook his head.
"If you should happen to come through with more information I will have a heavy purse readied with your name on it." He paid the idol merchant for the graven image of Bhaal's son. "Oh, and do not impart this information on anyone else. This statue can be... a limited edition..." He handed the merchant a few more coins to ensure there was an understanding between them.
The merchant did indeed come through with more information. Visited again by an unidentifiable woman.
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He motioned his chin at the grinning man depicted by the idol that now sat upon his shelf. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship but in truth it did not do him justice. He was a truly dazzling specimen of a man. The left side of his hair tucked behind an ear that indicated half-elven heritage.
A few weeks ago when he felt the knife pressed against his back he thought his life was forfeit. But he was exhilarated when he read the note that was slipped in his pocket.
Johim looked away as he finished his song. In no rush to move from his place. When he was finished he bowed before the crowd and walked to the cobbler's shop.
Gortash turned around. Waiting expectantly as the other man climbed the stairs to his small study. He entered, dropping the fiddle carelessly on the ground. Leisurely he ran his hand along Gortash's desk, walking until he was just inches from him. Gortash noted the hint of excitement in his lazily hooded expression.
He swallowed. The energy and power radiating off of Johim was incredible. Something he only felt when Bane showed up in his dreams. Promising him power beyond his wildest imagination. Instructing him to reach out to the temple in the first place.
Johim’s hand lifted to Gortash's chin, tilting his head up until he gazed into radiant amber eyes. He was a bit surprised that they were not red as the statue depicted.
"Don't you know it's dangerous to leave a lion hungry." His voice was rich like velvet. He spoke softly but he may as well be shouting for all the world to hear.
Gortash didn't move. Standing his ground so as to not be swept away by the hurricane. A small amount of relief settled in his stomach when Johim let go of his chin, the threat replaced by amusement. He watched carefully as the tall, lean muscled man sat in one of the chairs near a few shoes that he was working on for some rich patrons.
"Tell me, how does a cobbler come into such knowledge?" He picked up one of the shoes on the table. Examining the intricate swirls of purple.
Gortash sat in the chair next to Johim, plucking the shoe away from him and setting it down. "A cobbler that aspires to rise far above his station."
Johim leaned back, his arms crossed. Head tilted as he waited for Gortash to continue.
"You were born into power. Born with the divine blood of the gods. I was born into nothing. Lower than nothing." Bitterness twinged his voice.
"And yet, it seems you have risen to something."
"Yes. I took what life gave me and instead of waiting around for luck to strike I seized every small opportunity I could. Slowly collecting knowledge until I was able to climb higher upon the ladder of success."
"And you desire to climb higher I take it?"
Gortash's expression grew in intensity. Locking upon Johim's face. "Don't you?"
How many people fell victim to that carelessly casual expression. Drawn in by the salacious nature of his speech. Gortash watched carefully. Johim didn't give away much. But his expression shifted a bit. He had his full attention now.
"I am the ruler of Bhaal's temple. Born of his flesh and blood. What more could you offer me that I don't already have?"
"You may be born to a god, but you are not a god yourself." He got up to grab a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. "If you were as content as you say you are you wouldn't have responded to my note." He poured out the liquid, extending one of the glasses to Johim. "If you truly had everything you desired you wouldn't be sitting here in my humble cobblers shop."
Johim took the wine and drank deeply.
"I have lived many lifetimes. When one lives many lifetimes, eventually one gets bored. Restless." Johim tapped his fingers on the desk. Something unreadable crossed his face.
Gortash took a deep breath, carefully weighing his words. "What if... we were our own masters. Gods of our own right."
He expected Johim to roll his eyes or scoff in disgust. But instead he watched as his mind worked through their conversation.
"What does a mortal human know of becoming a god?"
"You know as much as I do, that it's been accomplished before. Plenty of gods in our current pantheon started out as mere mortals. Your father included." He poured more wine into Johim's now empty cup. "And gods have been removed from that pantheon, usurped. Just as Mighty Karsus attempted when he momentarily replaced Mystril. Only I don't intend on being struck from the sky."
Johim smirked. "Neither did Karsus."
He watched as Johim got up and began to pace in his unhurried way, chuckling a bit to himself as he caught sight of the idol on Gortash's shelf. After a time of silence he looked back at Gortash. That bright wild smile returned to his face.
"I hope you have more than one bottle of wine. Because we have a lot to discuss tonight."
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scuttle-buttle · 3 years ago
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Chapter 11
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WC: 2077
Rated: E
Chapter Tags: full on angst, discussions of emotional trauma, mild depictions of blood/gore, mentions of self h*rm & su*cide, mentions of child abuse, discussions of physical disabilities, institutionalization, some dialogue & plot canon to TV show, hurt/comfort
🧠
The rest of the conference went by much like the first day did. Both you and Laszlo bought a few books for your collections. An ease had settled over your conversations with the help of Sara and John's presence; you spoke more freely with each other. You tell yourself it is not because he's going soft on you or vice versa, but rather that you have found yourself in this imaginary bubble where you happen to get on well. It's inevitable that it will pop once you’re back at school and Laszlo will revert back to his usual callous state.
Laszlo. It still felt odd to think of him like that, rather than by his title. You couldn't lie, it gave you a sort of thrill. Even in your dreams you had only called him by his honorific. Thankfully you didn't have another dream after Friday. You couldn't escape the feeling that you'd said something incriminating in front of the man in question. So you chose to pretend it didn't happen.
Monday morning came and you headed to the train station. Once again he had secured a private cabin for the journey. This time you came prepared with a book since you had yet to replace your broken phone.
"Thank you again for inviting me to this, I really enjoyed myself. It was really nice of the department to foot my travel expenses, the hotel was really fancy. I may have helped myself to a mini-bottle or two," you joked.
"There is no need to worry about the department's finances; they were not involved."
You pause. He paid for you? Laszlo did say he would take care of the arrangements; but the four-star hotel, the private compartment train tickets, the admission to the conference, and every meal? Shit, that must have been a fortune, hundreds of dollars at least.
You don't know what to say, so you settle for an awkward "oh." A moment passes before you add "I appreciate that, um, I can pay you back. Might take some time but I can."
The professor is flippant in his reply. "There is no need, it was well spent for the research and knowledge acquired." He opens his book signaling the conversation is over.
You lick your lips. Fine then, I'll just consider it payment for emotional suffering and damages of the last eight weeks.
The first few hours of the journey were spent reading one of the new books you picked up at the convention. Occasionally you would peek over the pages at the professor. He was engrossed in his own selection; sometimes he would pause to write down a thought.
Around the seventh hour of your journey you had given up on reading anymore in favor of looking at the fields outside. The silence was comforting.
Laszlo had trouble concentrating on the book in his hand. He saw you as a conundrum. One minute you could be sociable and teasing with your comments, then next you were biting at his throat with your quick wit and fierce ideals. He decides that he wants to know what made you into who you are today. Now is as good a time as any.
His eyes on you cause a tingle up your spine but you ignore it. Laszlo breaks the silence; "may I ask a personal question?"
"You just did," you answer, still peering out of the large window. He huffed once, amused. At his following silence you face him. You raise your eyebrows to signal him to go on with his question. Curiosity grows at the thought of what he intends to ask.
"Twice now you have made implications of a traumatic past," he begins.
Bubble popped.
Interrupting, you snark "is this the part where you psychoanalyze me, doc? Because trust me, I've been through enough of that." You pick at the lint on your jeans.
Laszlo tries to choose his words more carefully the next time he speaks. "What I mean to say is, the first afternoon in the classroom where you defended that student you implied you had been witness to a trauma. You then displayed signs of anger and embarrassment before leaving prematurely. Yesterday you mentioned having entered a psychiatric facility. As an alienist I can't help but find myself curious about your experiences."
You slide your eyes to meet his from across the cabin. Your face is devoid of any emotion. "We all have our demons. Even you can't argue with that."
Your jaw clenches. Everyone had warned you. They all said he would try to worm his way into your head to figure you out. All the reviews, the gossip, everything. It was a big fat 'I told you so'. You give a pitiful laugh at the situation. "You know, everyone told me that you would pull this stunt."
He seems confused by your statement. "And what is that?"
"That you'd get inside my head and try to figure me all out or whatever. You already know I googled you beforehand, what everyone says about your methods. By now I assume you've done a little research yourself. I promise you there is nothing exciting here," you scoff and point to yourself.
"You would be correct in your assumption." You chew at your cheek as he starts. "I do know some of what happened in your past. Yet I also know that society likes to dilute the truth into something either more palatable, more entertaining, for people to consume greedily. What I want to know is what you have faced. How you have not allowed the experience to overcome you so much so that your humanity is erased like the characters I lecture on."
Eyes closing of their own volition you are thrown back in time to that night so many years ago. You didn't talk about it anymore. Bitsy knew of course, but that was the extent.
Laszlo waits. He knows this is likely to push you over the edge if your history with him means anything. Quite frankly, anyone would be tossed to their limit at his interrogation had they gone through what you had. John always told him that he needed to work on his bedside manner; that he had a habit of coming on too strong in his pursuit of learning the intricacies of the human mind. But your earlier comment about being sent to a so-called 'nuthouse' rubbed him the wrong way. It left a bad taste in his mouth. He needed to know. He needed to understand.
Laszlo can imagine the reprimand that he would receive from John and Sara for this. Just as he considers apologizing for his intrusion you open your eyes.
"She was fine. None of us suspected anything was wrong. I came home from having dinner with some… boy, and she had locked herself in the bathroom. She- she must have started over the sink and moved to sit on the side of the tub. She was hunched inside it when I got the door open. I pulled her out. Blood was… everywhere." Your voice is clinical as you explain.
"After, I shut down. So I checked myself into a psych ward a few days later when I couldn't get the feel of her blood off my hands. It's slippery, you know. And it smells. You wouldn't think so but it does." You clear your throat. "I did the therapy, took the meds they prescribed, all the standard treatments. Later I started watching true crime documentaries. I'd heard about exposure therapy so I figured the more I saw the gore, the less the image of my dead roommate would bother me. And it did help. The nightmares stopped after a while, I came back to school. I was better, just not the same.” You had watched the passing landscape as you explained. Turning to face him you speak again. “That's why those pictures didn't bother me. They weren't anything I hadn't seen before."
He contemplates you. The discovery and subsequent loss of your friend in this manner would no doubt cause lingering effects to your psyche. A stain that would forever remind you. "I offer my sincerest condolences. I do not presume to know what that would be like to experience, but I am glad you sought help afterwards. To make the choice to alleviate yourself of your own suffering where possible.”
As he says this he realizes that your anger towards the idea of being enslaved to unconscious impulse makes perfect sense. It explains why you focused so much energy on defending your belief in free will. That you have the power to choose how you carry your joy, your anger, your healing. It reminds him of how he held onto his own guilt and hurt, ignoring how it festered within him for so long. He feels as though he needs to share a piece of himself with you.
“I played piano as a child, quite well too. My mother hoped I would someday make a career of it. I vividly remember playing Mozart’s Concerto for Piano No. 20 in D Minor at a holiday party when I was seven years old. It was my favorite to play.... It requires two hands." You finally look at him. "My father...” He pauses to gather himself.
Now it is the doctor that cannot meet your eyes. As you listen you feel your confusion grow. How could he have been a talented pianist if he only had full use of his left hand? Unless..., the realization dawns on you just as he continues, his words slow.
“My father had two sides. One loving and the other brutal, the two often coexisting. It was something as trivial as putting me to bed, I recall... A game of tug of war. We were laughing…” He inhales a sharp breath. Already you can feel the tears begin to blur your vision. “I don't remember if he was drunk or if I said something that offended him. He must have pulled my arm behind my back.” Laszlo exhales shakily. “In small children, fractures can often affect…” he trails off, unable to finish. You can hear how he barely holds himself together.
Your heart aches for the broken man that sits in front of you. He never let on how much his arm bothered him, at least not within your presence. Suddenly you don’t see him as this rude, insufferable, obsessive man, but instead as someone that spends his life trying to protect himself. He projects his own anger and hurt so that he may, just for a minute, forget about his own demons. He wants to help others even when he feels he cannot bear to help himself.
But unlike you, he has to live with the physical reminder of his past every day of his life.
You stand and move to sit on his right side. Before allowing yourself to think too much of your actions, you place your hand atop his own, curling your fingers around his palm and squeezing delicately. You don’t bother wiping away the tears on your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Laszlo;” the whisper is barely heard above the sound of the train. A second passes where you fear you have overstepped and offended him by touching the affected limb. When his thumb tightens against the backs of your fingers you know he is not. He holds you in place.
“You asked me how I kept my humanity. How does anyone really? We learn to take what we get and we carry it in a bag. Sometimes you have to drag the damn thing behind you. But eventually the weight gets less and less if you allow yourself to move forward, even if it’s still there with you all the time. I dealt with what happened years ago and it does still haunt me. It’s easier now than it was, but… I- I suppose I’ve learned from you too. Sitting in those lectures and hearing you talk. We can either let it haunt us for the rest of our lives… or we can accept it… and use the memory of our pain to help ourselves and others.”
“I’m not sure the choice is entirely in our hands.” His tone is mournful.
You turn to smile at him through your tears. His own eyes are bloodshot. “I disagree. If it weren’t, if we didn’t have the freedom to choose that, we’d all be murderers.”
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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years ago
Note
11, “drastic,” for the microfics! :)
thank you for giving me the excuse to write this!! i've been waiting for a good opportunity. this is a mag 154 au; warning as such for discussion of blinding oneself (not actually depicted), and for canon-typical s4 jon self loathing.
to clarify: this is a fix it au. jon will be able to blind himself and he will be able to live without the eye bc it's my au and i said so.
11. drastic 
"I should've known," says Martin, "that it would be something like this." He laughs a little, bitterly. "Nothing simple, right? No easy way out?"
"That's never been how anything is for us," says Jon. "You know that." He laughs hollowly, too; his head thunks softly against the stone wall of the tunnels. "If it were easy, we all would've left a long time ago." (He tells himself, sternly, that this is true.) 
They've been down here nearly an hour; no chance of Elias seeing them down here. (One of the recorders is running, has been since just before Jon heard the pound of footsteps heading down the hall into the Archives. He'd known immediately that something had to be happening; Melanie had left for the night, Daisy and Basira had gone out, so it'd just been Jon in the Archives, for once, a rare enough occurrence. He thought maybe one of them came back, but he wasn't sure why the tapes would want to hear that. And then Martin had burst through the door, panting and ashy, his eyes fixing directly on Jon, and he'd said, Yes.
Jon, barely daring to believe it, had said, Yes? and Martin said, Yes, said, Christ—yes, Jon, I'll do it, I'll go with you, staring at Jon almost like he expected Jon to take the offer back, to say he hadn't really meant it. Jon had strode across the room instead, moving to embrace Martin in a desperate hug—tight enough to make Jon question the status of his remaining ribs. And when Martin had sagged into the embrace, limp like a puppet with cut strings, Jon knew that he had meant his answer.)
They're here in the tunnels, now, sitting with their backs against the wall, passing a bottle of rum Daisy stashed under the cots back and forth. They're supposed to be discussing strategy, how they're going to blind themselves (where they'll go, what they'll do after), but they've mostly just been talking in circles. Stuck in the quiet awe of what they're about to do, and the fact that they're doing it together—this is the most Jon has talked to Martin since he woke up, and the reality of that is overwhelming. 
"I think Melanie is going to do it," says Jon, just for something to say—and because it is the truth. "So… we'll have some company, I suppose." He issues a weak little laugh. "If… if she even wants to see us after this." He has his doubts. He knows Melanie has a lot of anger towards him, and he knows the majority of it is earned. 
"I… I haven't even talked to Melanie since… before you woke up," Martin says softly. "Jesus. It's… it's been that long." 
"She deserves to get out," says Jon. "I… I hope this is a way for her, too." 
Martin makes a loud sniffling sound, and Jon turns abruptly to see him wiping his eyes. "I… I think Tim would've done it. If he'd know," he says, voice thick with tears that haven't fallen yet. "I… I wish… I wish we'd found out about this sooner. Given him a way out, too."
Jon's throat closes up a little at the mention of Tim—he's barely been able to think of Tim at all over these past six months. Unable to make it past the reality that Tim is dead because of him, because he brought him to the Archives… this just feels like another way he's failed Tim, in the end. He nods a little, looking back out at the tunnels, says, "Yes, I—I wish that, too," and is unable to go any further, his voice breaking into pieces. Tim, Sasha—both are dead because of him, because he couldn't save them. At least now he's found something that might save Melanie and Martin—that might even save him, even though he doesn't deserve it. 
Martin makes a sound of dissension, almost like he knows what Jon is thinking, and scoots closer until their shoulders are pressed together. "We… we can live in my flat," he says, his voice still thick. "If you want. I-it's gotten worse, since… I-I mean, it isn't in the best shape, a-and there's only the one bedroom, b-but…" He offers another little laugh—gallows humor. "I can promise you that there aren't any worms."
"Oh," says Jon, biting back laughter of his own. "Oh, well—good. That—that sounds lovely, Martin." 
There's a moment of silence then, a long moment of just the wet, eerie sounds of the tunnels, and of Martin's soft arm against his. Jon swallows and adds, "W-we'll be all right, Martin. We will. O-once the pain and the healing has passed, we… I really think we'll be all right." Happy, a part of his mind suggests, daringly. Maybe they will be able to be happy. 
"Do you really believe that?" Martin says—and there's an edge there, something sanded off by the Lonely, remnants that haven't left yet—but there's also something genuine. A real question. 
"I do," says Jon. He doesn't Know—he can't Know, his mind takes a sharp swerve every time he broaches the subject—but he has a feeling. Something almost like hope. "I really do."
Martin must lean a little, because their shoulders press together; he says, "N-not to rehash wh-what we said… earlier… but… why me, Jon? W-why not Basira and Daisy, o-or… we haven't talked in months, just… why me?" 
Jon could say any number of things. Daisy and Basira didn't want to do it, or There's no one else who would WANT to run away with me, I can't think of a single other person, or I'm in love with you, I should've told you sooner, I'm so sorry. But he doesn't say any of those things. He says, "M-Martin, there isn't…" He takes a deep breath. Presses his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. "There isn't a… a single other person I would want to do this with," he says quietly. "It's… it's just you. Only you." 
Martin makes a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and it is so Martin, so familiar in a way Jon hasn't seen since he woke up, that his chest seizes a little. "Okay," he says, "okay." He reaches down between them and, tentatively, takes Jon's hand.
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lovelazarus · 4 years ago
Text
rating: Mature
archive warning: graphic depictions of violence
words: 2645
tags: Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm (fairly graphic), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, graphic description of suicide attempt, Flashbacks, Trauma, Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, Dean is alive, Castiel is alive, Hurt/Comfort, POV Dean Winchester, brief mention of John Winchester - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Sad with a Happy Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Past Abuse, Homophobic Language, 15x20 Fix-It
summary: (This fic starts out with a graphic dream/flashback of Dean's mid-20s.) Cas showed up to save Dean in 15x20 after he let himself get impaled on rebar, his attempt to stop living while thinking Cas was truly gone in the Empty. It's been a few months since that event in the Barn. Things have been calm since Chuck lost his power & Jack brought Castiel back to help rebuild heaven (although Jack isn't in this directly!). Even with things being okay, Dean's decades of trauma are still bubbling up and Dean has to face the reality of his actions (past & present).
PLEASE read all tags before reading!
The last thing Dean remembers is sitting down on the couch in the Deancave, waiting for Cas to come pick tonight's movie. He must’ve dozed off at some point because suddenly it's 2004 and he’s 25 years old again.
The two years Sammy was off at Stanford was one of Dean’s lowest points in life; including his trip to hell, being a demon & helping kick start the apocalypse. He was completely alone.
Sam was gone, John was irate and blamed Dean for Sam leaving, for not stopping him from leaving. Dean was hunting alone, without his family, for the first time in his life. His last hunt however was the first to deeply scar him irrevocably.
A father and 2 sons, roughly the same age apart as him and Sam. Both attacked by an extremely vengeful spirit, the father was gutted and the sons were supernaturally manipulated into hanging themselves. Dean walked into their house hoping to save the family after following trails of the case, but he walked into a gruesome scene that left him shaking and holding back from vomiting.
In Dean’s mind, it was a representation of his own torn apart family. He left the home, found the grave of the spirit, and put it to rest with unsteady hands and bleary eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you in time… I could’ve saved you and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t good enough to help you. I’m so sorry.” Dean whispers, half to the victims and half to his younger brother, thousands of miles away and unable to hear his plea.
He gets to the motel room he rented with his duffle slung over his shoulder and stands outside the door with the key in his hand, almost afraid to enter, lest he finds another sick and twisted scene inside. He exhales roughly and shoves the key into the door and strides in.
All that's inside his cheap bottle of gas station whiskey and a pack of menthols.
He drops his duffle on the extra twin bed before scooping up his liquor and smokes. He wants to erase this entire hunt from his mind if he can.
Oh, how he wants to.
Three hours later his whole pack is gone, cigarette butts shoved into an old ashtray, and 3/4th the bottle of whiskey is sitting harshly in his stomach. Dean can’t stop picturing that family as his own. Thoughts of his father’s anger circle inside his mind like a tornado.
“I told you to watch out for Sammy, boy! Do you even use that brain other than to continuously disappoint me and fail your brother? To fail Mary?”
HIT
“I left you alone for two weeks! TWO WEEKS THAT'S ALL! Now Sam has run off and you’re going to pay for it.”
HIT
“So you blew through all the money I left you and now you’re turning tricks like some little faggot? You’re going to influence Sammy to that shit and I won’t allow my sons to be like that.”
HIT
With each memory of John rushing back into Dean’s mind, he can still feel the physical hits coming. His dad was right. This would never have happened if he hadn’t been more careful. If he had protected Sam like he was told to. If he had been a better son.
He finishes the last of the whiskey as the screams of his father’s voice start to fade back into the black void inside his mind. But the moment the last drop of liquor touches his tongue, he breaks. Every punch landed by his father that he took in order to protect Sam comes rushing back. Every harsh word and drunken fight he got into. Every argument with Sam over being too controlling, too much of a soldier.
Dean feels sick.
The toilet in that crappy motel room has certainly seen better days, but no matter how much Dean vomits, he stays just as drunk.
In a moment of blind anger, he destroys the kitchenette, the TV, and the nightstand. He chucks the empty whiskey bottle at the wall and watches the glass fly everywhere as it shatters.
He absent-mindedly picks up a large piece of glass.
This could kill me. One quick and easy slash to my neck or wrist and that’d be it. No more pain for Sam, and no more disappointment for dad.
He lets his hand drop to his side and allows the shard to fall to the floor. This isn’t the first time he’s had thoughts like this in moments of weakness, but it's certainly the first time there was a calm push behind it. He collapses to his knees with a broken sob. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He's tired.
God, he is so tired.
Dean isn’t sure when he decided this was his only option to stop the deep visceral pain he’s feeling, but it's where he’s at now.
Swallow all the pills in the med bag? No, that's what bitches and girls do, plus… it's painful.
Slit his wrists in a nice warm bath? Even worse than pills! You really are some kind of faggot, aren’t you?
Shotgun to the face? Now that's the man’s way out.
He pauses, looking over to his favorite sawed-off. It’ll be an absolute mess if that’s the way he goes. He thinks again to the family he couldn’t save; how gory and horrific it was. He shudders and breathes in sharply. He can’t do that to someone else, especially not some innocent civilian.
“Of course,” he mutters under his breath “I have a rope in the trunk.” So that’s the plan.
He stuffs all his shit into his duffle, writes out an apology to Sam, Bobby, and John (it’s a suicide note, but it doesn’t explain anything), and then he ties a military-grade noose. He finds a chair that isn’t completely destroyed by his earlier rage and begins to tie the rope onto the ceiling fan.
He stands there for a moment, contemplating. “Am I really about to do this? I’ve fought monsters and demons and ghosts for twenty years and this is where it ends?”
He shakes his head and shrugs.
“Always knew I'd die before thirty.”
He raises the noose to his head and just as he is about to slide it around his throat… The chair breaks apart, and he's left lying on his back with the wind knocked out of him.
“FUCK!” he manages to yell out before his lungs and chest start burning again. Tears begin to pinprick at his eyes as he lays motionless (and probably concussed, he didn’t break his fall at all). “I can’t even kill myself right.” he thinks to himself.
Slowly, he gets himself off the floor, groaning at the pain in his skull and back as he does. Crawling over to his bed, he sees the glass shard he dropped earlier.
“I just want to stop this fucking FEELING” his mind screams. “Just do SOMETHING you worthless son of a bitch!”
He picks the glass back up.
Everything is hazy when his brain starts to come into focus again. His hands feel slick and wet, so he brings them to his face to see what he touched.
Blood.
His own blood.
Three long gashes across his forearm, roughly a quarter-inch deep and four inches long each. He needs to stitch himself up for sure.
30 minutes later and it just looks like a hunt gone bad, his arm is sewn up and all the motel towels are stained red.
For a fleeting moment, he feels at peace. The rush of discovering what he did in a fog of failing to kill himself and the overwhelming feeling of failing his family, he feels like this was something he deserved. Like he deserved to be punished.
After an hour of dissociating and staring at the wall, he passes out and sinks into a moment of silent nothingness. No nightmares, not yet.
Dean practically jumps out of his skin when he hears Cas’s voice from the doorway.
“Dean? You look pale. What's going on?” Castiel asks with his familiar cadence.
Dean wishes he knew what brought that memory back up. Instead, he plasters on a fake smile and shakes his head reassuringly the best he can.
“Nothing Cas, just thinking I guess. What took you so long? You burn the popcorn or somethin?” Dean knows he sounds insincere, he knows that Cas knows, too. He doesn't want Cas to worry any more than he already does, though.
“Dean, your heart rate sped up and you were on the verge of hyperventilating, what happened?”
Damn it. He should’ve known Cas could still do that weird x-ray angel shit. Instead of trying to hide it further, he sighs and motions for Castiel to sit beside him on the couch.
However, he blanches when Cas passes behind him and brushes his hand against Dean’s shoulder. Cas sits down carefully, not to overwhelm Dean. Castiel has seen him during a flashback before, especially after hell. Cas looks inviting, ready to listen to whatever Dean has to say. Cas was always trying to be open with him lately, Dean knows it’s because of the struggles the last six months.
Cas dying, if briefly. Dean ALMOST dying, because of it.
Wait…
That's when Dean realizes.
Every time he’s lost someone, it's been bad. Drunk passed out on the floor, let Baby be filthy, run into hunts without any concern for his safety, bad…
The two worst times were when he lost Sammy, and when he thought he lost Cas to the Empty.
Dean must’ve been sitting there with a strange look on his face for a while cause Cas reaches out gingerly to silently ask if he’s alright. Dean gives him a half-smile and lets out the breath he was apparently holding.
“Cas, did I ever tell you about what I did in 2004 when Sam was off at Stanford and I was hunting by myself?”
Cas tilts his head in that endearing way he always does, “Not that I recall. Is something from back then troubling you now still?”
Dean clenches his jaw and runs a hand over his mouth, a nervous tic he picked up from John decades ago. “I did something similar back then to what I did in that barn. I gave up.”
Castiel’s eyes widen a bit, starting to understand what Dean is trying to say, but staying silent, to let him get this out.
Dean cracks a wry chuckle, “y’know, when you pulled me outta hell and into my body again, I was surprised you wiped the slate and got rid of all my scars.” He glances at Castiel, just for a moment, to see his reaction. It's soft but a little confused.
“At the time, I thought you would like to come back whole. A fresh start after what you went through in hell. I know now that life is about the imperfections and that the littlest things have meaning and memories. I’m sorry if I took those from you, Dean.” Cas meets Dean’s eyes with apologetic fondness and sincerity.
“Cas, it's okay. Really. Sometimes… I don't know, there's some scars I just miss sometimes.” He runs his hand along his forearm, where the self-harm scars would’ve been. “The ones that were here… they gave me a constant reminder of what almost happened. What I almost did.” Dean can feel his face getting warm as he talks about it, eyes watering up but no tears slip down his face.
Cas seems to nod along, waiting for him to continue with concerned patience. “I tried to kill myself back in ‘04. Sam was gone and doing fine without me, he had Jess. Dad was pissed at me for not getting him to stay and hunt. I had no one. I hit a low point after finding a really fucked up case about a vengeful spirit that gutted a family, father, and two sons…” Dean chokes up, as he pictures the glazed eyes of the corpses he found. A shiver runs down his spine as he can still picture it like it was yesterday.
“You saw your father and Sam in them and it brought up a lot of emotions, that’s understandable.” Cas tries to reassure him but doesn’t quite understand what Dean’s trying to get at.
“I got drunk after I salt and burned the spirit's corpse. I felt empty inside and like nobody needed me. I couldn’t save those kids and I didn't see any point in saving myself…” tears are now flowing gently down Dean’s face as he tries to push out what he needs to say, what he needs Cas to understand about this. “When you, when you said all that stuff before you left… I felt that same exact way. Even though I had Sam and Jack and then the whole bullshit after with Chuck and Lucifer and Michael… I felt so damn alone. Like I’d failed you, cause I couldn’t even save someone I love the most.” Dean’s voice goes harsh as he full-on sobs at those last few words.
The past few months since Castiel has been back, they haven’t talked about Cas's confession before being taken by the Empty, and Dean hasn’t said it aloud (even though his mind is screaming those three words every time he looks at Cas). Dean feels Cas touch his hand gently, reverently. A sob violently racks his body as he looks up into blue eyes also filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry Dean. I’m sorry.” the last word catches in his throat as Dean grabs his hand fully, intertwining their fingers.
“I know Cas. You did it to save me. You seem to keep doing that, huh? From hell, saying yes to Michael, Billie, from myself…” Dean softly strokes his thumb against Cas’s hand while tear tracks continue to stain his face. “Cas, thank you. I know I’ll never be able to pay you back for all that you’ve done for me and for Sam but… thank you.”
They lock eyes for a moment, Dean knows Cas loves him and he knows he loves Cas. He can’t think of a goddamn thing standing in the way right now. Dean releases Cas’s hand, cups his face, and brings their lips together, finally.
It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what's happening, but he quickly catches up and kisses Dean back fervently.
Cas tastes like summer rain after a long drought, like lightning and thunder all at once, like earth and something ethereal Dean can’t quite place. Cas tastes like coming home, and he is.
“Me too, Cas. Son of a bitch, I love you too.” he whispers into Cas’s mouth as Cas lets out a sob-laugh.
They pull apart for a moment, hands still against each other's cheeks. Communicating with their eyes is something they’ve mastered after 12 years, but there's something unknown now. Something new, something hopeful. And dammit if Dean isn't going to latch on to that hope.
They decide on an old western, Dean’s seen it a hundred times before. They’re leaning into each other silently watching as Dean’s eyes begin to close. He can feel Cas running his fingers against his arm, where those scars would’ve been. It's then, in the comfort of his Angel, that Dean falls fast asleep.
For the first time in 40 years, he doesn’t have nightmares. Not of yellow eyes, not of losing Sammy; not of John’s anger, not of hell; the apocalypse, Michael, Chuck, losing Cas… it all feels distant and far behind him now. When Dean wakes again, Cas still has his arms around him, eyes closed, and is running his fingers through Dean’s hair.
Dean knows all his trauma won't just vanish, but in this moment with Cas...it feels possible.
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outofthisgxlaxy · 6 years ago
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☯ + Bismuth, "Bismuth", Steven's Rituals
Send me ‘☯ + a scene from my characters canon’ and I will drabble it from my character’s POV.
“Steven!” 
Bismuth hadn’t forgotten about him in the heat of her rituals. In fact, the whole time she had been sparring with Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl, she had noticed that he’d been rather quiet. What was with that? He was Rose’s... whatever, and that should have meant that he’d want to get involved. Right? She hardly minded the sweat that had built up on her face while she’d worked out.
“Come down and show me what you’re made of!” Bismuth called. However, he sounded hesitant in response. Even his body language depicted it as he nervously set his bottle of soda down in the sand. What was with that, Bismuth didn’t think she’d get an answer to.
“Um, I would,” he explained at last, “but this is a little intense for me.” Bismuth just kept smiling. Oh, Steven. Had the Crystal Gems stopped her ritual sparring before combat when he’d come along? Clearly she needed to fix that. Garnet and Pearl were moving over to join her, too. They could help her explain, surely.
“But it’s a ritual for us Crystal Gems to spar before battle!” Bismuth put her arms around her two closest friends and grinned up at Steven. To her surprise, though, he had something that he wanted to propose. Some rituals of his own? She was intrigued. For a beat, she glanced down at Pearl as though she was searching for confirmation.
“Oh, yeah?” Bismuth asked. When Pearl just looked at her with that sort of confirming smile she’d hoped for, Bismuth looked back to Steven. All right. She was game to try these new Crystal Gem rituals. If she was going to be a part of the team again, especially after what had happened between her and Rose, then she would need to embrace challenges like this. It just made sense to her, at least in that moment.
“Let me see ‘em.”
--
What Bismuth didn’t quite anticipate was some sort of ritual that involved setting up a net and getting out some sort of weapons. ‘Racquets,’ Steven had called them, and the ‘game’ was apparently called Badminton. Technically, Steven said that it was supposed to be two against two. But since there were five of them, they could make an exception. Unless, of course, Garnet had wanted to unfuse. Which she didn’t. Fair enough, Bismuth said. The power couple always stuck together. Always.
The game was on, and Garnet had the first serve of the game. Bismuth watched as Pearl gracefully hit it back to Amethyst and Garnet’s side of the field. Amethyst got ready to hit it, and... smacked right into Garnet’s leg. Okay, that was amusing! Bismuth could definitely get behind this. The birdie was flying right toward Garnet, but Garnet hadn’t made a move to hit it yet. This was her chance!
Shapeshifting her arm into a racquet of her own, Bismuth leaped to meet the birdie right in the air. The second she was on the same level as it, she used as much of her strength as she could and slammed her racquet hand into it. The little birdie in turn was slammed right down into the sand with enough force to knock Pearl and Steven backward while leaving a neat, smoking crater in the sand. Huh, Bismuth marveled as she looked at it. To be quite honest? She was surprised that she hadn’t created glass in the instant it hit the sand. Maybe she hadn’t used as much force as Garnet could.
While Pearl looked at the crater as well, Bismuth saw Steven looking thoughtfully in her direction. Was he thinking of another ritual? Well, she was game for it.
--
Cards, he called the next one. Okay, Bismuth thought. The object here was just to... get the right hand of cards and win that way? It was a bit strange, and quite honestly? She didn’t understand it at all.
The game was already well under way with her sitting beside Pearl, and her expression just was pulled more and more in the direction of utter puzzlement. How in the stars was she supposed to be good at this? All of a sudden, though, she saw a slender white finger pointing at her hand. Bismuth’s obsidian gaze shifted to her right, where Pearl was sitting, and she smiled. Good old Pearl. Always there to help her out, it seemed.
A beat later, Bismuth looked up and caught sight of Amethyst shapeshifting one of her eyes. Oh, this ought to be good. Bismuth’s smile widened as Amethyst acted like nothing had happened just then. She wasn’t cheating at all. However... Garnet had the winning move. Her cards were dropped down onto the floor, revealing a hand full of heart cards, and Amethyst let her sheer confusion be known.
Amethyst’s overly dramatic response to losing had Bismuth in stitches. She laughed aloud as Amethyst threw her cards into the air and flopped over onto her back. It wasn’t long at all before the others were joining in on her laughter.
What was next, she wondered.
--
Pizza?
Steven was using a primitive tool, a rolling pin as he called it, to roll out dough for their treat. Bismuth studied his movements carefully, putting her right hand against her chin as she hummed aloud, and came to a conclusion moments later. Steven was good, but she could help too! So, as the idea came to her, Bismuth moved her hand away from her face and shapeshifted it into a rolling pin of her own.
Steven seemed to appreciate the help in getting two big pizzas rolled out and prepared. This ritual, too, was a bit strange, but honestly? Bismuth liked it about as much as she’d liked badminton. She shapeshifted her hand into a flat board of some kind, which Steven had called a pizza paddle, and moved the pizzas carefully into the oven. She even asked if Steven could let her wear his neat puffy hat.
“My chef’s hat?” Steven had inquired. Then, he smiled and handed it over. It didn’t exactly fit on Bismuth’s head, but... it was neat. She liked it.
They waited out the cooking time, Bismuth, Steven, and Amethyst hanging around the oven, until the pizzas were done. Skillfully, Bismuth pulled each one of them out of the oven and let them cool on their neat little plates. Amethyst was quick to claim one particular one as her own, though. The ingredients she chose were... questionable, but Steven said that anything could go on a pizza. What could it hurt to have a burrito and potato chips inside one before folding it into an even bigger burrito?
Finally, all of their efforts culminated in eating their food and watching what Steven had called a movie. What had drawn Bismuth in was the fact that it was about a warrior named Lonely Blade that wanted to get some kind of sword. She’d been quietly eating her pizza while the movie went on and watching the screen intently. The titular demon blade had been found at last, and Lonely was going on about how he could have ultimate power if he used it. Bismuth liked that idea, even if it did bring up bad memories in the back of her mind.
“With this demon blade,” Lonely said, “I will be the most powerful fighter in all the world!” However, one member of the audience didn’t seem to align with Bismuth’s thoughts.
“No, Lonely Blade!” Steven cried. “Don’t use it!”
“What?” Bismuth asked. She finished a bite of pizza and let the rest of her slice flop down in her grasp. “If that blade’s got infinite power, then of course Lonely Blade should use it. It just makes sense!” She glanced Pearl’s way a moment later. Clearly the thin Gem had her own thoughts on the matter.
“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Pearl told her. Bismuth looked her way and frowned. “It’s entertainment.”
Right... of course Pearl wouldn’t understand. Bismuth didn’t say a word. Instead, she turned her attention back to the movie. There was no use in trying to argue her point further when the majority in the room didn’t know what had happened.
...
That night, Steven made arrangements for her. Bismuth had offered to just retire to the Forge for the night, but no. Steven insisted that she stay in the Temple and let him take care of her. So, when he was done, Bismuth found herself looking at the couch with a blanket, pillows, and a little soft bear toy settled on it.
“Bismuth,” Steven said, “you can chill out here tonight. And... sleep! If you want to.” Bismuth grinned at that. Steven was so warm and welcoming that his smile was just infectious.
“You know what? I think I’ll give it a try!” Bismuth declared. “I like these new Crystal Gem rituals!” They were so vastly different from how things had been in the war, but in a way? It was refreshing. Bismuth could appreciate it for that much. Steven had more to say, though.
“You know,” Steven said, “usually when I meet a new Gem, they try to kill me, and it takes me forever to be friends with them.”
Bismuth blinked in surprise at that much. Just how many Gems had tried to kill Steven? And why had he tried to become friends with them afterward? Clearly, things weren’t necessarily all different now. She wasn’t going to question it further than that, though.
“I guess I mean... I’m really... glad you’re here,” Steven said. At that, Bismuth smiled.
“Me, too,” she said. Her expression softened. Even though she was growing more sure that Steven wouldn’t understand what she meant, she went on anyway. “Glad to have another chance.”
In an effort to shift the topic of conversation, she brought up something else.
“So,” Bismuth said. “Tomorrow you gonna show me what you got on the battlefield?”
“Oh, I mean... I would, but most of my weapons are for defense,” Steven answered. He pulled his shield out from his gem to prove his point. Yep... that looked like Rose’s shield to her. All of a sudden, though, Steven looked like he remembered something. Another weapon. Could it be...?
Steven pulled a long pink blade out from Lion’s mane, and Bismuth’s eyes grew wide.
“Rose’s sword!” Bismuth gasped. “My finest piece of work...”
“You made this?” Steven asked, handing it to her. Bismuth knew then that things definitely weren’t the same anymore. He really didn’t remember her making it just for Rose. Well, that was a story in and of itself.
She had time to tell him.
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shirosquared-old · 7 years ago
Text
Habits of the Heart
Here’s my fic for the @shancesupportsquad‘s Valentine’s day exchange! My giftee was @hirocyonia!
Chapters: 1/1 Words: 6739 (6.7k) Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: None Relationships: Lance/Shiro (Voltron) Characters: Lance (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), The others are mentioned but it’s mostly just them tbh Additional Tags: Major Character Injury, Hypothermia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, stranded fic, Flashbacks, depictions of injuries, Concussions, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Lance and Shiro make a terrifying team, Lance is very capable, Slightly beyond canon-typical violence Summary:
After Shiro takes a hard fall, Lance is there to help support him even while the Galra hunt them through dangerous conditions.
“Shiro?” a voice yelled, the volume murderous to Shiro’s head. He knew that voice, so achingly familiar. Shiro hoped with everything he had that the blood he smelled wasn’t Lance’s.
[Read it on AO3]
Shiro groaned, his senses coming back to him one by one. First, he could hear the shifting and shouts somewhere nearby. What were they looking for? Then he could smell burnt metal, a heavy scent of blood, a hint of something almost like peppermint.
He could feel, and the first thing he registered was that everything hurt, so much that Shiro could barely think. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get past the initial wave of it. Once he adjusted, he'd be fine.
Slowly, as his body adjusted—and really, he knew he shouldn’t be able to say he was used to this kind of thing, but he was—to the pain, he took stock of his own condition. Most of his armor was warped and dented, some parts singed and burnt. His visor was cracked and no longer able to seal shut, part of the material pressing uncomfortably against his head. He reached up to pull it off, but his right arm didn’t budge. Nothing even felt like it responded.
Shiro glanced over anxiously, unsure of what he would find. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the state of his prosthetic. Part of it was completely missing, destroyed from the elbow to his fingertips. Exposed wires hung out of the end, and Shiro resisted the urge to poke them. He had no idea what they did, and could just end up causing more problems for himself if he wasn't careful.
He didn’t see any large pieces of the parts that’d been broken, probably lost in all of the snow. By the time they found all of it, the snow that melted would have probably already wrecked the internals, even if he had the capability to actually do something with those pieces.
Shiro’s head pounded and his ankle throbbed, probably twisted or sprained. At the least, he should keep his weight off of it as much as possible to prevent it from getting worse.
The rest of him was covered in trivial bruises and scrapes, nothing life-threatening, though he couldn’t see his back well enough to tell. In fact, none of his injuries would end his life. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, honestly. He didn't want to die, nor did he want to live in pain. It really turned out to be a vicious cycle.
He still smelled blood, thick and heavy. Was it his? If it wasn't his, then who—
“Shiro?” a voice yelled, the volume murderous to Shiro’s head. He knew that voice, so achingly familiar. Shiro hoped with everything he had that the blood he smelled wasn’t Lance’s.
“Lance?” Shiro started to try to sit up, but a hand pressed lightly on his shoulder and pushed him back down. He had to get to Lance, he had to make sure he was okay—
“Easy,” Lance murmured. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to mess up your helmet like that. Are your comms busted?”
“Yeah,” Shiro muttered, looking over at Lance to try and assess his condition. It was hard to focus, to pick out the details. “Are you okay?” he asked instead. “Tell… tell me where you got hit.”
“I'm fine, Shiro,” Lance said, watching him carefully. “Are you—”
“Fine,” Shiro answered automatically.
“Let me check you over,” Lance said quietly. “You’re a mess. I came down here as quick as I could, but I had to land somewhere else so I wouldn’t draw attention to you. You scared me, you idiot.” Shiro realized he probably did look like a mess. That he was worrying Lance…
Shiro blinked. “Draw attention to me?” Had they been in a fight? Were they still?
“Yeah. How are you feeling?” Lance asked. “Where are you hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Shiro admitted. “Just… a lot.”
Lance carefully pulled off Shiro’s helmet, and Shiro relaxed with a sigh. The pressure against his skull had been making everything worse. “Man, this thing is completely busted,” Lance murmured, examining it. “I’d hate to think…”
“Of what might’ve happened if I wasn’t wearing it?” Shiro asked dryly. “I’d definitely be unconscious, maybe the head trauma would’ve—”
“Shiro,” Lance interjected, “you’re really starting to worry me. Come on, man, are you always like this?”
Shiro started to say no, he wasn’t, thank you very much—then remembered that it was a terrible lie. “... Yeah, pretty much. I usually try not to show it around you guys.”
“Yeah, well that’s bullshit,” Lance muttered. “You don’t have to hide anything from us. Whether it’s very poorly-timed jokes, or stuff about your year, or anything else… we’re here for you, you know that? We aren’t leaving.”
They weren’t leaving? Everyone left. Even Ulaz—
“I’ve planted a bomb to cover your escape.”
“I’m going to take it down from the inside!”
“Earth needs you. We all do.”
“Voltron is too valuable. The universe needs—”
“Shiro, come on, come back,” Lance said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You alright?”
“I was just… thinking,” Shiro sighed.
“About what?” Lance pressed softly. “If you don’t want to talk, say so and I’ll stop asking, but don’t do it because you think I can’t handle it.”
Shiro grimaced. “I just… it’s a bit hard for me to wrap my head around that.”
“Around what?”
“That you’re not going to disappear.” And maybe it was a stupid idea to say that, but he was too exhausted to try and filter everything.
“Why would we do that?” Lance asked.
“I can think of a few reasons,” Shiro answered flatly. “I’m just… well aware of how easily life ends. And you’re all so young, you’ve got your whole lives ahead of you…”
“You’re only a few years older than me,” Lance reminded him. “You’re pretty young, too. You’re, what, twenty-two?”
“Something like that.” Truth be told, Shiro had no idea. It sounded about right.
“You’ve got your life ahead of you, too,” Lance insisted. “You’re not on death row, or anything like that. We’re gonna get you home.”
Shiro hummed. “Gotcha.”
Lance nodded, satisfied to let it go for now. “Good. We’ll talk later, but… later. Can you sit up? We should get your back checked out.”
Lance watched as Shiro struggled to push himself up, quickly moving in to help hold him steady. He hissed at the sight of Shiro’s back. “Dude,” he murmured. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Shiro blinked slowly. “Doesn’t what hurt?”
Lance sucked in a breath. Take it easy, calm down. Be honest. “Your back’s all torn up. Probably where that blood came from, considering it’s all under you. Let’s get you on your feet, yeah? We should move.”
“Why?”
“We need to get those injuries wrapped up,” Lance said. They were being followed. He'd drawn them to his location when he yelled for Shiro, and now they needed to move. The Lions’ particle barriers would keep them safe for the time being, but Shiro and Lance didn't have that protection.
Shiro nodded, grimacing as Lance helped him stand. He hissed in pain, and Lance murmured a quick apology as they hobbled away from the area. Lance was careful to make sure Shiro put as little weight as possible on his ankle, but it was unfortunately impossible to avoid.
“Whassat?” Shiro murmured, looking around the bushes. “Smells like… peppermint.”
“Must be one of the plants.” Lance didn’t let Shiro sit down until they were far away from the patrolling sentries, kneeling down in front of him.
“Alright, Shiro, I'm gonna look at those cuts, okay?”
“‘Kay.” Lance carefully pulled the wrecked armor off of Shiro’s body, setting it aside. He hummed a quiet tune as he worked, mostly to keep himself calm. Some of the pieces were harder to pull off, but he hopefully managed while causing Shiro minimal pain.
Once the armor was all removed, he spoke again. “Shiro? You with me?”
“Yeah,” Shiro murmured. “‘Sup?” The walk clearly hadn't done him any good. Lance glanced up at the path, which was speckled with red and their footsteps. Well, that was a trail if he’d ever seen one. But Shiro couldn’t go any further without being treated.
“I need to pull your shirt off in order to treat this properly. Is that okay?” Shiro nodded, but Lance lightly tapped his shoulder. “I need you to keep talking. Don't go all nonverbal on me.”
Shiro blinked up at Lance. “Oh. Sorry.”
Lance shook his head. “Don't apologize. Can I take your shirt off to treat these?”
Shiro frowned, hesitating. For one horrifying moment, Lance thought he'd decline. Without getting the cuts treated, he'd eventually bleed out or die of infection. “... Yeah,” he said finally.
Lance nearly sighed in relief, carefully working the top half of the undersuit off of Shiro’s shoulders and arm until it bunched around his waist. He unclipped the Blue Lion’s med kit from his belt and set it on the floor, flipping the lid. His helmet identified the correct bottle and he removed it from the box, along with a clean rag.
“Okay, Shiro,” Lance warned, “this is gonna hurt. It's gonna burn, but we have to clean these out. They've all got dirt inside, and it'll be a bitch if they get infected.”
“... Got it.” Shiro closed his eyes, bracing himself. Lance hated to cause Shiro more pain, but it had to be done. He wouldn't let Shiro die out here.
“Three, two, one,” Lance murmured, pressing the rag to Shiro’s back shortly after. Shiro stiffened, hissing sharply, but Lance methodically scrubbed the wounds clean, being careful not to reinfect them with the dirty cloth.
He wiped away the excess blood that had traveled down to Shiro’s waist before grabbing the roll of bandages, wrapping the cuts around his torso. He had a bit of trouble figuring out the right amount of pressure, but luckily the cuts had mostly stopped bleeding by now.
Lance examined Shiro’s left arm, carefully cleaning the scrapes there. With the exception of a cut on his bicep, nothing needed to be covered, so he wrapped the one cut before moving back into Shiro’s field of vision.
“Hey, Shiro,” Lance tried to sound cheerful. “Can you look up at me?” Shit, how did he check for a concussion again? Shiro’s eyes met his, and Lance carefully looked him over. His eyes looked clear, and he had been talking clearly enough… was Shiro already experiencing the effects of blood loss? It hadn't been that long, had it?
Shiro frowned, his eyes scanning Lance‘s face. Lance wrapped his arms around Shiro’s neck and pulled him into a hug, closing his eyes. It'd only been a few hours since the initial crash, but they were both exhausted. Still, Lance wasn't sure if Shiro should be sleeping while he was in this state.
Shiro wrapped his left arm around Lance’s back, his right dangling uselessly at his side. Lance took a moment to calm himself down before pulling back to look at what remained of Shiro’s Galra prosthetic.
Lance wasn't an engineer by any standards. He still only needed one look to tell that the prosthetic was beyond repairing, at least not without serious work that he wasn't capable of (even if he had the right tools, which he didn't).
He hadn’t seen any pieces large enough to salvage where he'd found Shiro, and hoped the Galra never found it in all of the snow and ice.
“S’busted,” Shiro murmured, as if it wasn't obvious.
“We’re gonna get it fixed up at the Castle,” Lance promised, “but it's getting dark. We should find a safe place to rest for the night.”
Shiro frowned, glancing around at their surroundings. Lance followed his gaze, his stomach doing a flip when he looked back at Shiro, who was shivering hard. Oh, shit. Maybe it wasn’t blood loss. Maybe Shiro was experiencing hypothermia. Maybe it was both—an extremely dangerous combination. He should've never taken the armor off. Even if the thermal regulation was shot, the extra layers were shielding him from the cold. But then he wouldn’t have been able to treat the cuts, which would’ve led to severe blood loss or infection.
“Shit,” Lance hissed. They needed to get out of the cold, like, yesterday. How could he have overlooked that? “Shiro, hey, look at me.”
“Lance?” Shiro looked dazed. Wow, Lance was really bad at remembering symptoms. Shivering was definitely one, he thought he remembered something about speech? And… something about a pulse. Weak pulse? That sounded right. He lightly pressed two fingers to Shiro’s throat, searching for his pulse. It was difficult to find at first, and definitely not as strong as it should be.
Well, it turned out paying attention during those Garrison first aid classes would pay off. The only problem was he couldn’t really lift Shiro. Shiro was too heavy, which made trying to get him somewhere with little movement near impossible.
To make things worse, Lance could hear the faint sound of something approaching. The steps thudded softly against the snow, measured and mechanical.
He gritted his teeth, ready to fight here if it came down to it. He wasn't going to let them get Shiro. He needed a way to drag Shiro out of the forest and find a cave to hide in. It would get them out of the wind, and the few inches of snow on the ground wouldn't be quite as high.
Other than the footsteps steadily approaching, the area was silent. The silence carried an air of oppression, dampening and warping the sound waves. As the sentries got closer, their steps sounded less like steps and more like a cacophony of metal, scraping and grinding. How many sentries were on their way? Was the group only sentries?
Shiro tried to get to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest, but Lance pushed him back down. “No,” Lance hissed. “You need to take it easy.”
“They're coming,” Shiro murmured. “Coming… next fight.” He almost looked resigned, though Lance could see the barely contained fear behind the exterior.
Lance’s heart shattered. “Shiro, no, I'm not letting that happen. You're safe, remember? You're a badass Paladin of Voltron.” He chuckled, the sound coming out watery. “We were so happy when we found you, you know? And we love you. I… you're family.”
Shiro frowned. “Family?”
“Family,” Lance agreed. “And the others are waiting for us to come home. So you gotta stay with me, okay?”
Shiro grimaced. “They're coming.”
“They are.” They needed a solution, some way he could move Shiro without hurting him. But they didn't have time. The sentries would cross over that hill any moment, and they'd be screwed.
They didn't have a choice. Lance squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, Shiro was still watching him.
“I'm sorry,” he told Shiro. “This is gonna really, really suck. But we really can't stay here.” He slipped an arm under Shiro’s knees and another behind his back, wincing at the pained sound Shiro made as he struggled to lift him. Shiro was heavy. It probably had to do with the hunk of metal attached to him (despite how broken it was, it was still mostly metal), but even without it he would've been hard to lift.
Lance barely managed to pick Shiro up into his arms, straining himself from the weight. The emergency pack and first aid kit hung at his waist, but the broken pieces of armor were still littered across the ground. They wouldn't do them any good. He carried Shiro through the trees, his arms protesting from the strain.
“Put… down,” Shiro murmured, his head resting on Lance’s shoulder.
“Not a chance.”
They walked a few hundred feet until the sentries’ footsteps faded, and Lance brought Shiro into the nearest cave. They went deep inside, and Lance didn't set Shiro down until they were safe. Then he nearly collapsed, his arms and legs shaking so bad that one might think he was the one suffering from hypothermia.
Fire, fire, he needed a fire. Something to help warm Shiro, or else he wouldn't survive. A quick search of the cave revealed a few pieces of something similar to wood. He carefully arranged them in a circle, fumbling for the fire starter. A quick drag sparked the flame, burning the lighter material before it spread to the heavier pieces.
The flames burned a bright green, but what mattered was the heat it gave off. Lance sighed in relief, pulling the emergency blanket out of the pack and carefully wrapping it around Shiro. Lance placed a water container over the fire, allowing the contents inside to heat up while he tried to make the cave safer.
Here, they were isolated from the wind, which made it several degrees warmer already. He rummaged through the pack, pulling out a short knife. He wasn't Keith, but the blade would be incredibly useful.
He tucked it inside his belt for now, checking on the water. The warmth radiated from the fire and from the water container.
“Alright, Shiro, think you can sit up?” Lance asked. “I'll help you.”
“Don't need,” Shiro murmured, struggling to push himself up on his own. His arm gave out and he would've fallen right down if not for Lance’s arms holding him steady.
“Take it easy,” Lance warned, supporting Shiro’s weight. He carefully pressed the water container into Shiro’s hand, making sure the heat wouldn't burn after being exposed to the cold for so long. “Take small sips, okay? If you chug it all, it won't warm you up.”
While Shiro drank the water, Lance pulled off his helmet. He pulled off the side panel like Hunk had shown him, exposing the wiring inside. The light of the fire allowed him to see the wire knocked out of place, and he was grateful that it was only one wire as he plugged it back in. He didn't know what the wires did, really, so if two of them had been out he wouldn’t know where to put them.
He slipped his helmet back on and static buzzed in his ear, to which he grinned. The signal might not be great, but now they had a signal.
“Alright, looks like we’ve got a semi-working mic.” Lance glanced over at Shiro, who seemed to be doing a bit better. He didn't look quite so dazed, but the effects were still there. “Try and get some rest, okay? You need it. The others are gonna be here before you know it.” Before Lance could stop himself, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Shiro’s forehead. “Rest easy. I’ll keep you safe.”
Shiro fell asleep fairly quickly, which was worrying in itself. Lance tucked the blanket a bit tighter around Shiro, trying to keep the cold out. The green fire still burned brightly, lighting the cave with a flickering emerald light. They needed to find a way back to their lions, and fast.
Lance didn't know when he fell asleep, but when he woke up something shifted next to him. He jumped to his feet, bayard flashing to his hand, and before he was fully aware he had the barrel trained on the source of the movement.
Shiro stared back at him, his eyes wide in a moment of clarity. “Lance?”
The blue rifle vanished as Lance kneeled down in front of Shiro, grimacing. He could’ve seriously injured Shiro if he hadn’t hesitated before firing… “Hey. How are you feeling?”
“I… still hazy.” Shiro closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall of the cave. Emerald light flickered across his face, making the whole situation look like something out of a horror movie. The cave entrance remained dark, which was good, though the early light of day had begun to slowly creep in. Lance couldn’t hear the sentries anymore, which was a huge relief compared to the panic of the previous night. His muscles still ached from the strain of carrying Shiro, and his injuries hadn’t exactly healed, but none of it was anything worse than superficial.
“Alright, you think you can focus on me for a little bit?” Lance asked. “We’ve gotta change your bandages while we’ve got time.” Shiro blinked slowly but nodded, his dull eyes on Lance.
Lance carefully shifted Shiro, reluctantly pulling off the blanket and setting it aside. Lance grimaced at the sight of the dirty bandages, unraveling them and tossing the bundle aside. He hissed out a curse when he noticed that some of the dirt had made it through the bandages and around the cuts. “Shiro, I’m really sorry about this, but we’ve gotta clean these again.”
Shiro nodded, and Lance wiped down his back with the disinfectant just like they’d done the previous night. It was difficult, knowing he was causing Shiro pain, but it had to be done or else things would just get worse. “Alright, the good news is that these mostly stopped bleeding, so that takes care of that issue… just gotta wrap these up again.”
One good thing was that the bandages stayed secure around Shiro’s torso but didn’t inhibit his movements or breathing any, which was a definite plus over Earth bandages. Lance remembered one time his brother had tried to use bandages around his chest and ended up going to the emergency room to have them cut off because he could barely breathe.
“And done,” Lance said, wrapping the blanket around Shiro’s shoulders again. Once it was back in place, Lance picked up another piece of the not-wood and tossed it into the fire to keep it burning.
His helmet buzzed and crackled in his ear, and Lance furrowed his brows as it shifted in pitch and volume. It hadn’t done that before. Were the others on their way?
“—iro! It… idge! La—!”
Lance started, trying to listen to the sounds filtering through the static. “Pidge! Pidge, is that you?”
“—kay— Galra— near—ation…”
“Pidge, I'm not getting anything clear. Where are you?”
“—way— soon. St— afe!”
“Pidge, what's going on?”
Static.
Lance swore, pulling his helmet off and making sure the side panel was still secure. He then put it back on, turning down the volume of the static in his ears.
He sighed. “Hang in there, Shiro. They're on their way, yeah? And then we’ll get you all treated and healed. Just keep your eyes on me.”
“Got it,” Shiro murmured.
“Alright, let's see… you think you can stand on your own? We should find a new place, we’re gonna get found here soon enough.”
Something exploded at the entrance of the cave. Lance ducked over Shiro as the rocks shifted and fell, effectively blocking their way out and cutting off their source of outside light. Thankfully, nothing landed on top of them, but Lance still felt the spike of ice cold fear in his chest at the thought of what could've happened.
“What was that?” Shiro murmured, looking over at the new rock barricade.
“I'm not sure,” Lance admitted in a low voice. “I don't know if that was done to keep us in or out. Stay quiet.”
Mechanical footsteps clicked overhead, growing in number and volume. Underneath Lance, Shiro shuddered, his breathing picking up. Lance grimaced, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s neck gently. “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured. “We’ll be okay. I'm not gonna let them get you.”
Shiro nodded, though he still looked dazed. Thankfully, he wasn't shivering quite as hard, and a quick check showed a stronger pulse, but he wasn't out of the danger yet. “Is there a… another way?”
“Another way out? I'm not sure. There might not be.” Lance got to his feet and tossed another piece of the not-wood into the fire, leaving them with one piece left. “This fire’s gonna run out of wood soon.”
Shiro blinked, confused. “The Galra are… basically at our door and… you're focused on fire?”
“You’ve still got symptoms of hypothermia. Besides, it's gonna take them a few minutes to bust through that. A lot of rocks fell, guess they didn't think that through.
“I mean, seriously, who does that? What a horrible plan, that's not how you do an ambush. You know, the whole ‘surprise’ thing is important. It's crazy, though I guess whoever’s outside isn't all that smart. Matches most of Zarkon’s commanders, you know?” Lance kept up a steady stream of quiet chatter as the Galra broke through the rock wall, mostly to remind Shiro he wasn't alone.
“And most of his actually smart ones are now dead in space or otherwise, courtesy of a Voltron butt-kicking!” Shiro chuckled at that, some of the tension unwinding from his shoulders, so Lance kept going. “You’d think Zarkon could find better-looking ones, too, but I mean the only one who's even been remotely attractive was Lotor, and that's—ugh.” He made a face, causing Shiro to snort.
Lance took Shiro’s hand, winding their fingers together. He squeezed lightly, smiling when Shiro hesitantly squeezed back. “Pidge and Keith and Hunk are all gonna swoop in like badasses at the last second, ‘cause that's just how they are, and it’s gonna be super awesome. And then we can get back to the Castle and Allura’ll create a wormhole and then we’ll be away from here.”
The rock wall finally fell apart, scattering throughout the cave as one knocked over the makeshift fire pit. Lance got to his feet, the knife from the emergency kit gripped tightly in his hand. He wasn't a melee fighter by any standards, but he wasn't going to let them get Shiro without a fight. He charged forward with a shout, his shield forming on his left wrist as he struck with his right.
Dozens of sentries waited outside, if the loud mechanical whirring was anything to go by, but thanks to the cave-in they couldn't all rush in at once. Lance took the small advantage for what it was, working as quickly as possible to dispatch the sentries before more could flood in. Their numbers seemed almost endless, two more replacing every one he destroyed. Sparking wires and dead sentries scattered the floor in a rough pile, almost creating a blockade of their own.
But Lance could only hold out for so long, as much as he wished he could do more. His swings became slower, his shield couldn't block quite as much, and he backed himself into a corner as the sentries began to get the upper hand. He swung the knife wildly, exhaustion making his limbs heavy. But Lance was still between Shiro and the Galra. He wasn't going to let them get Shiro, not as long as he was still able to destroy the robots in front of him.
A few minutes later, one of them got in a lucky shot on his side. Lance shouted in pain, coughing and wheezing, and the newly-arrived commander easily knocked him to the ground. The knife clattered to the ground and the translucent shield vanished as Lance pressed a hand to the mark there. It was just a burn, thankfully, but it still hurt like hell and made it difficult to get up.
"Lance!"
Shiro scooped the knife off of the ground, looking shaky on his feet and unbalanced with only one working arm. But he charged forward anyway, meeting the commander head on. Lance gritted his teeth and materialized his bayard, firing at the sentries still in the cave as Shiro fought. Shiro grunted above him, likely receiving as many hits as he was giving, but Lance had his job and he needed to do it. This was the best way he could help Shiro right now—Shiro stood no chance with all of these sentries around.
The metal scraps on the ground made it hard to maneuver, hard to fight. Shiro hit the ground harshly and cried out, barely keeping his grip on the knife but having trouble getting to his feet with one arm.
The last sentry fell, the cave falling into silence. The commander approached Shiro, his expression murderous, and Lance trained his bayard on the Galra.
Inhale. He took a deep breath, following the commander's movements as he leaned down.
Exhale. His finger found the trigger, gently resting on it.
Fire. Lance pulled the trigger.
The commander fell—thankfully not on top of Shiro—and clashed horribly with one of the sentries. Lance couldn't find it in him to feel apologetic.
Shiro blinked, turning his head to look over. "Lance—"
Lance gave him a thumbs up, his bayard disappearing as he forced himself to his feet. "I told you, didn't I? I wasn't gonna let them get you."
The smile he got in return was small but genuine. Shiro released the knife and Lance pulled Shiro to his feet, taking some of his weight. The embers of emerald flame flickered weakly before extinguishing, leaving the cave in near perfect darkness.
That was how the team found them, hobbling out of the cave with Shiro’s left arm draped over Lance’s shoulders.
Everything after that passed as a blur. They were taken back to the Castle while the others grabbed Blue and Black, and both Lance and Shiro were put into healing pods to treat their wounds.
It felt like only a moment later that Lance awoke and stumbled out of his pod, only to be pulled into a tight hug courtesy of Hunk. Lance’s teammates were like a big party, loud but welcoming, and yet he found himself looking over at Shiro’s pod through it all. Shiro already looked much better, sleeping peacefully behind the pod’s translucent front panel.
Lance spent most of his time in the pod room, keeping Shiro company while he rested. Sometimes he talked to the air, sometimes he paced, sometimes he just sat there as if he could see Shiro get better with each passing tick. Shiro was supposed to be getting out of the pod today, a thought confirmed as the others began to trickle into the med bay. Lance stood as they gathered around, and shortly after the last person—Allura, having been finding a safe location for the Castle to hide—arrived, the pod slid open.
Shiro fell forward, and Lance reached out to catch him. Keith also reached out, and together they helped Shiro to his feet. Then the hugs started, and the shouting, but Lance was content to stay out of it. It was great to see Shiro feeling better, it really was, but now that everyone was really safe he couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d done on Krishna Five.
He’d caused Shiro so much pain, allowing the bandages to get dirty and forcing him to fight for his life while injured and sick. He’d promised, and yet Shiro had had to fight anyway. Lance could've done more, maybe he could've found them a cave with more than one exit. How had he not even considered that?
Later, he promised himself, he’d talk to Shiro. They could work things out without the rest of the team hovering over their shoulders, listening to their every word.
Missions became more frequent, leaving the paladins with little alone time. A week after they were rescued from Krishna Five, Lance still hadn’t found the chance to talk to Shiro.
He ended up avoiding Shiro during group sessions, not wanting to start the conversation in front of everyone. It was hard avoiding him sometimes—Lance didn’t realize just how much time they spent together until he tried to avoid someone—but he managed where he could. At the very least, he could make sure he wouldn’t be caught alone with Shiro.
He wanted to talk to Shiro, he really did, but the thought of the others overhearing the conversation and knowing what Lance had done made his heart skip a beat and his palms slick with sweat. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe, and when he opened them again he froze.
Lance expected to be alone, not to see Shiro looking at him with something almost regret. Lance almost understood for a moment, though the sting is still there.
“... Lance,” Shiro murmured, “can we talk?”
“We’re talking right now,” Lance answered.
“About what happened on Krishna Five. I understand if you don't want to tell the others, but please at least talk to me.” Shiro’s eyes were sad and the corners of his mouth turned downwards. “I don't want to see you hurt like this.”
Lance stared. Shiro, the king of saying ‘everything’s just fine’ while everything crumbles, wanted to tell him to talk? What a hypocrite.
“I just… wanted to say thank you,” Shiro continued anyway, smiling softly. “You really came through back there. If you hadn’t been there, I’d be dead or a Galra prisoner.”
“That's why I went after you,” Lance said. “I saw you go down and all your systems were offline, so I went after you, but I took a hit on the way down and ended up also crashing. I… I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. I mean, your arm is still broken.”
Shiro shook his head. “Lance, you saved my life. You're not an engineer, you're a pilot. Same as me. We’ll just leave it to Pidge, Hunk, and Coran. They know what they're doing. But my point is, I’d take a busted prosthetic over being dead or captured. You can't fix everything by yourself. That's what you've got us for.”
Lance scowled. There Shiro went, doing it again. “You’re such a hypocrite!” he snapped. Shiro’s eyes widened, but Lance barreled on before he could interrupt. “You give us all these talks saying how we need to open up and talk about what's bothering us, but none of us have seen you ever do it.
“It's because you're scared, isn't it? Scared that we’ll disappear just like you said so you keep your distance to avoid getting hurt. But you're still getting hurt because you bury everything down inside you and soon you're going to explode. It's ridiculous that you think we’re just going to up and leave at any moment, or be scared of you if you tell us things.
“It’s bullshit.” Lance stepped forward, closing the distance between them and putting a finger on Shiro’s chest. Shiro looked astonished, his eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “I'm not scared of you. You're our teammate, our awesome leader, and sure you've done some dark shit but haven't we all at this point? Nobody’s gonna suddenly change their opinion of you because you, say, made someone die slowly or tore them apart in the arena. It wasn't your choice.”
“It was—”
Lance kept going. “It wasn't your choice, because if you didn't fight you would've been killed. We trust you and we love you so, so much but it feels like you're on the other side of a wall sometimes. And God, I just want to get to know you. Not Shiro the Leader, not Shiro the Black Paladin or Shiro the Pilot of the Kerberos Mission. I want to know who Shiro is. When's your birthday, what's your favorite color, what's something stupid you did as a kid. That kinda stuff. If you say we’re your team, then trust us to be able to listen to you. You do on the field, so why not now? You're important, too. Remember that.”
Shiro stared for a moment before answering. “I was born on February 29th. My favorite color is blue. When I was younger, I climbed up a tree and would spend hours up there pretending it was a treehouse or a rocket to take me to another world.” A smile tugged at his lips, making him look adorable. “I was a weird kid.”
“Dude, everyone does that. But I appreciate that you're trying to open up. You can trust us. We’re all way too stubborn to let you go, anyway.” Lance grinned before it fell with a sigh. “Just think about it, okay?”
Shiro smiled gently. “I will. Thank you, Lance. Now, about Krishna Five…”
Lance shook his head. “Not now. Later. For now, think about what we just talked about.”
Shiro snorted. “More like you talked and I listened.”
“See, there's the spirit!”
Shiro laughed. “Alright, alright. Not now. Besides, the others are probably wondering where we went by now.”
“Yeah, probably.” Lance stretched. “Sorry for kinda… exploding at you. It's just… you were dying and all you cared about is if I was okay. I can't… we can't listen to you fading like that.”
Shiro nodded. “I got it. I'm not going to be upset with you for saying what you want to say. I'll try to talk to you guys more.”
Lance smiled. “That's all I'm asking. Thank you, Shiro.” He carefully wrapped his arms around Shiro, minding the sling that held his prosthetic, and held him close. Shiro stiffened for a moment before relaxing, leaning into the contact, and Lance didn't pull away for a while.
On their way back to the others, Lance cautiously slipped his hand into Shiro’s and gently squeezed it. Shiro returned the squeeze, both of them looking pointedly ahead and not at each other.
Shiro let go before they entered the lounge, to Lance’s slight disappointment, but they joined the conversation easily. While they talked, Lance wondered what thoughts were running through Shiro’s head right now. What did he think about all of this?
The others were talking about something with Shiro’s arm, so Lance tuned out the technical talk. He vaguely heard something about it needing to be rebuilt, and felt Shiro stiffen next to him, but he poked Shiro’s side and stuck his tongue out when Shiro looked over. Lance laughed and Shiro chuckled, his eyes fond.
“You guys are so gross,” Pidge complained. “Can you make heart eyes another time?”
They both looked at her, confused, before locking eyes again and smiling. Keith chucked a pillow at Shiro’s head and it knocked him forward into Lance’s arms. Lance grinned and wrapped his arms around Shiro, holding him close.
“Alright,” Shiro laughed after a moment. “Can I get up?”
Lance hummed in consideration. “Hmm. Nope. Not yet.” His hand idly reached up to card through Shiro’s hair, and despite his complaint Shiro made no attempt to move. His head rested on Lance’s leg, his eyes gently shut. He wasn’t asleep though, so Lance kept lightly massaging Shiro’s scalp until his breathing evened out.
Over the next few days, Shiro had the broken prosthetic surgically removed and got fitted for a new one. Lance volunteered to stick by Shiro’s side, helping him out whenever necessary, and slowly Shiro opened his heart for Lance. Lance opened his own heart, and together they became intertwined.
On days when Shiro’s dark thoughts threatened to drag them down, Lance stayed with him and helped Shiro work through it. Unfortunately, Lance couldn’t make Shiro forget or erase that trauma from his mind. Shiro wasn’t going to magically get better and be able to live without his demons in his shadows.
But Lance did what he could to make Shiro’s days brighter and better, and it made the bad days easier to get through. It sucked that they had needed to be stranded on a planet together in order to bond, but Lance wouldn’t change a thing.
Shiro was beautiful. Lance wanted to make sure Shiro knew it.
So, one day, while they were alone and idly chatting, Lance told Shiro everything. Shiro had been surprised, but quietly confessed he felt the same way. It wasn’t necessarily like the movies. They didn’t confess and then everything became magical and amazing. They didn’t even kiss on that day, just sat a little closer.
Lance was perfectly okay with that. They discussed boundaries and what they were comfortable with, and when Shiro had said he’d prefer to take it slow Lance was happy to oblige.
The day they finally kissed was a few weeks later, and it made everything worth it.
A few years later, after the war ended and the universe no longer needed Voltron, the two lovers exchanged their vows on the altar. Shiro had rested his forehead against Lance and whispered a few words meant only for Lance, and Lance leaned up to kiss him. He didn’t need to say how he felt out loud, transferring it into the passion and love in his actions and his eyes.
Neither of them would change it for the world.
That day, they became truly intertwined.
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katalyna-rose · 7 years ago
Text
Vhenan Chapter Eight
Graphic Depictions of Violence
Solas/Female Lavellan, Fenris/Female Mage Hawke, Zevrain/Female Warden Mahariel
AKA: Lyna/Solas, Fenris/Alie, Zevran/Kahlia
Angst, Fluff, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Mildly Conon-Divergent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Isablea/Merrill, Constructive Criticism Welcome
Summary: Solas, the Dread Wolf Fen'Harel, has left Lyna behind in an attempt to fix mistakes made thousands of years ago. Willing to destroy everything for his goals, he doesn’t realize exactly how determined Lyna is to show him a better path. Both worlds could thrive, given the chance. Her world is real and valid and deserves a chance, but so does his. There must be a middle ground.
And there is another reason that Lyna must find Solas, a secret kept from the world that attempted to put her up on a pedestal. But how would Thedas react to such a secret, such undeniable proof that their Herald of Andraste is a person like any other? That she is someone who loves, someone who makes mistakes, who bleeds and cries. And is having the Dread Wolf’s child.
Read on AO3!
From the Beginning
An elven servant was humming happily to herself as she set out lunch and Hawke and Fenris were speaking softly across the room when Solas entered the dining room on Lyna’s heel. The servant looked up and gasped in dismay.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she cried, quickly abandoning the basket of rolls she was carrying and hurrying to a cabinet. “I didn’t realize we had a visitor! I’ll set out another place right away!” She proceeded to scramble around, grabbing silverware and a plate. When she almost dropped the water glass as she filled it, Hawke stopped her and gently took the items from her hands.
“Orana, sweetheart,” she said, holding the girl steady. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t warn you.” Orana nodded but kept her head down, eyes on her feet. Hawke sighed and touched her chin, gentle encouragement to meet her eyes that demanded nothing. “You owe me nothing, remember? You are an individual. And I would never be angry with you over the table settings.” Finally, the elven girl looked up at her employer and smiled.
“Of course, Mistress,” she said fondly. Hawke grinned at her and poured the water glass herself, returning the pitcher to the side table. Orana turned to Lyna and Solas, who had watched the exchange silently.
“I’ll take charge of Solas while you eat, if you like,” she said, holding her arms out for the infant.
“Yes, Orana, that would be lovely,” Lyna said, gesturing her over with a gentle smile. “Thank you.”
Solas reluctantly handed his son into the servant’s arms, carefully removing his necklace from the boy’s mouth. As she turned to leave the room, Orana caught sight of Lyna’s left side and gave a sharp gasp. She said nothing, however, and continued on her way while cooing to the child she held.
“She seems… a bit excitable,” Solas said, trying to be delicate. Lyna chuckled, seating herself at the table. Fenris held Hawke’s chair for her before sitting beside her. Solas took the remaining seat for himself, feeling very much like an unwelcome outsider.
“That was actually better than usual,” Fenris said gruffly as he helped himself to the meal laid out before them.
Hawke, buttering a roll, laughed warmly. “Remember that time she found the dog’s collection of various table and chair legs?” Fenris chuckled with her. “I thought she was going to have an aneurysm! Poor girl kept trying to figure out where they’d all come from! He certainly didn’t take any of them from our house!”
Fenris shook his head, a small smile on his face. “She was distraught for the better part of a week,” he added. “That dog was a lot of trouble when he got bored.”
“I miss him, though,” Hawke said, smiling sadly. Fenris put his hand over hers for a moment in sympathy.
Lyna smiled at them, spearing a piece of meat with her fork. Solas had noticed that her plate was already filled and everything was cut up for her. There was no knife at her place. He watched her eat and noticed that she kept her left hand under the table, unsure of how to use it after so long without it.
“Was her previous employer cruel to her?” Solas asked, eating slowly. The food was delicious, but despite having Lyna beside him and all of them acting cordial the room felt cold to him.
Hawke snorted at his question, making Lyna roll her eyes. Fenris just sighed.
“She had no employer before,” the elven man said harshly, though his anger seemed directed elsewhere to some unseen source of pain.
“Orana was a slave in Tevinter,” Lyna clarified, voice soft. Solas supposed that explained her nervous tendencies; the life of a slave was not an easy one.
“She was the last slave left when we found her,” Hawke said, much more subdued. “The rest had already been sacrificed, their blood used to give their masters power.” She sighed, staring at her plate. “They were sacrificed because the magister knew we were coming. Even Orana’s father…”
“There was nothing you could have done to prevent it,” Fenris said, his arm wrapping around her shoulders for a moment. She smiled sadly at him. “At least Hadriana died that day, along with those who served her willingly.”
“Damn right,” Hawke replied, brightening. “Anyway,” she said, waving her fork in the air, “Orana was the last one left and she had nowhere to go. She didn’t know where she was and she’d never been anything but a slave. So I gave her directions to my house and had her meet me here after I’d finished up slaughtering the slavers who had threatened Fenris. She’s been a paid member of my household ever since.”
“You should hear her play her lute,” Lyna told Solas. “She’s so talented.”
“And she helps you take care of the little one?” Solas asked.
Lyna nodded. “She helped me figure out how to change a diaper with only one hand to work with. And she’s very good with him, so she watches him when I have business to tend to.”
“I offered to find Orana another place, if she wanted it,” Hawke said, likely sensing some of Solas’s discomfort and misattributing it. “I told her that she could go anywhere she wanted and I would help her get there. She told me that she had no family left and would much rather stay with me. She’s such a sweet girl and I’m very fortunate that she wants to stay.”
“She seems lovely,” Solas said. He said nothing more, struggling to simply continue eating while Lyna ran her hand up and down his thigh under the table. He had to take her hand and stop her after a few moments, casually sipping at his water to try to cool the heat her touch had summoned. She smirked just slightly as she bit into her roll.
“So,” Hawke said as they finished their meal. “Am I going to have to face down an ancient god or do you to do right by Lyna for once?”
Lyna choked, spitting her water back into her glass. “Alie!” she cried indignantly.
“What?” the other woman said, shrugging. “It’s a legitimate question.”
Solas smiled at Lyna softly. “That it is,” he said, earning two curious looks and a piercing glare.
“Don’t encourage her,” Lyna muttered, setting her water aside. Solas renewed his smile.
“To answer your perfectly legitimate question,” Solas continued, ignoring Lyna’s fresh glare, “I intend to take her and our son with me when I go. We have talked about this and agreed. And, if she will have me, I intend to marry her.”
It was Hawke’s turn to choke and Fenris clapped her on the back as she coughed. Lyna stared at Solas in open-mouthed shock. He returned her look steadily, though nerves clenched in his belly and made him feel vaguely nauseous.
“Truly?” she whispered. Solas brought her hand to his lips and let her see his sincerity in his face. He wanted this, wanted her, wanted a life with her by his side, more than he’d ever wanted anything before.
“Truly,” he told her, and delighted in the grin she gifted him with. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, their teeth clacking together before Solas adjusted the angle. She dragged him closer until he pulled her out of her chair and into his lap. She went happily, laughing against his mouth.
“It’s about damn time!” Hawke cried, slamming a hand on the table as she finally cleared her airway. Fenris sighed at his wife’s antics, shaking his head, though a smile tugged at his lips. “I’d have some champagne brought up from the cellar, but frankly I detest the stuff. There should be a few bottles left of a truly magnificent red wine, though.”
“I think, my love,” Fenris said before Solas could object to her suggestion, “that alcohol is the last thing you need right now.” Hawke sighed dramatically, but her smiled bellied her attempt at sorrow.
“But I like gutting slavers with my vision hazy!” she pouted, and Fenris didn’t even bother to answer. The pair of them stood and when Hawke opened her mouth again Fenris picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She squealed and beat his back as he carried her from the room.
“You’ll only get yourself into trouble,” he told his wife as she spat curses at him playfully. “We need to get our armor and meet Isabela at the docks.”
“Sorry about her,” Lyna said with a smile, leaning her forehead against his. He chuckled.
“It is no trouble,” he told her.
“Oh, she’s plenty of trouble,” Lyna contradicted. “Half the fights she gets into are caused by some joke she made.”
“I do not doubt it,” Solas said with a chuckle.
Lyna pulled back and examined his expression, something like desperation in her eyes. “You really meant it?” she asked softly, as though she hardly dared to believe. “You want to marry me?”
He caressed her cheek and she leaned into his touch. He could feel tears pricking his eyes and hers gleamed wetly. “If you will have me,” he told her roughly, his emotions tangling in his chest. “I still haven’t heard an answer.”
She laughed with delight and threw her arms around him again, kissing him with more glee than art. “Yes, Solas,” she whispered against his lips. “Always.” He crushed her against his chest.
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