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supernaturally-writing · 7 years

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The Love of an Angel

A/N: Lol what even is this title?? Idk man. But anyway. So this is that spontaneous fic I made a PSA about earlier. As I was writing it, I realized I wasn’t really doing my sad idea justice, because it just didn’t seem sad enough to me, but that might be because I was writing it idk. I hope it’s sufficiently angsty. Be warned: it kinda jumps around a little bit. There are sections of the story missing, or not given in a lot of detail. Italics are past memories.

P.S: It is 3:18 AM and I am very very sleepy so pardon my shitty writing and grammar inconsistencies/mistakes.

Word Count: 4856

Warnings: ANGST. So much angst. Brief mentions of smut; not very detailed. Character death. Depression, depressed Cas, Human!Cas. A little bit of fluff towards the end, but not much??? Cas-centric fic.

Summery: Their love has been years in the making, but [y/n]’s abrupt demise spells out a rough going for Castiel. Being newly human doesn’t help the situation as the (ex)angel strikes out on his own and suffers in his own self-imposed isolation as he tries to live with these mortal emotions, determined to avenge the only woman he’s ever loved.

Masterlist

When Castiel rushed to the bottom of the Bunker stairs to welcome the Winchester gang back from their extensive hunt (as he’d always done), he’d never expected to find one of their party mysteriously missing. He also hadn’t expected Dean’s eyes to be red-rimmed, or for Sam’s arm to be in a makeshift sling, or for both Winchesters to be covered in blood and mud and ripped clothes. Sam had only made it halfway down the creaking staircase before he collapsed in on himself, sinking to the metal steps as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Dean sank down with him, tears swimming in his own eyes, and gingerly pulled his baby brother into his arms. By then, Cas knew. He knew that [y/n] was dead. Some part of him had known since the moment the brothers had stepped foot in the Bunker-- but now the knowledge settled in his gut like a boulder.

He’d only been human for a month and a half-- it hadn’t been nearly enough time for [y/n] to teach him how to cope with all of his new emotions. Especially heartbreak.

When he finally sucked in a breath, the pain hit him full-force, like a bunch to the belly and a kick to the sternum all in one. His throat burned as it constricted, cutting his airway until he was gaping like a fish, his legs trembling under the monumental weight of his own leaden frame. He only made it to the nearest chair just in time for his knees to give out; he didn’t even sit on the cushion properly. Just nestled his face into the cushion of the arm as his hipbone throbbed with the awkward positioning of his crumpled stature.

His eyes burned, the cool tracks of his tears doing nothing to soothe the pain of his heated skin. He was sure he was going to throw up; the sensation was foreign, but this new instinct told him to wrench himself out of the chair just in time to throw up on the floor. [Y/n] was dead. His [y/n] was dead and the Winchesters hadn’t been able to bring her back. . . And if they couldn’t bring her back, then she was really, truly gone. The brothers had mastered the art of giving Death a raincheck.

Cas wiped his mouth and pushed himself onto wobbling feet, balancing himself against the nearest object-- which happened to be Dean. Cas pulled away from the hunter, shame coloring his cheeks, before he looked into his face a saw a reflection of his own sorrow there. Before he knew what he was doing, Castiel crashed into Dean and buried his head in his shoulder, great sobs wracking him, replacing the previously silent tears.

When the three of them finally composed themselves enough to mop up Castiel’s mess and officially address the scattering of wounds on the brothers, each of them sat in thick silence in the library. Sam stared into nothing, unblinking; sometimes, Cas would see the muscle in his jaw feather to the surface, but other than that minute movement, Sam had gone deathly still. Dean scratched at the mahogany surface of the table, his eyes rolling behind his eyelids as he relived whatever had happened. . .

Cas’ heart wrenched for the millionth time that afternoon as he suddenly realized that he didn’t know how she died. He didn’t know anything about her last moments-- and he hadn’t been there to see it, to save her. It was ten quick heartbeats before he could breath again and peal his hands off the armrests of the chair, where he’d squeezed the blood out of his fingers and broken his shorts nails down to the bloody beds.

“How did she--” Castiel began, his voice rough and gravely, the sound screeching in his own ears and scratching his own throat.

“Demon. Simple salt ‘n burn turned into a chase when a local black eyes caught wind of us in town. We uh-- we weren’t. . . We didn’t see it comin’.” There was a long pause as Dean finally tipped his head back and opened his eyes-- admitting the flood of fresh tears. He scrubbed his hand down his face, sniffing loudly. “Damn thing brought a whole party. She fought. . . She fought so damn hard, Cas. Even after-- even after she went down. . .” He couldn’t finish the thought; Cas didn’t press him for details. He didn’t want to imagine it. Didn’t want to picture his human covered in her own gore-- didn’t want to picture the life leaving her eyes.

He closed his own to fight off the image. It didn’t work.

“Did you kill it?” The words raked at Castiel’s raw throat, no more than a whisper in the air, hard to hear even in the stifling, pressing silence of their melancholy. He was afraid that if he spoke too loudly, he would break. Really, truly shatter; the only thing holding him together was the grip he resumed on the cold, unforgiving wood of the armrests below. Silence ensued, and rage suddenly filled him, bubbling up from his toes and swirling in his guts like lava, until he sprang to his feet so abruptly the chair clashed against the concrete floor. “Did you kill it?” He was yelling now, his arms trembling as he slammed his palms down onto the table. Dean just stared at him, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Something had died in his eyes, but right then, Cas could only think about all the things dying within himself.

“No,” Sam finally whispered. “No, it smoked out before we could get to it.”

That rage rippled into Cas’ arms, fueling him with a violent energy; he swung blindly, fist colliding with the nearest lamp. Sam flinched with surprise with it shattered against the opposite wall.

Before his brain caught up to his legs, Castiel was stomping down the corridors of the bunker, his footsteps harsh booms of sound all the way into his room.

Cas sat on the edge of the motel bed, fingering the hole in his jeans. He rolled the information Dean had given him around in his mind, his teeth dragging along his tongue as he chewed on the muscle. Hunger gnawed at him but he ignored the growling of his belly for favor of flicking through the television news feeds.

He hadn’t been able to stay in the Bunker. He hadn’t been able to pass [y/n]’s room every time he walked down the hall. Hadn’t been able to look at her little idiosyncrasies that she’s left scattered about-- little quirks that would go untouched for some time as the boys adjusted to a life without the woman they’d practically grown up with. Some things were small, nearly unnoticeable: an arrangement of cups in the cupboard, assorted by color and height, the towels hung neatly, folded three times each, the books scattered around her room in perfectly arranged chaos. He hadn’t been able to deal with the stutters of his heart every time he caught a whiff of the automatic air freshener she’d plugged into the wall outlet of her room. It smelled of vanilla and honey-- a gentle smell, not so overpowering that it burned the nose, just sweet enough to make him breath deep and slow and savor the scent of it floating through the halls.

So he left. He packed his things the following evening, hastily shoving the few belongings he’d accumulated into the borrowed duffle bag he’d taken from Dean: his angel blade, a few pairs of thin, ripped jeans, and the flannels he’d been given. The bag was depressingly light when he hefted it onto his shoulder.

Dean had asked him to be safe, had told him that he couldn’t stand to lose another friend-- not so soon after losing [y/n]. But Castiel could only look at him and clench his jaw. Whatever promises he made Dean would have been a lie, save for one thing: “I will find that demon, Dean. And I will kill it, even if it means the end of my own meager mortal life.” There was a long silence, and some small part of Cas had thought that Dean might try to make him stay. But he hadn’t. He’d only shaken his head and scrubbed his drawn face with shaking hands before he finally told Cas everything he knew-- which wasn’t much. The majority of this hunt would rely solely on Cas’ ingenuity and familiarity with the demonic ranks. It had been so long since he’d accessed certain memories, and trying to do so while a human had given him a migraine that lasted for the entirety of the drive from the Bunker to the grimy motel in southern Tennessee.

That night had been the first night he dreamed of nothing; he was too exhausted to think, even while unconscious.

As the days wore on, Cas drew closer to finding answers, though through no small amount of effort. Most nights he only caught an hour or two of sleep, the rest of his waking moments spent bent over a table, or maps, or flicking through the news or scrolling through the internet. He tracked demonic movement; hunted them, killed them, even has his strength and stamina dwindled. Over the weeks, he’d hardly eaten; he’d fallen back into the angelic routine of never needing to eat, even though his mortality demanded sustenance. It was a rare occurrence when he finally pulled himself away from his work to order takeout.

When he looked in the mirror, Cas couldn’t see the man-- or angel-- he had been. His cheeks were hollowed, and there was a constant shadow over his eyes, bruises lining the puffy skin beneath the dull blue orbs. His hair was shaggy, curling around his ears and at his temples; he’d accumulated a number of new scars. Some of them were purely accidental-- others. . . Well, sometimes he’d flirted with Death just a little too blatantly, and those lingering considerations had nearly cost him his life and his mission on a few close-call hunts. Most nights he was glad Jimmy had been evicted; he was sure the original owner of this vessel would have been outraged to find Castiel abusing it so thoroughly. . . Other nights he wished he could still talk to the man. Perhaps Jimmy would know what to do, how to help. And even if he didn’t, having him around would have at least been some sort of company to break the monotony of hunting solo.

As the months wore on, Cas found himself thinking more and more about [y/n]. The first few weeks, he hadn’t known how to handle the crushing weight of her death, so he’d blocked her from his mind. Even in his dreams, he’d continued to have the regular nightmares that originally drove him into [y/n]’s sleepy arms: fighting through Hell with a struggling Dean Winchester trapped securely against his chest; fighting past the influence of Michael and Lucifer as he broke into the Cage to drag out a soulless Sam Winchester; fighting for the control of his own body as Leviathans ripped the power out of his hands. There were so many things that haunted him still; perhaps his brain had not yet processed his lover’s death to the capacity that his heart had.

Now, though, he allowed memories to trickle into the forefront of his consciousness: the first time he’d met a spunky young huntress that had punched Lucifer in the face and lived to tell about it; helping the Winchesters break her out of a county jail for car theft; sitting across the booth from her as she nursed a cup of coffee and a horrid hangover. Sometimes he would wake up with the whispers of her voice ringing in his ears, even as the dreams of her evaded his sleepy memory. Other times he would lay awake late into the night, even after a long day of fighting and tracking, and struggle to remember the details of her face, or how her skin felt under his hands, or the smell of her shampoo when he snuggled up behind her after she’d taken a shower. Those were the nights that the tears rolled quietly and wetted the pillow on either sides of his head; those were the nights that he wouldn’t dream, and he would awaken feeling twice as tired as he had the day previous.

Dean called often, but Cas rarely answered. It was only when Dean’s calls became persistent that he finally picked up the phone; Dean would always curse him for scaring him like that, then tentatively ask how he was doing. He tried to answer the hunter truthfully, but it was usually easier just to give him a short, gruff answer and hang up the phone. He would immediately return to his work, slowly but surely digging up the secrets of the Underworld as he looked for a cockroach among the colony.

Castiel had never expected to feel the power of his grace returning to his veins. Well, not his grace, per se, but grace nevertheless. When he’d been captured by vengeful fallen angels, he’d fully expected to be killed-- hell, he’d practically submitted, ready to embrace Death with open arms. But the lingering thought of his mission had spurred him on, and before he’d comprehended the result of his actions, he’d killed an angel and stolen their grace. The power was startling; it coursed through him, searing hot as it healed him and restored him to his former immortal vitality. It had taken him another day to adjust to being an angel again-- he stopped eating, resisting the habit of consumption. But he also stopped feeling. At least in the capacity that humans felt. He still felt that pain, that emptiness. He wasn’t sure if there was anything in the universe short of a miracle straight from his Father himself that would totally erase the ache that resounded within him. But at least it wasn’t crushing. . .

Being an angel again allowed him to truly marvel at the resilience of humanity for the first time. It was human instinct to trudge on, to make the best of the worst situation, to always keep fighting no matter the odds. Where the angel in him would have given up on this farfetched quest, his human heart had whispered to him with every heavy thump: revenge, revenge, revenge.

With this newfound-- and dwindling-- strength, Castiel made it a point to work all the harder towards his goal. Within a fortnight, the angel had tracked down one of the demons that had assisted in the killing of his human. The following night, Castiel knelt above the lifeless corpse of that black-eyed bitch with the answers he had sought after for so long.

[Y/n] sat up as her bedroom door creaked open. Castiel stood in the doorway, looking disheveled and out of place as the hall light outlined him in a halo of dim golden illumination. He’d been human for a week or so now, and every night she’d been able to hear him struggling in his sleep from the room over. He’d cried, groaned, whimpered and thrashed his way through the night. Oftentimes, it kept her awake, too; she’d finally pulled him aside and told him to join her the next time a nightmare roused him from his sleep. He’d given her a sheepish smile and tipped his head to the floor, color lining the arches of his cheekbones. She’d laughed off his embarrassment with a peck to the scruffy surface of his cheek.

Now, though, her heart thundered behind her sternum as he quietly padded further into the room. The door swung most of the way closed, though it didn’t latch, leaving a sliver of golden light slanting across the wall. It was just enough light to see by, and soon enough Castiel was crawling into bed with her, though he’d insisted he lay atop the coverlets as to keep her comfortable. After a hushed argument and a soft huff, Cas finally submitted to her persistence and slid under the comforter. His bare legs brushed hers, and he quickly apologize before she shushed him and pulled him close.

He’d fallen asleep with his head resting above her heart, her fingers combing through the short dark tresses atop his cranium. With her by his side, he’d rested peacefully for the first time in his mortal life; after that night, their sleeping habits had become routine.

Until. . . Until she’d stumbled into the bunker, battered and bruised but smiling her shit-eating grin nevertheless, boasting of a good hunt and searching for a good drink. That night, when she eased her aching body into bed, Cas had been the one to pull her close, and when she turned her head to give him their nightly peck on the cheek, his lips had slanted against her own. It was hard and demanding, and his lips trembled against her’s. He cupped her tender face with his hands, his thumbs brushing her jawline, tracing over the black and blue bruise that feathered out there. When he finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead against hers; they breathed each other in, sharing the air between them one gulp at a time.

“My [y/n]. . . My [y/n]. . .” He repeated her name over and over, a gentle, whispered supplication. She relaxed into his hold, her hands wandering down his sides as she tried to soothe the anxiety out of him. “I am alien to this world of human emotion, but--” he’d taken her hand in his and placed it over his racing heart, shivering with her touch-- “if this is love, then I am plunging further and further into this sea of affection; drowning in it, really.” He released a breathy laugh at that, and [y/n] twisted her hand until their fingers were clasped, locked together as Castiel clung to her. “Please, please. . . Don’t scare me like that anymore. I don’t think I could live if. . . If--”

“I’m here,” she murmured, cutting him off with a gentle kiss. With her free hand, she cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over his cheekbone; she’d blown out a breath of surprise to discover the wet trail of tears there. “I’m here, Cas. I’m okay. I’ll always be okay; I’ve got an angel by my side.” He’d started to protest at that, making it a point to inform her he wasn’t an angel anymore-- but she already knew that. Still, she kissed away his words, and that was the first night they made love.

It was long and slow; wandering hands and searching eyes and wet trails of saliva as they both marked each other with lover’s bruises and gentle kisses of adoration. Not once had [y/n] been able to tell him she loved him, too afraid that those three words would somehow shatter this perfect existence. Cas, on the other hand, had growled it against her throat, against her bare breasts, had chanted it as they reached their ends and fell into each other’s weight. They kissed each other to sleep; when Cas jerked awake later that night, [y/n] rolled over and rode him until they were exhausted again, her head falling against his chest as he buried his face in the silky tresses of her hair.

For the following weeks, they fell into bed and into each other’s arms. There’d hardly been a room in the Bunker that they hadn’t christened: the kitchen, the library, the shower room, the garage, the war room, a few of the dusty storerooms in the uninhabited wings of the bunker. Sometimes their couplings were slow and sweet-- usually after a hunt, when [y/n] would come home to a worried Castiel, even though she was usually right as rain. Other times they were fast and rough; demanding mouths and groping hands and pounding hips as lips laid claim(s) to miles of scarred skin.

It was the night before she was to leave with the Winchester brothers to accompany them on a simple salt and burn when she finally told Castiel she loved him. He’d just finished his journey kissing the scars from her ankles all the way up to her fingertips. When she finally blew out the breath that carried those three soft words, he’d paused and lifted his weight off of her, staring at her long and hard with parted lips and watering eyes. She’d said it again, with a little more volume this time, conviction making her heart swell. By the fourth time she’d said it, her fingers carding through his hair, he’d cut her off with a clash of his lips. The kiss was so hard and so abrupt that their teeth clacked together, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about the dull tooth ache that ensued. They sank into each other, worshiping each other with their tongues and fingers, until they began to fall into the easy trance of sleep. [Y/n] laid behind him, her arms twined around his waist, and she pressed a final goodnight kiss to the nape of his neck.

Before she settled into her last blissful sleep, she’d whispered one last “I love you, Castiel” against his skin.

Cas stood on the outskirts of the playground, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his trench. It had been a few months since he’d killed the demon-- Cerebur-- that had been responsible for [y/n]’s death. The eight month anniversary of his leaving the Bunker was rapidly approaching, yet he ignored the calls of Sam and Dean Winchester. It was hard to hear the pain in their voices, to know that they still mourned as he did, though it was to be expected. Humans mourned their whole lives, oftentimes; there were some wounds that even Time could not heal. This wound. . . This wound had been one of the deepest any of them had sustained. [Y/n] had spent her younger years growing up with the Winchesters when John would pair off with her mother for extensive hunts. The situation had left the Winchesters and the girl ofttimes fending for each other and themselves in the same motel room for days on end. In some ways, the Winchesters had bonded with [y/n] more closely than they had even bonded with each other. For a short time, she’d had a shot at a normal life, quite like Sam had; a boyfriend swept her off her feet, carrying her off to some lofty apartment in the northern sectors of Seattle. Dean visited as often as possible, and Sam made his yearly trips north during spring break to spend his vacation with her and her soon-to-be husband.

Castiel idly wondered what he would find in her Heaven. The thought that she might be happy in her Heaven with that man nearly deterred him from visiting her.

She would want to see you, Cas. Dean’s words rang through his mind; he took a deep breath of the cool, damp air. He eyed the guardian angel apprehensively, knowing full well what he had to do. Where the thought of murdering one of his brothers or sisters would have been offensive and even horrifying some years beforehand, he now smothered the instinctive resistance to the motions of his hand as he swung his angel blade into the small of the angel’s back. Light flickered and grace crackled, smothering out as if a heavy hand had pressed down on the power, snuffing it out like a candle flame. He hid the body quickly; when he returned, the playground was desolate, silence hanging in the winter air.

He toed the sandbox quietly, palms sweating against the metal of his blade.

With a sudden conviction, Castiel jumped through the portal and disappeared into the lofty halls of Heaven.

It didn’t take long to find [y/n]’s door. He stood before it for a long time, listening to the steady thumps of his heart. He’d dreamt of this moment for so long; now that he stood on the threshold of action, pain flickered behind his sternum again. It wasn’t nearly as intense as it had been when he was human, but he still felt it. This place was a constant reminder that [y/n] was dead.

He gripped the handle of her door with shaking fingers before he gave it a twist and swung it open.

After the initial light of his entrance had faded, he blinked away the glare of a bright summer sun. The heat of it kissed his skin. That pain in his chest roared to life again as he realized where he was. In Sioux Falls, just down the road from Bobby’s house, was a pond fed by a lazy, gurgling stream. A grove of Poplars surrounded the water, tall grasses of the richest green swaying around every bank. Lilypads floated along the surface of the water, hugging the banks, creating a shadowed refuge for the fish hatchlings that darted below the surface of the water like tiny flashes of silver.

This had been the place [y/n] came to as a child, when she stayed with Bobby and the Winchester boys. It had also been the spot she’d brought him too during the early years of his time on Earth. She sat with him for hours, talking of humanity, plucking at the summer grasses as the birds sang above and the bugs chirped from below.

It had been there that Castiel had fallen in love with humanity; it had been there that Castiel had fallen in love with [y/n]. That love had been dulled by his angelic detachment, but he’d been able to express his affections in the form of undying loyalty. As the years went on, he became more accustomed to the concept of feelings; as the years went on, [y/n] and Castiel frequented this grove as often as possible.

But no visit had ever stood out to him as starkly as this. He had never been so in awe of his Father’s creations as he had been there, surrounded by a lazy summer evening, with [y/n]’s shoulder pressed against his own.

Now, sitting at the edge of the pond where they had sat that day, sat [y/n]. She had her back to him, but he knew it was her. He knew it in the way his heart soared and sank all at once, in the way that her hair glinted in the sun with the different shades of color in her tresses, in the way she rocked to an unheard tune amongst the chorus of nature. He crept towards her quietly, apprehension suddenly hammering at his heart, and he had to stop himself. It had been months since he’d felt the hot prick of tears, but there it was, a stinging behind his eyes. He scrubbed at his face and gulped down a breath of the summer breeze before he came to [y/n]’s side.

Sitting on the cross section of [y/n]’s folded legs was a toddler, no more than four, with the hair of Castiel’s vessel and with the stunning eyes of [y/n]. When she turned that gaze onto the angel, he nearly crumpled. A wide, toothy grin split her sun-kissed skin; oh, she had her mother’s smile.

“Daddy!” The toddler reached for him, and Castiel sucked in a shuddering breath, sinking onto his haunches. He pressed the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes, the heat behind his blue orbs swelling until the tears spilled over and tracked down his face. He’d never considered the possibility that [y/n] might. . . That he might. . . But, there she was-- the baby that was very obviously his daughter. He saw Jimmy in the girl, almost more so than he saw [y/n]. “Daddy, Daddy!”

Small arms wrapped around his neck and he was abruptly pulled down a little lower; soft giggles filled his ears, and he slowly unwound his arms from about himself to sweep up the girl that had pulled him down into a hug. He kept his eyes closed, unable to look at [y/n], feeling her quiet stare as she watched with a soft smile. It wasn’t until he felt her lips ghost across his own that he finally opened his eyes. [Y/n] knelt before him, looking beautiful and so deceptively alive. . . He freed one hand and reached forward, brushing his thumb across her cheek to ensure she wasn’t another dream.

Her head tipped to the side, her cheek pressing into the callused surface of his palm. Her eyes fluttered closed, her smaller hands coming to rest against the back of his as it cradled her skull. She finally sighed, long and low, and a grin stretched across the gentle curve of her mouth. She met his eyes for the first time in eight long months; love and adoration twinkled there, spurring on the cascade of tears down Castiel’s rugged face.

“You’ve kept us waiting long enough, my love,” she finally hummed.

@willowing-love

@angelsxreader

@castielxreaders

@casxreader

@castielxreaders

@splendidcas

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sickdaysofficial · 7 years

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Day 1: Cold

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Characters: Keith / Lance

Symptoms: fever chills, dizziness, sneezing

A/N: I honestly had the hardest time figuring out if I wanted to submit this for cold or warmth, but I figured Keith spends more time cold than warm, so that’s what I’m going with.

Keith doesn’t know how to work a space thermostat. In front of him lies a panel with an assortment of buttons, some blinking some not, and a few chambers with amber liquid and dark blobs floating through them, reminiscent of the lava lamps back on Earth. He hovers over the control panel, chin in hand and shoulders shaking underneath a blanket, expression steeped in frustration because he doesn’t have a clue what anything does.

He could be cutting off the power to the ship, or releasing some weird gas, or maybe giving the initial for an explosion, just because it’s the middle of the night and he can’t seem to get warm. Truthfully, he doesn’t even know if anything in this room controls the temperature on the ship. And even if he knew how to change the temperature, he’d have to change it in his room specifically. With a muffled groan he runs a hand over his face, because this was a plan that was doomed from the start, and he really shouldn’t have even gotten out of bed in the first place, but he was just so cold.

The only plausible people that could help him are Allura, Coran, and maybe Pidge, but he knows they’re all asleep. The last thing he wants to do is make a big fuss out of something so small, something he could so easily just…fucking deal with, especially if everyone else is putting up fine living in a freezer.

Yeah, there’s no way Keith is going to try and wake anyone up to help him. He was already exhausted enough as it was.

He’d woken up freezing, beads of cold sweat sticking to his skin like snowflakes. He’d groggily pressed a hand to his face and flinched at the cold contact. His forehead was warm, but not warm enough to warrant any concern, so he’d swaddled himself in his blanket and tried to find sleep again. Despite his efforts, he’d started shivering, eventually becoming so focused on the chills racking his body that sleep was no longer an option. After kicking off the blanket and hissing as the loss of layers made him tremble harder, Keith had thrown his jacket on.

“Seriously?” He’d muttered through clenched teeth, even though he’d never had anything other than his jacket available in the room. Why in the quiznak didn’t he have any extra clothes? He’d ripped the jacket from the hanger, thrown an angry look at the wall for good measure, and then crawled hastily back into bed. Even with the jacket, his teeth were clicking together uncontrollably and his nose had started running. Sure he had a fever, but Keith felt like there was no conceivable way the castle temperature wasn’t playing a part in this.

So that was when he’d decided that the only plausible solution was finding the space thermostat.

It had consisted of wandering down the huge, still brightly lit halls of the castle, searching for a room that had anything that looked even remotely like it controlled something. He really hadn’t thought it through.

Now, defeated by the sheer helplessness of not understanding alien technology, he clutches the blanket tighter around his shivering frame and decides to go back to bed.

The door makes a swishing sound as it closes behind him, and then Keith is alone with the empty hallways and the eerie silence of the sleeping castle. He sneezes twice, and it echoes. Anticipating the sound of footsteps or a door opening, he tenses. Thankfully, the halls remain silent.

The walls and the floor start to tilt as he walks, a dizzying blur of gray. Keith sticks an arm out of the blanket and uses the wall to keep himself upright. Contact with the cool metal sends a fresh, harsh pulse of tremors through him that go all the way down to his toes.

It feels like he’s moving at a snail’s pace. What’s worse is that he’s not even completely sure just where in the castle he is. It’s fucking huge. He keeps walking, praying for the turn that leads to a familiar corridor. His room, and furthermore his bed, seem impossibly far away.

Trying to find the thermostat was the worst idea he’s ever had.

After a while, he comes to a point where an open door is allowing a soft blue light to seep into the hall. Despite the exhaustion, Keith can’t help himself from peering in. He finds himself awestruck. Hundreds and hundreds of stars float in the room like a thousand colonies of fireflies. It feels like he could reach out and capture one in his palm. He understands that it’s only a holographic view of a galaxies he doesn’t even know the names of, but it takes his breath away all the same. It makes him forget, just for a second, how bad he feels. It makes him feel small and alive.

The stars begin to shift around him, swirling around the room impossibly fast as the holograph zooms in on a specific planet. Keith has to close his eyes, because the shifting visuals are making him feel light headed. He puts his hand on the edge of the doorway, bending slightly at the waist to try and steady his swimming vision.

“Keith?”

Keith blinks and turns his head towards the sound of his name. Leaning against the wall at the edge of the room, fingers frozen over a holopad, is Lance. He looks surprised, guilty almost.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Keith answers, gritting his teeth afterwards so that they won’t click together. His voice comes out evenly, and he’s pleased with that. He tightens his grip on the blanket, knuckles bleaching. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just saw the light and wanted to see where it was coming from.”

“Oh,” Lance stifles a yawn into his fist, “I just like to come here sometimes when I can’t sleep. It’s a cool place.”

“I didn’t even know it existed.” Keith murmurs, looking at the planet Lance has focused in on. Earth.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Because it’s freezing.” Keith gives Lance an incredulous look.

“It…” Lance raises an eyebrow, “-feels fine to me?”

“What? You mean you don’t feel like it’s like, ten degrees?”

“No…? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Keithy boy. You must being going crazy.” When Keith responds with a genuine look of confusion, concern starts to pool in Lance’s stomach. Keith lifts up an arm and directs a sneeze into shoulders. A few seconds later, he sneezes again. He sniffles and wipes his nose on his wrist.

“Bless you. Also dude, that’s gross.”

Keith shrugs. Lance starts walking towards him.

“Are you sick?” He asks accusingly, as if he already knows the answer.

“What? No, I’m fine. I’m telling you it’s just really cold.” He’s not sure why he feels the need to lie but he does. Evidently, Lance doesn’t believe him, because as soon as he’s close enough, he’s reaching out the back of his hand, trying to feel Keith’s forehead. Lance’s hand is ice on his forehead and Keith can’t stop himself from wincing, causing Lance’s expression to knit together with worry. He guides his mercilessly cold hand down to Keith’s cheek, and then presses the same hand against his own forehead, letting out a low whistle. He finds it alarming that Keith is complaining about the cold when he’s actually radiating heat.

“You have a fever.” Lance announces, “I mean, it was kind of obvious. No offense, dude, but you really look awful.” Keith figures this must be true, because there isn’t even a hint of mockery in Lance’s tone. He grimaces and looks at the floor.

“I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t just sleep off.” Lance huffs a sigh.

“Are you sure? Maybe we should get Shiro or Allura if-”

“No!” Keith interrupts, nearly shouting. He clears his throat, “I’m not dying. That’ll just cause them unnecessary worry. I’m not gonna wake people up just because I’m cold.”

“But you’re not just cold! You have a fever and they can help you-” Lance voice rises with every word and he’s gesturing wildly with his arms.

“It’s fine, Lance.” With all respect, Lance is right. Keith has no idea what’s wrong with him. They’re light years away from Earth, and he doesn’t know if this is some weird space ailment or a strain of the flu that’s thriving in this particular corner of the universe. Getting help, getting an actual diagnosis? That’s the smart thing to do, because for all they know the Galra could attack them ten minutes from now, and Keith is no use to the team ill and incapacitated. But because Keith is tired and stubborn and hell bent on waiting until he can’t anymore, he steps on Lance’s suggestion like it’s the desert sand at the Garrison.

“Okay, if you’re that sure, then fine.” Lance concedes in exasperation, “But don’t go dying on us because you couldn’t ask for help.”

Slightly offended, Keith exhales sharply. He has to swipe his wrist underneath his nose afterwards and only regrets it a little.

“Anyways, you said you were cold, right?"Lance says in a softer tone. Keith nods, wary. "I have an extra jacket in my room, and some long sleeved stuff. The Altean pajamas I have are really warm too,” Lance eyes Keith’s jacket, “Do you want to borrow something?”

Keith’s mind flashes back the single hanger on the wall.

“Uh…Yeah. I do. Thanks.” It comes out sounding like he hadn’t expected to say the words. The corners of Lance’s lips twitch upwards.

“Okay, just wait here.” He walks back towards the holopad and then presses a few buttons. In a less than a second, the screen disappears in a single flash of light, leaving the room, once brilliant, in pitch darkness. Only the faint blue glow of the holopad remains.

“Ready?” Lance asks, as he slides the door shut. Keith mutters, ‘mhm’ to signal that he is.

They start to walk. Keith, though feeling more light headed and shaky than before, is determined to match Lance’s pace. It’s taking nearly all the willpower he has left, and Lance isn’t even walking fast.

He’s trying to focus on too much. He’s looking at Lance’s feet, trying to keep his own footsteps steady. Clenching his teeth to make sure they don’t chatter. Tensing his shoulders to make sure they aren’t trembling. Clutching the blanket to make sure he doesn’t lose it. Breathing shallowly through his mouth to make sure he isn’t sniffling too much. This whole ordeal is really starting to catch up with him. He starts to see small pinpricks of light and he stumbles forward, blindly reaching out for something to steady himself.

His fingers find Lance’s shirt, and the blanket falls off one of his shoulders. With the meager loss of warmth comes the loss of all of Keith’s energy, and he begins to tremble fiercely, like a he’s just been fished out of the Arctic Ocean.

“Keith?!” Lance yelps, voice pitchy with concern. He turns slightly so that he’s facing Keith and puts a steadying hand on the red paladin’s back. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Fuck, sorry. ” Keith manages between shallow breaths.

“Let me know if you feel like you’re going to pass out,” Keith nods.

Lance bends to grab the other end of the blanket. He loops Keith’s arm around his shoulder, and then grips the corner of the blanket close to his chest, so that its surrounds both of them like a cape, murmuring 'I have you, I have you’ the whole time. The only source of warmth Keith can find is Lance’s forearm against his neck and it’s hot and wonderful and not enough. He clings to it, tries to hone in on it. His teeth begin to chatter again.

“Shit. It’s really bad, huh?” Keith musters the energy to sniffle in response, too exhausted to be embarrassed about how hard he’s shivering against Lance.

Keith is almost dead weight in Lance’s arms and the harsh tremors running through Keith’s body make him a little harder to hold, but if Lance is having a hard time, he’s not showing it. He spouts quiet reassurances the entire time they walk. Keith allows himself to close his eyes, focusing on the beacon of Lance’s voice. He’s so tired.

Thankfully, Lance seems to know his way around the castle better than Keith does and they reach his room within minutes.

Lance draws the covers of his bed back for Keith, telling him to wait there as if Keith could actually go anywhere else. Keith crawls in and sinks down against Lance’s pillows, exhausted. He watches as Lance presses a blue button and the floor parts, giving rise to shelves of clothing. Blue and white baseball tees, blue short and long sleeved pajama tops, styled identically to what Lance is wearing now, Lance’s olive jacket. He wonders why he’s never thought to do that in his room. Lance tosses one of the pajama tops, long sleeved, so that it lands by Keith.

“Feel that, it’s for you.” Keith thumbs at the fabric, and it’s so soft. Like cashmere and cotton and clouds, or some shit like that. It’s the softest thing he’s ever felt in his life. He holds it against his face, without thinking. Lance, who has been watching him expectantly the whole time, starts to laugh.

“I know, they’re made of like angel wings or something. You can put it on whenever you’re ready.”

“Angel wings," Keith repeats, feeling the fabric again, "Wouldn’t surprise me.”

He has to mentally prepare himself to change. He takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, shrugs out of his jacket, and whips his v-neck off as fast as he can, leaving his clothes in a heap on Lance’s floor. The air is ruthless against his chest. He can feel his skin dimpling immediately. As soon as he’s popped his head through the neck of Lance’s shirt, he wraps his arms back around himself and shivers. The fabric feels nice against his skin, soothing even, but despite it all, he’s still not warm.

“Is that any better?”

“A little bit.” Years of experience with his siblings and months of living with Keith make it easy for Lance to see through Keith’s feigned comfort. Lance sits down next to Keith.

“Here,” Lance reaches for Keith’s hands, cupping them in his own, “Wow, these are ICE-Y.” He mutters to himself. He starts to rub his palms over them. He brings Keith’s hands to his mouth, and blows on them gently before rubbing them again. His breath is warm and light. He repeats the process a few more times, concentrating intensely. Keith can’t help but stare while an unfamiliar feeling knots itself in his chest.

No one has ever done something like this for him before.

“Does that help?” Lance asks when he’s done, grinning sheepishly. “I used to do that for my siblings all the time,”

Keith pulls one of his hands from Lance’s grip and presses his it against his cheek, and it’s…warm. The rest of his body is still shaking, but his hands are warm. Warm and nice.

He realizes that he has a problem.

The closest thing he’s found to warmth, the warmth he’s been so desperately craving all night, has been…Lance. He needs to communicate that somehow, but he doesn’t know where or how to start.

'Hey, your body heat is the only thing keeping me from dying from hypothermia in space.’

'I’ve been doing a shit job at trying to warm myself up all night, why are you so good at it?’

'Hey, you’re really warm, please.’

'Please.’

“Keith? Hello?” Lance says his name, draws out the word 'hello’, snapping him back to reality. He looks concerned. Keith hadn’t even realized he’d spaced out for so long.

Lance starts to pull his hand back. It’s the faintest twitch of his wrist, but as soon as it registers in Keith’s brain, his stomach drops and panic washes over him. Maybe it’s just his fever muddled brain, or maybe it’s because he can hardly think, he’s so tired- but he does not want to experience the biting chills anymore. Especially now that he’s had even a fraction of Lance’s warmth. Involuntarily, embarrassingly, he squeezes Lance’s hand hard to keep him there, practically begging him not to break contact. Both of their eyes widen in shock. They stare at each other, and then at their hands, and then at each other again.

“It helps,” Keith starts, biting his lip. He huffs a short sigh and starts again, “It’s the warmest I’ve felt all night.” Lance softens. Keith glances at their hands and Lance follows suit. “You’re… so warm and I’m just so fucking tired of being cold.” The words feel thick on his tongue and they spill out awkwardly.

“So, you think I’m hot?” Says Lance, not missing a beat.

“You are hot. Your body heat is nice.” Lance’s face falls. He sighs loudly.

“Never mind.”

Keith’s expression is somewhere between exasperated and confused.

“Anyways,” Lance gives Keith’s hand a squeeze and then starts to get up. He starts to pack the sheets so that they’re tightly cocooned around Keith’s body using only his free hand. When he’s done, he says guiltily, “I’m gonna let go now, okay. I’m gonna go get you some water. Stay put, I’ll be back soon.”

“I promise you I’m not going anywhere.”

Keith can’t explain that airy feeling in his chest when Lance leaves.

True to his word, Lance returns with a glass of water, which he instructs Keith to drink. The cool liquid slides down his throat with ease. Lance watches Keith intently, making sure that he’s drinking enough and probably making sure that he’s not going to spill all over himself. He nods to himself when Keith has finished half the glass, and then takes it from him and sets it on the floor.

“Hey, Lance?”

“Hmm?”

What he’s about to say next is daunting. Keith’s chest knots with dread.

“You probably want to get some sleep now. I should get back.”

“What?” Lance says, shocked. His eyebrows furrow together. “What kind of person do you take me for? I’m not a monster, Keith. I don’t even think you’d make it.”

Keith wants to protest, but there’s hardly an argument. Lance is right.

“Did you think I got you all tucked in and everything just to force you back out? No way, my dude. Lance pauses and smothers a yawn into his fist, "Besides, I’m warm, you’re cold. We’re both tired. Just stay here.” Lance smiles as obvious relief washes over Keith’s face.

“Thanks…for everything.”

“Don’t sweat it, pal.”

Lance presses a button. The lights go out. He steals some of his covers back from Keith, and then slips under. Keith’s eyelids grow heavy. He’s exhausted, ready for this night to be over.

“Are you still cold?” Even though Lance is whispering, his voice cuts through the darkness.

“Are we in space?” Keith mutters groggily. Immediately, Lance gasps.

“Was that a joke?!”

“Yes?”

“You must be really sick. Okay, hang on.” Lance rolls over and spoons Keith, tangling their legs together and wrapping his arms around Keith’s torso. His chin is tucked into the crevice of Keith’s neck, so that Keith can feel the soft sighs of Lance’s breathing. It’s comfortable.

Keith has never been big on contact. He’s never really had anyone to convince him otherwise, but right now the warmth enveloping his body is the closest thing he’s ever felt to euphoria.

He sneezes, just once, sleepily raising a hand to stifle it. The force of it has him jolts both him and Lance.

“Sorry,”

“Bless you,” Comes Lance’s mumbled reply, and then, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, Lance,”

“If you’re about to tell me this is weird, I’ll have you know that this is how me and Hunk and Pidge stayed warm when the heat went out at the Garisson, and that I’m just trying my best and-”

“No, that’s not it. This is nice, actually. I just…If you get sick too, then I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Okay, well in that case. I’ll be fine, I’m not worried. You’ll owe me,” He laughs, warm against Keith’s neck, “But right now, I just want you to feel better.”

“Wow, I see how it is.”

“Hey, Keith,”

“Mmhm?”

“Why were you awake?”

“I was trying to find…” Keith yawns, “find a thermostat. Space thermostat.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It didn’t work. I didn’t know what I was doing. It’s fine, this is better than that ever would’ve been…” Keith trails off, reveling in a few more seconds of Lance’s body heat before succumbing to exhaustion.

Lance feels heat rising in his cheeks. He wants to say something, but Keith is already snoring, soft and congested. He stays up for a few more minutes, just to be sure Keith is going to sleep okay, and then falls asleep himself.

If there are repercussions, they’ll deal with them in the morning.

#fever #chills #dizziness #sneezing #Jan 8 #submission

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