Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The reason why the shack was still standing, was because the Nevada wilderness was bleak and empty.

Open and sprawling, miles and miles of sand and rock with barely any rain each year. Nevada encompassed two deserts, the Mojave stretched across as one of the largest in the continent.

It was unremarkable, nondescript, and every cliff looked like the one before it.

Maybe that's why the Garrison never found the shack, or maybe they didn't care to look for it.

(Maybe that's why the Paladins hadn't either.)

His shack was just how it had been before he had left so hastily.

The coffee table was supported by the cinder-blocks still- although he had to shoo out two scorpions that had taken residency under his couch.

His conspiracy board was still standing, patches of paper bleached from the harsh sun where it poked through the sheet he had used for blinds.

The sticky notes were clinging to the map, adhered from the heat of the desert sun.

'It's killing me when you're away,' written hastily with a half dead pen on a bright pink sticky note half hidden by his photos of the lion carvings.

He tore that down, and he tore down his conspiracy board.

'Mystery solved' he thought to himself almost hysterically, thinking of the Galra ship he had half hidden under scrap metal outside his storage shed.

The one he had stolen away, hopping from galaxy to galaxy to mooch gas and scurry home with the reminder from Kolivan that "The Blades of Marmora do not allow self-sacrifice. You were not wrong with your actions, and we thank you, but the symbolism of your choice has left us no options."

"You're kicking me out?"

"We are not dismissing your help, unfortunately your future help would only hinder our movement."

"I- No! You can't! I did what I had to do!"

"We will permit you a ship and a passage guaranteed for safe voyage."

And that had been that.

The blade felt warm against his back, nearly searing as the desert sun began to rise and the air began to warm.

Somewhere, an eagle screamed and broke the silence.

All of the food in his shack had expired, except for a few cans that looked more questionable than the pureed space worms he'd been eating for months.

He had enough emergency rations in his ship still, sealed and regulated like a fridge in the one back compartment. It was a novelty, since his shack didn't have a refrigerator.

The well had dried up, the bucket was drawing up sand and dirt and one rather perplexed spider that skittered away in search of a dark crevice.

He sighed, looking forlornly at his hover-bike- blasted by sand and chipping paint in his absence. He'd need to thoroughly clean out the exhaust and engine, as well as anything else that crawled up in the years left alone.

Fortunately for him, he knew one system of caves that had a rather impressive waterfall under a hole Lance activated after touching carvings.

Keith ran out of food after four days, and fixed the speeder after five.

He didn't mind the work, it was mindless and so painfully simple it was something relaxing. Something for his hands to do- to work.

(The knife burned on his back until he wordlessly practiced in the sunrise, shifting from advanced pose to the next as sweat and tears slid down his face.)

The hover-bike wasn't pretty, and it looked as if something with claws had taken to clawing the one side out of boredom. It started with a low whine, grumbling poorly as it slowly lifted off the ground with the hesitation of a newborn dog.

Kieth loaded the empty jugs he had used before for his well, strapping it to the sides of the bike and hoping it wouldn't mess with the balance too much.

The bike was slow, it skimmed over the ground with a guttural groan that was nearly painful after the near silent swishing of warp capable cruisers.

The cave was untouched, the markings untouched.

'I'm better off alone. They would have left you eventually, they would have left you eventually.'

Something in him throbbed painfully; he ignored it the best he could as he lugged the jugs back to his cruiser.

He didn't return to the cave for weeks.

Keith knew that there were laws about hunting seasons, or regulation on wildlife.

The reality was that he was in the center of nowhere, hundreds of miles from major civilization, The Garrison wasn't that much closer.

He knew that he likely was committing some sort of crime, walking about with a long stick in one hand and his knife in the other.

A rabbit stirred, surprised out from where it had hidden under a tumbleweed. It ran, and Keith watched it sprint for a few seconds.

All's fair in love and war.

And Keith was tired of war.

He aimed and threw his knife, and it hit with terrifying accuracy.

He served his time already.

Keith knew how to live alone, he had done it all his life.

He didn't rely on anyone, he didn't need anyone.

'Better to leave first, than to be abandoned by everyone around you.'

He had gotten used to waking up and seeing people, to casual contact or small remarks over whatever space coffee they had available.

He had gotten used to that.

Despite it being a desert, he was cold inside.

He kept up with his practice, activating and deactivating his dagger to its blade form back to knife. Over and over, halfway through combat with a cactus, or various forms he had learned.

He was better, he knew that he had improved dramatically since joining the Blades of Marmora.

He practiced, his skin sweating and blistering under the sun, his breaths coming in labored pants as he forced himself again, again, over, again.

A bird was flying high above, giant with dark brown feathers. An eagle of some sort, he didn't know the species.

Again.

He practiced again.

He found a tortoise, a month after landing and seeking refuge in his shack.

It was a large thing, although smaller than the alien species he had seen before. He had expected it to sprout wings, or spit venom. His paranoia forced him to prod it with his stick, shifting it through the gravely dirt as it peered around confused.

It paused, then continued on its walk, lumbering under the grasses and over broken pieces of bedrock.

Something about the reptile was strangely endearing, the way it battled on and pushed forward even when struggling over a crevice in the ground, or to free itself from where a low branch snagged its shell.

Keith walked with it for hours, managing a few miles away from his shack. When the sun set and the tortoise nestled down in a patch of dead thorns, only then did Keith return to his shack.

Two months and he cut his hair, chopping it with his knife which never lost its edge.

His hair had grown long, mangled and snarled and a disgusting oily sheen he knew he'd never have enough water to wash out.

He destroyed his ship, tearing out pulsating Galra pieces and modifying his hover-bike into something with acceptable levels of speed.

He removed half a dozen safety features, ramping the speed and the accelerator into something he knew wasn't street legal.

A voice in the back of his skull that sounded eerily like Shiro disapproved loudly.

He had tried to ram a Galra battle cruiser.

He was going to di-

'Let me have this, Shiro.'

The closest town was something called Goldfield, scattered along an antique highway that served more as a line on a map than an actual road.

The townspeople were polite enough, gathering outside on wicker chairs under awnings to escape the heat. Keith doubted they had plumbing either, half of the buildings looked boarded up or deserted.

There was something outside of town, a graveyard marked with old cars and buses stacked upwards like obelisks to modern art. A few hover-bikes were thrown in, balanced precariously on the hood of a flipped truck.

The "International Car Forest", marked with spray paint over one side panel writing in blocky graffiti Fuck the Garrison

Keith smiled, and thought with a laugh Quiznak would have fit better.

His slight smile fell, and once again he looked away.

He forgot nobody knew what Quiznak meant.

Four months and his Hover-bike was breaking records, although that was likely due to the Galra tech incorporated into it.

He wasn't a mechanic or an engineer, but give him half a dozen weeks in the desert with only scorpions for company and he would figure out how to restore a bike.

There wasn't anything for the paint job, or anything in terms of safety gear.

He had his Blade of Marmora outfit still, glowing supernaturally purple in the dim lighting of his shack. He had used it for a short while as a lamp, enough illumination in the dark to look at the blank wall where he used to map out the energy field.

He kept the sticky notes up, because they were still applicable.

"They told me it was Pilot Error. I know you're still alive."

His aim had improved, throwing knives hadn't been something that the Blade really emphasized training on.

It was a dangerous risk, for the Galra empire to take possession of a blade.

The Mojave desert had no mercy, and didn't care when his knife lodged deep in a crooked dead tree, rotting where it baked.

He didn't have anything to do most days, nowhere to go, nobody to fight.

He ran, he took his knife and strapped on his boots (They were wearing thin and busting at the seams, leaving blisters that bled and bled) and just...ran.

Until his muscles burned and the air seared his throat and the closest thing to an adrenaline rush burned in his blood.

(And when he found a cliff just high enough, just dangerous enough...he'd dangle his legs over the edge and scream until the coyotes would howl back.)

'You know, I don't know what I was expecting.

I mean, I just, I knew that I had to- I mean, not...I told them I wanted to leave, well… I didn't want- no,...I don't

I don't know

Lance was worried about the, the six of us, and…

And nobody told me not to go'

Keith's closest neighbor was an older man with two old hounds, each looking slightly more hungry than they should.

His neighbor, Garland O'Conner, was a leathery skeptic man who didn't seem to care when Keith emerged from the dust and sand on a battered hover-bike.

Garland had a working well, as well as a generator that was broken more often than it ran.

He also had money, which he coughed up for Keith to fix one of the broken fence posts way out on the edge of his land.

And food, Garland had food.

'I wouldn't have gone if they told me to stay.'

Keith ran, he ran more in the open air and slight morning chill than he ever had the opportunity to in space.

Before, the training decks were small, confined between the metal hulls that protected him from death.

Here, he could run and run and run.

His muscles burned but he found that he could just...keep going.

"Do you ever take a break, mullet? What did those training bots ever do to you!"

Keith kept running.

"Instead of accepting people into my life I push them away before they rejected me."

At night, there was nothing to ever disturb him.

In space, he was used to the sounds of the ship, the ticking, the faint rattling of the vents.

He heard the crickets, faint and far in between.

At least at night he could see the stars, and if he tried very hard, he could almost pretend that he could feel the vibrations of the castle under his back.

"I guess I have some walls up."

Keith fixed a window, where it hadn't fit right and was constantly leaking grit into Garland's house.

"You done?" Garland asked, his voice hoarse and gruff either from the dryness of the environment or the years of spitting tobacco. That was one benefit of being kidnapped by Blue, Keith didn't have any cigarettes on him and quit by force.

"Yeah," Keith responded simply, his voice was raspy as well.

One of the hounds padded near, pawing him lazily. The bottoms of its paws were coarser than sandpaper, the nails chipped and broken beyond repair.

"Here," Garland grunted, passing over a paper bag with a small grimace, "Haven't gone to town recently."

Which meant he hadn't the money, which was fine. Keith didn't travel to town that often.

When he got back to his shack, shoving the cloth out from the door hinges to keep the bugs out, and sat heavily on the couch he slept on.

Garland had given him liquor, something he didn't recognize but looked like something from one of the southern reservations.

Shiro wouldn't approve, Keith could picture his face.

'Keith, what are you doing? You know that stuff isn't good for you.'

It would have been the same face Shiro made when he caught Keith smoking the one time, ducked under an overhang to stay out of the single rain-shower the Garrison experienced per year.

Then again…

Shiro was all he had, Shiro was the only family he really had.

(And he lost him once before, Pilot Error my ass.)

He found him, and he finally had a rag tag group he considered fam-

(And he lost him again.)

He was forced to replace Shiro, it was only logical that they were forced to replace him.

(They did they did they did they did-)

Keith cracked the seal on the bottle and threw it back without hesitation.

It burned only half as bad as he expected.

"So...is everyone okay?"

"Yeah!" Lance shouted, sounding half amazed and half victorious.

"We showed those bastards!" Pidge cheered, whooping loudly alongside Lance.

"Language!" Hunk shouted back, although he was joking.

"Alright everyone, that's enough," Shiro chuckled, voice warm over the link.

"Well done, everyone." Allura spoke, voice firm yet somehow restraining joyous laughter.

Keith's eyes flew open, words on the edge of his lips.

He was on the couch, alone in his shack.

No Voltron, no victory, no nothing.

Tears pricked the edges of his eyes as he started blindly into the dark.

One hand searched for the half empty bottle, the other half curled to his chest to keep the loneliness away.

Chapter Text

There were days when the wind tore across the sand, screaming as it swept between cracks and crevices in the mountain rock.

It buffeted his house, rattling the sun bleached panels of wood and whistling as it found the cracks on his dingy window.

The sheet he used for a curtain billowed, flapping with loud snaps in his shack as it knocked empty beer cans off tables to rattle onto the floor.

The wind hissed, eerily similar to something he once heard Puigans spit, scrabbling over a dispute in a marketplace.

(Sometimes he felt that it was a dream, that it had never happened.)

Keith let out a breath from his nose, pinched and whistling as he watched the sheet flap over his head.

He watched it for the sunrise, and watched it until the sun set once more.

His hair was long, longer than it had ever been in his life.

It brushed far down, against the bottom ridges of his shoulder blades when he moved without a shirt on. The black was startling, a sharp contrast between the translucent white scar tissue near the junction of his neck.

The Blade Of Marmora never apologized for the wound. Nor did Regris, when Keith finally realized it had been him who sliced blade through flesh until it struck clavicle.

It itched, stinging and burning on occasion when he practiced with his blade until his arms shook and his muscles burned. His skinned tanned, sunkissed and nearing the shade of what he thought ( it was so hard to remember) Lance’s skin resembled.

His scars never fade, they stayed bright and pronounced, a sharp ghostly white against his skin like a full moon.

Sometimes, the scars were the only reason he knew that it was real.

(On one particularly bad day, he had screamed and screamed for Red, before he forgot that she wasn’t his anymore, and never would be again.)

Garland showed up one day, likely after hours of running his sputtering truck through the wasteland to get to Keith’s shack. The two dogs padded around, sniffing the dust and grasses where Keith had nicked himself more than once while practicing.

“Wake up!” Garland shouted, whacking his hand on the shack, waiting impatiently outside.

Keith stumbled out, squinting at the sun and just as pitiful as he always looked, “What.”

Garland didn’t look put out by his sharp tone, flat and monotonous. That’s how they functioned.

“You’re coming to town with me, I need new panels and no way in fuck am I loading it myself.”

Keith paused, blinked, then sighed and gave a short nod. One of the hounds peered inside the shack curiously. The black haired male shoved it out hastily.

Garland didn’t blink as Keith grabbed the knife holster, strapping it low on his back and shrugging on a jacket Garland gave him months ago, oil stained and torn to hell.

They climbed into the truck, coaxing it to life as they once again trudged through the rocks and dirt, the hounds panting in the air heavily.

Garland messed with the radio, cursing and jamming his hand at the buttons, switching from static to static over and over again.

Keith snorted, one arm out of the busted window while the other was tapping irregularly on the dash.

“What’s your poison?” Garland asked gruff, his throat hoarse as if he’d been coughing.

Keith looked at him blankly, “What?”

Garland rolled his eyes, rubbing the back of one leathered hand under his nose, “Poison. You’re out in the middle of nowhere, kid, you damn well are poisoned from something.”

Keith blinked quickly, “I haven’t gotten stung by a scorpion-”

Garland rolled his eyes, “Jesus, I ain’t asking that. I’m just wondering, I know you haven’t been checking in with the world, so you’re staying out of it. Don’t bother me, but who you running from? You fuck over some Garrison-”

“I got kicked out.” Keith interrupted, his words felt like ash, as if he was speaking about a memory he only knew from photographs or second hand stories, “I ah, I punched an officer?”

Garland huffed something that seemed like a laugh, “You telling or asking me?”

Keith shrugged wordlessly. He didn’t respond as Garland reached across, banging on the glovebox before he fumbled with a carton of cigarettes, struggling to flip the lighter.

Keith lit it for him, and lit one for himself. He choked on the first breath, although he slipped into old muscle memory from a lifetime ago.

“You seem lost in your head,” Garland confessed, when the embers were tickling the ends of his fingers and smoke curled from the charred end, “like you don’t got an anchor.”

Keith’s hand twitched, he had finished his cigarette ages ago.

“Not saying it’s a bad thing,” Garland defended, although he didn’t sound as if he cared, “But i’ve seen more than not, things like that kill a man. Find something, I don’t give a rat’s ass what but cleaning you up from your shack’s wall is a pain.”

Keith jolted, looking surprised and confused, “I don’t- what?”

Garland huffed, tossing the filter out the window as he fumbled this time with the console between the two, “Fuck it, find pictures or get a dog or two. I don’t give a shit, kid, but you ain’t got an anchor right now.”

Keith’s tongue felt heavy, “I don’t have pictures.”

Garland snorted, pulling out the recognizable gold bottle, liquid half gone, “Then you better hope to hell you can draw.”

Keith stole the bottle before they made it to the main road.

There were a surplus of biker gangs in the area, riding a mixture of antique classics or sleek hoverbikes. They didn’t care, didn’t even glance at Keith as he stumbled into the one bar, looking around with detached interest.

He certainly looked over the drinking age (he didn’t know how old he was- 24? 26?) and knew in this town they wouldn’t bother for ID. As long as you had cash, they’d give you what you needed.

He approached the bar, glancing around at the crowd of bikers with barely any interest, although there was a peculiar buzzing, deeper and more vibrant than the cheap lighting.

Garland would be passed out in a gutter somewhere, his hounds were sleeping in the bed of his truck. Keith could walk back, he wasn’t worried about it. Worst case, he’d wake up somewhere, with the taste of vomit in his mouth and a headache that made finding his whereabouts even harder. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The buzzing was coming from a machine, wielded by one of the bikers with careful precision. The look of a master at work, caring detail and loving effort.

Keith gnawed on his lower lip, hesitating as he thought.

Garland said he better get a photo.

“Hey,” Keith started, shoving through the groups to the chair the biker was perched at. The two looked at him curiously.

Keith beckoned at the machine, “You doing that for others?”

The biker paused, cracking his neck as he stretched and took a break from needle in flesh, “Get me a bottle of whiskey and sure, what you want?”

The corner of Keith’s mouth quirky, the bartender knew him already, “can you do lions?”

On one particularly bad day, Garland showed up demanding Keith to get out.

Keith didn’t, and Garland kicked his door down.

The shouting and the sudden bark of dogs jolted Keith awake, already swaying and slurring insults and curses. Garland joined in, face contorting in annoyance.

Garland struck first, but Keith finished the fight when he drew his knife without thought and cut hard enough that Garland choked a shout.

“Get out of my house,” Keith spat, swaying where he stood as he pointed the dagger at Garland’s face, “And if you come back I will kick the shit out of you.”

Garland scoffed but stormed out, slamming the door hard enough it rattled. He knew in a week, he’d be welcome back fine.

“I miss you Red,” Keith breathed, looking over the rocks, his legs dangling from the top of the cliff, “I mean, you never saw Earth. It’s not much, but I- I don’t know. I think you’d like it here. Flying I mean, or...fuck, fuck I don’t know I-”

Keith didn’t hear the rattle, or maybe he did and didn’t bother moving.

He didn’t know the story, and he didn’t know how it started, he only remembered how it finished.

Him screaming bloody murder and writhing on his couch, staining the dirt encrusted cushions darker with blood and other disgusting discharge.

He laughed, tears of hysteria down the corners of his eyes as his body seized and flailed. He doused his ankle with tequila, the only sort of disinfectant he knew he had plenty of.

It burned, it sizzled and looked more like his skin in itself had exploded, knitting itself back together and bleeding something clear.

‘This isn’t what’s supposed to happen,’ Keith thought through the haze and the agony, ‘this isn’t what Rattlesnakes do.’

It didn’t matter, because evidently, that’s what was happening to him.

He wasn’t human. He forgot that sometimes.

Keith didn’t remember much about genetic markers, he didn’t remember much about classes he took at all.

He knew that a human shouldn’t have survived a bite with a Rattlesnake, and he knew that his legs weren’t supposed to almost literally explode.

Logically, it was his galra side that kept him together, that let his skin heal back together with grotesque pale scarring and strange hardened lumps and nodules along his calves. His feet looked horrendous, his heel on his left leg where the bite had struck was gone, mauled and smoothed with skin that was far too shiny and disfigured.

He limped if he tried to walk, the skin was pulled too taught and too tight where it healed.

He walked on the balls of his feet, which wasn’t a problem considering he always had abnormal balance skills.

He walked like a dinosaur- he walked like a galra.

He laughed so hard he cried, bottles emptying and his fingers twitching for cigarettes to pollute the air.

“Figures, eh Red? That- that after all of that fuckin bullshit, it- this whole- I don’t- I’m a fucking Galra and…. fuck I just...I miss you all so much.”

Garland showed up one day, looking more pissed than usual.

Keith instantly anticipated having to drive off, revving his hoverbike until it kicked a tornado behind him.

Instead, Garland threw a paper at him, looking just as agitated as the rattler Keith encountered.

“What?” Keith groaned, limping out of his house generally for appearances.

“Look at- look at this bullshit.”

Keith peered at the title, printed in bold writing was a shocking FIRST CONTACT ESTABLISHED.

Keith swallowed, and opened the paper, peering at the shit resolution photo that was clearly staged.

Shiro- Shiro. Allura, and-

“Isn’t that shit?” Garland sneered, looking damn upset, “And here I’ve been, I fucking made a bet that was all horse shit. And I just lost!”

Keith couldn’t breathe, “Better pay up then.”

Garland flipped him off sourly, and instead stomped to his truck, unloading the six pack and throwing some sort of ancient radio at him, “This thing gets Garrison chatter. Your schedule better be goddamn free because I am not prepared for Mary to break down my door with a shotgun looking for her money.”

“- rodger we have Paladins on radio frequency, copy we have established contact and will transmit relevant data over delta seven channel. I repeat, we will transmit data over delta seven channel. Negative, target Shirogane is NOT inquiring about Kerberos status, I repeat, Shirogane is NOT inquiring ab-”

Keith couldn’t help it. He was choking, shaking and clutching his legs to his chest as he rocked and sobbed and-

“Red?” He choked out, reaching outwards as if screaming-

And something brushed by, something curious and foreign but so painfully familiar and it….

It was real it was real it was real it was real

It was real.

Garland O’Conner was a regular visitor to the town, and with how small the town actually was, everyone knew who he was.

Generally Garland was the go to for mechanical apparatus, not bikes or cars. A broken radio, a busted pipe, even help moving lumbar, call Garland.

As such, Garland was in town often, and generally in the town if you didn’t have money, you could pay him with alcohol.

Garland was actually rather sweet, crude and as vulgar as an inmate but generally nice enough to help out anyone who needed it. Not to mention the two hounds of his were the biggest lap dogs most of the town had ever seen.

Garland was helping Mary, the bar’s owner and the biggest gambler on this side of the desert, with shifting the broken sign off of the store front when the whole ground vibrated. It rattled, shifting like an earthquake.

“Bet you it’s the aliens!” Mary shouted at him cockily, causing Garland to politely flip her off.

She cackled in good humor, as well as Harrison, the general good store who had popped out to see how things were progressing.

The tremors got worse, and Garland paused, securing the sign in place just to be sure it wouldn’t dislodge further.

The shaking did get worse, and they quickly realized why.

From above the store, a flock of something blasted with a trailing edge of fire, bursting through the sky like one of those obnoxious Garrison practice drills.

But this was much much different.

These things, were giant cats.

They landed on the far side of town, avoiding the scant power lines and the road which already had gone through enough abuse. The ground collapsed where the giant metal paws landed, sinking a foot into deep imprints.

Mary paused, before she started laughing and whooping even louder.

“See that?” She shrieked at Garland, “Pay up you Son of’a Bitch!”

Garland struggled down his ladder, staring in awe at the obviously alien giant cats. Harrison was fumbling for his rosary beads, the man was so painfully religious.

The cats lowered to the ground, pressing the jaws to the ground and opening.

Then the strangest aliens popped out, they looked downright human.

“Hey you!” Mary screamed down the road, obviously her vocal chords hadn’t worn out in her age, “Free drinks on me!”

The aliens (looked downright human) paused, before two of them leapt into the air cheering.

They were young, or at least younger than Garland had been thinking they would be given all that radio chatter.

“Hello, Ma’am,” the leader said, standing in a military posture and looking carefully resigned, “Thank you very much but-”

“No buts,” Mary clicked her tongue, “You all won me a bet with this asshole, so you all are getting free drinks.”

Garland scowled and one of the larger ones who looked a bit like a Hawaiian looked awkwardly at him, “Ah, hi there. Uh, nice place you have here?”

Garland snorted, “It’s a shithole.”

“A charming shithole,” Mary corrected, ushering them all inside.

The one in the group who did look alien seemed absolutely amazed by the interior of the bar, the dim lighting and surplus of taxidermy bighorn sheep and all.

“Name’s Lance!” One of them grinned, a small scar on his cheek gave the illusion of a dimple on one side only, “I love this place.”

“Kissup,” Mary added happily, snapping the bottle caps off of the beer bottles on the edge of the bar like a professional.

“No! No I actually love it here,” the one named Lance looked around dreamily, “You have no idea how happy I am that those things are actual goats.”

“Bighorn sheep,” The human looking female argued, “They aren’t goats.”

Lance looked even giddier, “And they don’t even spit acid!”

“Really?” The alien one asked in surprise, peering at the taxidermy heads in awe, “Such marvelous creatures.”

Mary laughed, a  honestly happy noise as she slid the various bottles down the bar, “Name’s Mary, I own this shitter, and that’s Garland, he’s a right ass if you know him and even worse if you don't.”

“Shiro,” The leader smiled, settling on a stool and looking at the beer bottle with the biggest look of nostalgia Garland had ever seen, “I assume you heard the news then?”

“Damn straight,” Mary beamed, snatching a bottle for herself.

“My name’s Pidge,” The short human female grinned happily, “And this is Hunk and the loser over there is Lance.”

“Hey!” Lance pouted, chugging his beer as if he hadn’t ever had one before.

“I am Princess Allura,” The alien looking one introduced herself happily, “It is a pleasure to be welcomed to this planet by its inhabitants so freely.”

Garland snorted, “Don’t go to Harrison, he’ll be prayin’ for weeks after.”

Mary grinned, “Honey you ain’t even seen the big cities yet. There’s a whole lot of nothing out here.”

Allura looked even more amazed if possible.

“How long are you staying round here?” Garland asked, looking over the peculiar armor that the group seemed to wear, as well as the strange devices harnessed to their hips.

“Oh ah, not long.” Shiro’s good mood seemed to falter as he looked down at his hands, one was metal for some reason.

“We’re looking for something around here,” Pidge explained, clearing her throat and yanking her longer hair back into a looped bun. From straight on, she looked pretty androgynous actually. If it wasn’t for the hair, Garland may have thought she was a boy.

Pidge put something on the bar top, and from the top sprouted a hologram like one of the sci fi movies Garland had seen decades ago.

“See, there’s this ah, place out here but it doesn’t have any tech so we can’t scan it, and well, the desert is huge to search on a visual basis only.”

Mary pointed her hand at Garland, “Get your friend to help them, and don’t protest one second Garland I have seen that damned hoverbike.”

“Yeah, fine by me.” Garland shrugged, “It’s a while out there, y’all want to ride in my truck or your ah, cats?”

“Lions,” Hunk interrupted with a small awkward grin, “They’re lions actually.”

Garland blinked slowly, “Alright, y’all taking your space lions or you wanna ride with me and my dogs?”

“Dogs?” Pidge interrupted looking absolutely giddy, “You mean like, actual dogs?”

“Yep, they like belly rubs,” Mary advised.

“Allura, you’re going to meet a dog.”

The alien looked even more excited.

They all shuffled out of the bar, moving towards the ancient truck. Shiro politely accepted to ride shotgun, gently opening the door with his metal arm and cringed when it scraped loudly.

The others leapt into the back truck bed, laughing over the two hounds that looked delightfully startled awake. Pidge fumbled with a rusted out muffler, pointing at it and stroking it as if she had seen something particularly hilarious.

They started out, bouncing along the road while the party in the back laughed like children when they were almost thrown out twice.

“So, ah, you come here much?”

“First time back in a long time,” Shiro admitted, squinting out into the bright sun as if it was novelty, “Won a war.”

“That’s ah,” Garland paused, “That’s interesting.”

Shiro huffed a small laugh, looking relaxed as they skittered down the open road.

“So your friend,” Shiro began politely, “He has a hoverbike?”

Garland grunted, “He’s a right ass but his bike is damn fast. Likely he’s already found whatever you’re lookin’ for.”

“That’s very nice of him,” Shiro smiled slightly, “We can pay you back for your help.”

Garland huffed a chuckle, “None of that, I’ll bribe him with smokes or something. You want one?”

Shiro’s face twitched slightly in disgust although he didn’t say anything outright. Garland laughed, shaking his head amused as Shiro joined in with small chuckles.

“Shiro!” Lance shouted, voice muffled from the back glass, “Look! Actual birds! And they don’t have tails!”

“You all have some strange stories alright,” Garland chuckled, “those lions are pretty damn impressive too.”

Shiro smiled, “We’ve been through a lot. ”

They kept moving, and then when Garland pulled off and passed by his house and started heading out towards the shack everyone seemed to pause and looked a bit anxious.

Maybe it was the change from scant trees and lots of bushes to open dirt and tumbleweeds, or the distant mountains and cliffs.

They only grew more quiet and unsure as they continued.

Then Shiro gasped, looking pale and horrified as the shack slowly pulled into sight.

“Y’all alright?” Garland asked, looking over his shoulder as three of the four in the back looked equally horrified.

“Yeah, ah…” Shiro cleared his throat, although his voice was tense and unsure.

Garland pulled to a stop, stopping the truck and climbing out of the door.

The hounds leapt over the edge, barking and running around excitedly, although they didn’t approach the house.

“He mustn't be home,” Garland shrugged apologetically, “Don’t see the bike either.”

They were quiet, except the Allura woman who was curiously looking at the shack as if confused.

“Forgive me for asking, but aren’t your establishments larger?”

Garland chuckled, “Yeah we wish that too.”

The crowd was still seated in the truck bed, and looked incredibly unsettled.

“What?” Garland grunted, arching one eyebrow as he squinted around. It looked the same, the same patches of dirt and bushes and the dinged-up siding where someone threw his knife when he was pissed off.

“Your friend,” Shiro started, pausing and shaking his head, “Sorry, we ah, this just seems familiar is all.”

Garland shrugged, “Well, we’ll have to wait a bit. He doesn’t show up in an hour, I’ll take ya to my place and come out again this night when the asshole’ll be back.”

The one named Lance smiled, although he looked dazed, “Ah, thank you.”

Garland coughed, “Don’t thank me yet, thank me when I’m the reason you bunch don’t get stabbed.”

Chapter Text

Keith didn't know what it was, but something in his blood sang to him when he held his dagger. It was silent, he never heard anything but rather he felt it.

Like he was a tree leaning in the wake of a giant gale. It made no sound, but he could only describe it as singing. Rattling and shaking against his bones and muscles as his blood pulsed and it felt right.

The leather binding around the handle of his dagger had long since torn, they were stiffened and worn raw in the constant sand. Saturated in rabbit blood or cactus juice to the point where it flaked in his palms as his callouses rubbed it wrong.

The wind screamed through the canyons and the cracks in the dirt, a low moaning noise which made him bear his teeth in a semblance of a grin.

His lips were cracked, stinging as they flexed near the point of tearing. He'd need to stop by Garland soon and refill the water jugs, he hadn't thought to bring any with him.

Something was buzzing incessantly, twitching and causing him to crack his knuckles and jerk with his step.

He woke up and just knew he had to go- he had to rev his bike and swerve last minute before hitting a stump, a rock, a cactus even. He needed to move and feel the vibrations through his glove and go faster faster faster-

Sometime brushed in his skull, inquisitive and worried and wrong wrong-

Garland was repairing a sign in town, Keith could ride for hours and hours and nobody would bother him.

(Nobody to talk to, nobody to miss him,)

He tilted his head back, staring into the pale desert sky and squinting into the sun. He didn't have a helmet, no matter how many times Garland had sworn at him to get one.

His black hair stung as it smacked his face, the air leaving it stiff and grainy if he were to touch it. There were no clouds in the sky, no eagles, no faint pinpricks of jets flying high above.

(There's nothing there, there's nothing there, there's nothing there-)

Keith screamed, silent and unheard over the roar of the hoverbike.

"You know," Keith spoke, voice hoarse and raspy as he flicked ashes through the air, watching them flicker before drifting off to gravel and sandstone, "I was doing just fine."

He swallowed dryly, hand tapping frantically against his thigh over and over as nicotine seared and left him tingling and chemically calm.

He sniffed slightly, swallowing empty as he watched a small lizard pause in the sunlight, nearly invisible in the sand. He felt like that lizard, tucked away in the shade, leaning against a dinged up hoverbike that hummed oddly and moved too fast. Half galra.

Keith sighed through his nose, tilting his head back until it dinged against the busted fender, the coils ticked lowly as they slowly cooled down.

"I'm being honest," Keith croaked, hand shaking as he wiped his nose dryly, "I was doing fine out here. Made a name for myself. I had everything I needed."

The lizard skittered away, tail splashing sand over the bedrock.

Keith twitched, the bike ticked again. He fumbled his this pocket, flipping the corner of the plastic coated carton, pulling out another cigarette and a metal lighter that he'd burned himself on more times than he could count.

T-click.

Smoke burned foul, fumes that smouldered and choked him lovingly.

His fingers twitched again, thrumming faster than a Costa Hummingbird's wings.

"I don't need you," Keith spoke, voice muffled by thick white smoke, "I...I didn't need you."

His hands shook slightly, and he swallowed dry, tongue wetting cracked lips.

"I was ready you know," he confessed quietly, "To just...live, you know? I was done, I was happy."

There was a hush, a pause as the air itself held its breath. Then it condensed, pressing gently into something warm and sharp, like scalding coffee or the burn of expensive Scotch, "Were you really, Cub?"

Keith's breath was shaky as he inhaled hollowly, "Get the fuck out of my head, Red."

It paused, "Cub-"

"I'm not yours," Keith's voice was hoarse, bitter and burnt, "You've got nothing to say to me. So get out, get out right now or I'll fucking ride and not stop."

It withdrew softly, caressing him forlornly, like the caress of a widower on a mahogany casket.

He breathed out, and choked on smoke on something that sounded like a sob. He hunched over, curling his spine to press his knees against his temples. His hand curled in his hair, pulling and pulling as the other crushed the cigarette under his heel.

"Wait no-" He gasped, breaths shuddering as his entire body jerked, "Red, no I didn't-"

The desert was silent, cold, and empty.

He breathed, in and out faster and faster until he curled in and screamed.

It burned, hurt his throat and split his lips further until he tasted iron and salt.

"Fuck you," He gasped, choking over words and spit and eyes that had dried up years back, " Fuck you, Red."

He pushed himself upwards from where he sat, gravel and sand pressing into the meat of his palms as he pushed himself upwards.

He stumbled out from the overhang, into the unforgiving sun and heat with shoes sliding. Dragging rubber through twigs and over ground like coarse sandpaper.

He walked, leant forward with an inhuman balance point and a strange prehistoric walk that was too disgusting to ever be considered elegant.

(Too Galra to be normal. Too human to be Galra. What a monster I am. What a freak I am.)

He pulled his knife out, held steady in a nicotine stained grip, fingernails almost blue.

The sun glinted off the polished edge, ethereal ore that would never tarnish, never chip. The rune on the side glowed, stinging his eyes as if he was staring into the sun.

"Well?" He shouted, voice ringing strangely off the sandstone, "Well Red? Come and get me!"

He turned, swaying slightly as he squinted in the sun, across the sky and in the gaps of the sandstone, "Show yourself!"

There was a rustle, something dark and scrawny peered out, looking at him from a gap in weeds with the look of something starving.

Keith looked at it, lips pulled back in disgust as he shifted his hold on his blade, adjusting his grip for a fight.

The coyote yipped, high pitched an angry. A call.

Two more appeared, than a third. All beady eyed and staring hungrily, and Keith did have a strange limp.

Except it wasn't that much of an injury anymore.

"This what you want?" He breathed, voice dropping lower and hoarser as he lowered himself, "Is this what you want?"

The main coyote padded forward, emaciated and hungry and with nothing to lose.

Keith should have turned and walked to the speeder, he should have sped off and gotten the jugs of water from Garland's place and went back to his cabin for the night.

He didn't he held his knife up and grinned through the nicotine buzz as the coyote's stared him down and slowly stalked closer.

'If I wait,' he thought deadly as adrenaline pulsed like a bonfire, 'Will that anger you, Red? Do I have to fucking prove myself again for you?'

Nothing answered.

A coyote gave an inquiring chatter, yipping excitedly as it smelled the blood from Keith's split lip.

"Knowledge or Death," he sneered, and leapt himself forward towards the mangy mutt.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Shiro asked once more, fretting nervously as he pulled at the thin jacket that didn't look that normal.

Garland rolled his eyes, "Not at all. Not much space, but y'all can stay the night. I need to head over again anyways, so you ain't being a hassle."

"Hear that?" Lance shouted from the back of the truck, "Campout baby!"

"Hot dogs! Real, genuine, hot dogs!" Pidge screamed, whooping in the air as if they had won the lottery.

Garland snorted and shook his head, "Y'all are characters. Forget what it's like having normal people around."

Shiro chuckled and rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, "We're ah, not that normal."

"Compared to my usual company, y'all a bunch of sunshine."

They turned back onto a more modern road, dirt packed but recognizable. Garland's house rose in the distance, standing out from its slatted roof, busted silo, and tall standing well that still functioned just fine.

"Hey! Hey Gearford! You have Wifi?"

Garland didn't even blink, "You call me that 'gain, I'm kicking you out right here, kid."

Pidge didn't even blink, "Is that a no?"

"You fix the generator, it's all yours."

Pidge cheered loud enough the hounds joined in out of confusion.

They pulled up to Garland's house, easily four times the size of the shack. They unloaded, the hounds springing to the mailbox to fetch old bills Garland would get around to paying one day.

Pidge leapt at the generator, muttering something about antique furniture as she pried at the old bolts with her own fingernails. Hunk joined her with an endearing smile, pulling out strange metal tools that folded away in a nondescript pouch on his side.

"Y'all wan't some water?" Garland asked, kicking off his boots as he made his way towards a small kitchenette was built into the corner.

"Oooh," Lance followed him like a puppy, peering over his shoulder obnoxiously as Garland pulled out a metal pitcher of well water.

Allura, the alien one, hadn't stopped smiling once, "I simply adore this residency. And such loyal confidants!" She laughed, petting the two dogs happily.

"Just wait until we introduce you to our television." Shiro smiled, leaning against the door frame fondly looking around the house.

"KPop!" Pidge chirped up from where she was essentially deconstructing the generator, "You'll love it!"

"Do you have any junk food?" Lance blurted, squinting as if skeptic, "Maybe something with corn syrup as a first ingredient?"

Garland sighed through his nose, "Twinkies, top shelf."

Lance's eyes welled with tears, "Quiznak bless you."

Garland blinked slowly, "No, I really think you're the one that needs help here."

The sun began to set slowly, casting the night with shades of red and orange. It was something Garland would never grow tired of, and by the delighted noises from Allura, she too was in awe of the view.

Then Shiro paused, lifting one hand in a wordless symbol that had everyone snapping taught like a bow string. Everyone's expression stilled, egging on worry yet prepared for the worst. Garland blinked in confusion, and casually approached the one locker he kept his shotgun in. He pulled it out, loudly loading it with a sh-lickkk that caused everyone to jump.

"Don't worry about it." Garland gruffly nodded, just now hearing the high pitched whine and the strange rattling groan of a highly modified hovorbike, "I've got this one."

Shiro shook his head and looked pensive, "I'm sorry, sir. The noise of that engine doesn't sound-"

"Yeah no, that's the twice damned hoverbike." Garland nodded, sliding out of the front door and letting it bang shut behind him.

He had his shotgun propped loosely in his arms, and didn't bother putting it down even as the battered bike blasted towards the house and didn't bother slowing until near the front fence. The wind blast knocked Garland's clothes, leaving them flapping twice before stilling.

"Hey Asshole!" Garland shouted, shifting his weight, "You were supposed to be at your shack."

The figure paused while dismounting, taking a few seconds to just sit on the seat even as the bike whirred and slowly shut off.

Slowly, Keith slid off the bike and limped, closing the distance much slower than usual.

Garland saw blood, staining through Keith's cheap shirt and dripping down his arm. Garland had seen more blood, he wasn't worried.

"Yeah well," he sounded winded, likely from the long bike ride, "You had a sign to fix,"

Keith brushed past him, looking tired and exhausted.

"Hey!" Garland shouted behind him at Keith who hadn't entered the house yet, "I've got guests over. They need your help finding something."

"Yeah well I'm not about that," Keith grunted lowly, kicking the door open where it had began to swing shut. Garland hadn't gotten around to fixing it from when Keith had done that before, so the screen flew off and banged against the floor something horrifying.

"I fucked your door!" Keith shouted, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic.

Garland sighed and rubbed his temple with one hand, snagging the cheapest bottle of tequila he had, near paint thinner levels of burn.

He came back out, passing the bottle over as Keith peered around the abandoned entryway suspicious, "You said you had someone over?"

"Yeah, looking for something out in the desert, figured you'd be the one to already have it."

Keith didn't deny it, instead he tilted the tequila back and took a swig.

"Smartass," Garland cursed, "That's for your damned arm."

Keith swallowed and didn't even grimace, "I know. Damned coyotes are getting hungry."

Garland scoffed and split towards his first aid hit was stashed near the living area where the congregation of awkward guests were gathered.

"Yeah well," Garland shouted, ignoring how Hunk flinched at the noise, "Maybe if you stopped using a toothpick you wouldn't get bit! Remember the Rattler!"

"Fuck you too!" Keith shouted, his voice louder and less garbled as he limped his way through the hall to the main room.

Something fell and broke. Garland jumped, just as he saw Keith pull out his damned knife and point it right at the throat of the big one- Shiro.

The sound was Lance having dropped his glass, the shattered remnants of Garland's Alaska themed coffee mug was scattered on the fake wood floor.

Garland breathed out slowly and reached for the Tylenol in the first aid kit just to stop the headache, "I swear to god, if you goddamn stab someone again."

Keith's face twitched, "Fuck you Garland." He hissed, voice vicious and promising injury.

Shiro didn't move, but he did pale slowly as if seeing a ghost.

"Mullet?" Lance breathed, voice pinched as if he was decked in the chest.

Keith took one second to lower the knife in favor of lifting the paint thinner tequila and chugging down what would have been three shots straight.

"Keith." Shiro spoke, voice halfway scolding and halfway horrified.

"Oh fuck you too." Keith sneered, hand clenching and spasming. Garland knew what he was going to do a second before he did it. The others didn't.

The sound of Keith spinning and smashing the thick glass bottle against the wall. The plaster dented and stained the peeling paint with alcohol.

At the same time, Pidge snuck around and in a move similar to something in the military, she twisted, grabbed the knife and tore it free and out of Keith's grasp.

Keith snarled something savage, lashing out with one arm before giving a pain filled whine and curling in on himself. Blood seeped out anew.

"Moron," Garland snorted under his breath, "I told you to disinfect it but instead you smash it on my damn wall."

"You brought them here?" Keith looked like a cornered animal, face twitching as he frantically looked all over, "What the actual fuck?"

"Hey!" Garland pointed threateningly, face serious for once as he cleared the air, "I don't give a shit how you act with me. But we've got guests here, and you damn well remember it, or I'm kicking your sorry ass out."

Keith's eyes were aflame, "Fuck you, Garland."

"Whoa, let's calm down." Shiro interjected, voice still sounding pinched and dazed, "We're just...we weren't expecting him."

"You know each other then?" Garland suspiciously eyed them.

"We do," Allura spoke, the only one who really seemed to have a calm composure, "Perhaps we could discuss this reasonably, without weapons and as friends. We are no threat to another, and we hope to remain as such."

Keith shifted his weight, shifting forward in that strange crippled pose which meant he was about to bolt.

"You move to the door, I'll shoot your bike." Garland threatened, and the two knew he'd do it too.

Keith's nostrils flared, "Fine."

"So…" Lance started first, "How have you been?"

Keith twitched, fingers moving in the rhythmic jitters which meant he wanted a cigarette, or a knife to twirl, "Fine."

There was another awkward pause, before Allura leant forward with a professionally friendly face, "We hadn't heard from you in forever! The others must be so worried, I know Kolivan was quite stressed near the last battles near the Eiol systems-"

Keith stared at her guarded, "What are-"

Then something dawned on him. His eyes widened, a sharp inhale before he turned and curled in on himself even further, cradling his injured arm as if it would separate him from everyone else.

He wasn't going to say anything else, so Garland interjected.

"Right," He sighed, rubbing the meat of his palm against his eyes once again, "So ah, the uh, these alien things, war's all fought, right? And ah, you all fought together?"

"Yeah," Pidge was staring at Keith as if he was an enigma, "We lost contact a year back, it...there was a really bad run, Kolivan's troop got wiped out by Haggar."

Keith flinched, but his eyes didn't deviate once from the wall where he was staring.

"Right…" Garland sighed, feeling more overwhelmed than he was ready for, "Alright, I'll get the whiskey."

Shiro looked alarm, "Ah, no thanks. We don't drink."

Garland gave a dry hack that caused Allura to grimace although she hid it well, "It ain't for you. It's for him." Garland jerked a thumb over where Keith scoffed quietly, "He's more chatty when he's half a bottle in."

Keith glared, "Am not."

"Damn are," Garland casually threw back, "You're getting twitchy and dammit you're too emotionally constipated to just cuss it out."

Keith recoiled and looked offended, "Excuse me? You're the one who already told me to watch my fucking language!"

Garland threw both arms in the air, "Language!"

"See!" Keith cried incredulously, hands flexing and relaxing as he glanced around towards the nearest window. He knew better than to smoke indoors, it caused the hounds to get anxious.

"Right…" Hunk blinked looking incredibly uncomfortable, "So uh, I didn't know you ah...you know."

Keith flipped him off, which caused half of the Paladins to outright twitch from the hostility.

"Keith," Shiro spoke, his voice low, "You shouldn't drink."

Keith jutted out his chin and caught the bottle when it was tossed to him. He cracked the seal like a pro, not even hesitating as the metal snapped free.

Shiro's face became even more stony at the swig, realizing quickly that with the ease of the movement and the lack of hesitation, this wasn't only 'common'.

"So ah, how'd you get out of the blast?" Lance asked, trying to look excited or interest, "Your ship break down? Did you join a band of pirates? Oh oh, you crash landed in the middle of the desert and slowly made your way to civilization?"

Keith grumbled wordlessly and took another sip. Shiro twitched, his metallic arm whirring and clicking quietly.

"So uh, you must live nearby?" Allura asked, trying to save the conversation.

"We were at your shack earlier, you weren't there." Garland helpfully added in.

Keith prickled, "The fuck were you doing there?"

"Looking for your scrawny ass, sorry I didn't think that you were out stabbing Coyotes again."

"Again?" Hulk gulped eyes bulging, "Aren't Coyotes like, super mean? And fast? And have Rabies?"

Keith waved his bloodied arm, "Genetics. Newsflash, I don't fucking die."

"You should really clean that up." Lance winced, "It ah, It'll get gross, Mullet."

Keith scowled and searched around for his knife. Garland had taken it prior, but carefully handed it back. Without a care, Keith sliced up the side, hacking through fabric and worn cloth as if he wasn't attached to his shirt at all. It tore frighteningly easy, and peeled away from the bite by breaking black scabs.

Blood started up again, a lazy trail from the back of his bicep and deltoid down his arm like melted chocolate. Keith didn't so much as blink as he sloshed booze onto the injury, hissing lowly under his breath as it burned.

He used the scraps of his shirt to wipe away some of the nasty bits, highlighting the puncture marks and the strange red that wasn't wiping away.

"Is that a tattoo?" Lance gawked, leaning forward to see it better in the dim lighting.

Shiro stiffened in surprise, looking more and more alarmed by the second.

Pidge...her face had gotten stony and now was looking more and more hesitant.

"Yeah," Keith muttered, curling in to try and hide the black and red mark on his arm from sight. A half sleeve, dark black and bold red that was fading in some spots and scarred over in others. It looked old, and poorly taken care of.

But it was a lioness, a red lioness inked carefully but not without some hitchups.

"Keith," Pidge spoke lowly, voice breaking the low chill that seemed to permeate the room, "How long have you been here?"

Keith twitched, "I...I need a break-"

"No you don't." Shiro firmly interrupted, reaching out with his metal arm to hold Keith's forearm firmly, "You're not going anywhere. We thought you were dead."

"Yeah man, we...we had a funeral." Lance's voice cracked halfway through, "there's monuments and stuff, man."

Keith tugged his arm, Shiro didn't let go.

"Hey, we don't mean to upset you." Hunk started, worrying his lower lip, "You ah, you don't need to run off-"

"I'm not running off," Keith growled lowly, "I just-..I just need a smoke-"

"Whoa whoa, you smoke?" Lance's jaw dropped.

Allura looked at Pidge for more information, and Pidge blinked, "Like, uh, when Coran had that Mengu Worm?"

Allura gasped, one hand lifting to hide her mouth as if she was politely shocked.

"Keith," Shiro's tone was the worst, heavy and overbearing, unspoken 'I'm disappointed in you.'

Keith twitched, and felt the urge to lash out or kick or even bite something.

Garland seemed almost amused by the situation, "You gon' show 'em your feet too, kid?"

Keith bristled, like a porcupine narrowed into a corner.

"Uh, what's wrong with his feet?" Lance asked Garland, looking as if he didn't want to know.

"I mean, he was limping." Hunk added helpfully.

"What?" Shiro asked, his voice even lower.

That was it, that was the last straw.

"Oh fuck you!" Keith spat, and although he had sworn before, this one seemed to carry a lot more weight behind it, "Fuck all of you! I don't need you- I was doing fine! You want to know what happened? I didn't leave, or escape- I got kicked out. I've been stuck here for years, assholes."

Pidge was the only one who didn't pale.

"How long?" She asked, her voice almost dull as she adjusted her glasses, "Since Gorblon II?"

Keith's lips were pulled back like a feral dog, "Since Naxzela."

"What!" Lance cried, blinking in confusion and shock as he rapidly counted on his fingers, "That was like, like Deca-Phoebs ago!"

Allura blinked quickly, "That was- my, that must have been at least four Deca-phoebs."

Hunk jarred with a high pitch squeak, "Isn't that like-"

"What," Keith gave a single dry bark of laughter, eyes burning yet glassy like he was about to- "You mean five years?"

"Oh," Shiro spoke, pausing as he looked over Keith from head to toe. He saw the bloodied arm and the array of thin scars, some old but brand new at the same time. He saw how long Keith's hair was, and how dry and twisted it was, gnarled in nearing mats. He saw Keith's skin, tanned and calloused, how the tattoo had faded where the sun always burned it.

And he saw the shakes, the thin micro tremors that weren't going away and looked like they hadn't in a long, long time. Keith had lost weight, a startling amount as his hip bones were sticking out and a few ribs pulled skin taught. He was standing odd, jolted and uncoordinated in a way that somehow was reminiscent of Galra yet still not.

"Oh Keith," Shiro breathed, and Keith gnashed his teeth and pulled apart a scab on his lip and blood trailed down his chin.

"Well…" Hunk swallowed faintly, "I'm...I'm feeling like an asshole right now."

"Yeah, no shit." Lance added in, giving an obnoxious sniff.

Oh, oh no. Lance was crying, and Lance had never been a pretty crier.

"Keith," Shiro's voice was calm, gentle, the one he had always used on refugees they found on planets where Galra had invaded. As if Keith had undergone some sort of traumatic experienc-

Oh.

"Well," Garland added, standing up obviously and with a small groan as his back cracked, "I'll go do a perimeter check, run the dogs, the usual."

Keith was about to argue that Garland didn't do that, but his throat felt like he was choking.

The door rattled shut, and Keith was left breathing painfully loud in the room, hands shaking and itching for a fight.

"What happened to your feet?" Shiro continued with the twice damned calming voice, and it was working.

"I-" Keith blinked, and he couldn't think, he was stuck blinking dumbly as his brain skittered and struggled to get back to the present.

He couldn't- they were here. They had found him.

He was shaking, and- and he was sitting?

Shiro guided Keith down, nudging his unresponsive body into a safer position where he curled up once again, this time pressed against Shiro's side.

"What happened to him?" Hulk whispered rhetorically.

Shiro held his breath, and released it slowly- he had to keep composed until he knew exactly what they were dealing with.

Keith's pant legs were pushed up carefully and Shiro's heart throbbed painfully at the sheer amount of discolored scar tissue. Strange lumps and nodules from blister rub marks, poor fitting shoes and miles and miles of walking with no pause in sight.

Lance swore something in a different language, eyes wide as dinner saucers as he spotted what Garland had been talking about- where had his heel gone?

"Is that a partial foot amputation?" Pidge spoke under her breath, vicious and seething as she peered closer to look, then at Keith's face. "Hey, Keith."

"He's in shock," Shiro muttered, gently sliding the prone boy into his lap to hold closer slightly, "Garland said something about a Rattlesnake bite."

Lance muttered something low and in Spanish, taking a few seconds to just press his face into his hands.

"Paladins, this is alright." Allura grimaced, "It...It is horrid, but now that we have halted Galra, we have time and I will dedicate all of my resources to correct this horrible error."

"Same," Lance spoke, muffled in his hands, "I- I'll take him home with me, he'll like ah, like Cuba and water and-"

"We fucked up," Pidge deadpanned, "really badly."

"Well, no shit." Lance scoffed, starting to shake into his hands.

"No I mean, Naxzela Matt told me Keith was suicidal idiot but I didn't...I thought he was exaggerating."

"What?" Shiro asked sharply, eyes like flinty steel, "What?"

Pidge rubbed her temples, "We fucked up. That's what happened."

"What do we do now?" Hunk asked quietly.

The wind whistled outside, rattling the window panels and sending dust and grit under the door.

A coyote screamed in the distance, from the top of a cliff as if curious if someone would answer its call.

"We try to fix this." Shiro whispered.

(Nothing would answer, because it's friends and pack had been slaughtered hours prior.)