Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sidewalk was barely illuminated by the street lamps beside and ahead of Keith, and the only indication that he was in the right place was the well-known mop of caramel hair and round glasses that characterized Pidge. She was standing stiffly under a classic red neon sign that read beer in the small window of the very old pub they had agreed to meet.

It wasn’t their go-to choice, but the pub they usually went to (the first pub they ever went to together) had been closed for a couple of weeks for remodelling. While they were happy that their favourite meeting place was getting rid of the wooden chairs and broken glass, they no longer had a place to go without having to do the dishes and the most recent job Pidge had won demanded a celebration.

Or maybe they were just looking for a reason to get together and drink. It was okay either way.

When he reached her, he almost let out a laugh at her formal attire that did not fit into anything that could possibly be related to Pidge Holt: the dark blazer looked way too big on her slender shoulders, and the navy blue pants were so long that they were folded lazily around her boots. She was wearing makeup, or at least she had worn it before because now it was just a smudged dark spot in the corner of her eyes, making her look both ridiculous and done with life. The bad cosmetics and the big clothing made her look fifteen when she was twenty nine.

“Don’t say anything.” She warned at his face.

He stood at her side, deciding on not commenting her looks just yet; he was sure Hunk was gonna find something way more funny than whatever Keith had thought of. He was the one to make jokes. Well, Pidge was the one to make jokes, but never about herself.

The air was chilly enough to be bearable with red shirt and dark jeans. The jacket hanging from his arm was probably gonna be useless on such a nice autumn night. Breathing in the air, Keith felt like it was bound to be a good night.

 Just when he started contemplating the idea of complaining to Pidge about how late it was, two big figures emerged from ahead of the sidewalk. The yellowish light bathed Hunks bulky figure and it illuminated Shiros white hair on top of his head. They were talking as they came closer, yet amusement settled on both their faces as they recognised Keith and Pidge in her out-of-character attire.

“Pidge, Keith, you’re here!” Hunk said first, choking on a laugh as he tried to avoid looking the younger one in the eye.

“Of course we’re here!” Pidge claimed, always one to be cranky when left to wait. “We arrive on time like normal adults! Even to a stinky, full of drugs bar!”

“No need to trash-talk Joe’s.” Shiro said, still amused. “It’s the closest decent pub to my gym. Let’s enter before it fills.”

The pub turns out to be quite filled. Or maybe it has a generally normal amount of people inside, but from the looks of it’s façade, Keith would have guessed the place was bound to be empty all the time.

The lights were dim, and they only existed on the ceiling above the barman’s work place. The tables positioned next to the windows were in utter darkness except for a small burning candle that tried to look vintage just to give away a poor, decadent vibe. The prices were set on a long poster above the many types of liquor and to his economic advantage, everything was quite cheap.

He walked alongside his friends as their usual long-time-no-see chatter overflowed his hearing. He was used to be more of a watcher than a doer since highschool, and he didn’t mind that much. He’d grown to enjoy their loud interactions, which he assumed meant he had actually matured a bit.

Shiro kept saying it to him. They were all a bit more mature and yet they still were friends. His younger self thought he would always be alone.

The people sitting in the tables around them were, as Pidge had said, very suspicious looking guys, but Hunk smiled to the barman as he asked for four beers and looked around the place searching for a table to seat.

Keith watched as his eyes stopped longingly on a particular table, but when he turned around to see, it was occupied by a person. Hunk gasped abruptly.

“Lance?”

Pidge’s chatter with Shiro stopped at the mention of Lance and they quickly turned to follow Hunk’s gaze to the stranger sitting on the farthest table.

The man was slumped, chin resting on his hand, elbow on the table as he scrolled through his phone with his free hand in boredom. He was wearing an unzipped blue hoodie and his hair was longer than what Keith remembered. The nickname baldy echoed in his mind as he wondered about the one person he believed would stick around forever only to disappear the moment everyone went away to college. It was too dark to see, but he probably had the same blue eyes that had annoyed Keith to no end when he was fifteen.

The surprised look on Hunks face quickly converted to excitement as he made his way over to the table were Lance McClain was sitting on, his beer forgotten on the bar.

Everyone made their way to the table as Hunk pulled Lance up for a hug. He was shouting different types of ‘It’s been so long!’ and ‘Fancy seeing you here, man!’ and without asking he sat on the chair in between the window and Lance.

Keith wondered if it felt natural to plop down next to Lance the way he used to do it in high school. He wondered if Lance didn’t mind that Hunk was yelling and treating him like it hadn’t been ten years since they last saw eachother.

Pidge too patted Lance’s arm with excitement as she started rambling in the same level Hunk did, while Shiro and him only smiled and sat with Pidge across Hunk and Lance.

Lance was smiling at them, but he wasn’t screaming his own questions, and it seemed off. Highschool Lance would be thrilled to see his school friends after so long, yelling and asking a bunch of uncomfortable questions and starting to call the nicknames he himself invented to make everyone feel included.

Shiro seemed to notice as well, as he looked at Keith the way he looked at him whenever something happened and was yet to be addressed.

Keith heard Hunk and Pidge go on about ‘What have you been doing man?’ and ‘You working close from here?’ while all he wanted was an explanation.

Lance had been friends with them once. He had basically created the whole group, introducing Pidge to Hunk and then Shiro and Keith to them and almost making them hang out by obligation. Why did he stop calling? Why did he left every group chat? Why didn’t he reach out?

“-s not a habit, I swear!” Hunk was saying. “It’s just, Pidge just got a new job and we came here to celebrate.”

Pidge laughed, aroused by being the centre of attention. “It’s not that big of a deal! Charts management just promoted me. I totally expected it! With all the wit, the only surprise is how long it took them to figure out they were better with me on the team.”

Lance laughed and smiled, but his eyes kept darting past Pidges head, and if Keith hadn’t been more of a watcher than a doer, he wouldn’t have noticed that Lance seemed uncomfortable.

But he was a watcher. Or maybe he knew Lance too much. (Or used to, anywys.)

“-ginering with honors, of course. Dealing with her in college was horrible.” Hunk was saying as Pidge scoffed and stuck her tongue out like a kid. Shiro laughed softly at the memories and Keith saw movement in the corner of his left eye, and Lance gaze followed the movement without paying attention to any of them.

He had enough. Lance used to call him a hothead, after all.

“Of course you would have known that.” He said, the words feeling bitter and resentful in his mouth. “If you hadn’t left us the way you did.”

Shiro reprimanded him and an angry ‘Keith’ and Lance was quickly standing up from his chair, ready to leave.

“Lance!” Hunk said, almost with panic. (Keith wondered how much had he suffered after losing contact with his best friend). He reached and took hold of Lances wrist, the last one quickly releasing his arm from him.

“Let go.”

Standing up in his place, Lance looked different. He wasn’t smiling with that fake smile anymore, and it looked worse than before.

“Buddy, you know Keith, he-“Hunk reached to him again and Lance turned his hand away. Hunk’s outreached hand brushed with his unzipped blue hoodie and he gasped, backing away.

Suddenly Hunk was looking at Lance with fear, standing up and taking steps back from him.

“Is that a gun?”

Keith stood up and Shiro followed, Pidge gasping a ‘Lance has a gun?’ as they looked at him.

A man near the entrance ran out the door and then Lance was whispering a small ‘Fuck’ and darting towards the exit.

Chapter Text

He didn’t mean to brush his hand against the side of Lance’s jacket, nor to feel the bulk that seemed to be hidden in the intern side of the blue cloth, nor to see a flash of black in the shape of a hand-hold with a trigger.

But he did. And he couldn’t help but yelp.

He didn’t realize how badly he fucked up until the look of anger flashed through Lances face. The brunette pulled away from his reach like Hunk was a big mass of very dangerous acid, yanking himself and then he sprinted to the door of the pub, pushing the noisy people that heard Hunk’s yelp brutally away.

He stood still, his head not quite understanding everything that was happening. Pidge had her eyes blown wide open, mouth agape as she looked in the direction Lance sprinted without a clue of what to do. Not even Shiro, mature, wise, dad-level-of-calm Shiro knew how to react. Keith had his hands tightened into fists as he stared in the same direction of Pidge, looking the most shocked Hunk ever saw him before in his life.

He had been preparing himself for that moment for years. Ten years, to be exact. He had imagined every possible scenario for when he met Lance again. Bumping into him in the street, catching a glimpse of his hair in a hair salon, of hearing him laughing flirtily at some pretty looking cashier at any store close by. In his head, the conversation would always go through the same path: Hunk angry-yelling at Lance for erasing himself from his life, after years of seemingly endless friendship. Hunk shaking him by the shoulders and giving him a piece of his mind while making sure the other would know what he missed for all of those years. It was always Hunk releasing his pent-up anger at him until they cried it all out to become best pals again.

But after seeing Lance for the first time in years, hidden in such a place, looking both the exact same and completely different at the same time, Hunk could not risk it. Regaining a friend back was a dance on thin ice and although the others were amazing friends, he had never found anyone to replace Lance’s place.

And then all Keith was putting Lance on the spotlight. Accusing look and grinding teeth. And then Lance was standing to leave after a half hour of looking uncomfortable, and then…

Dark eyes, low voice in a threatening tone.

Let go.

They all became suddenly aware that the whole pub was staring at them, accusatory gazes falling upon them as they were criminals, and not even the smiley bartender seemed unaffected by the general prejudice everyone was directing towards them.

Pidge and Shiro were quick to stand up, beers forgotten as the four of them made their way out of the pub, the burning gazes in their heads.

They didn’t stop walking hurriedly until the red neon sign of the pub was ten feets away from them, the chilly air of the night punching their faces like water to an asleep person.

Keith was the first to speak. “What the fuck-“

But he cut himself off. What could he possibly say? Nothing of what just happened made any sense. Had Lance been carrying a gun? He certainly hadn’t seen it. Maybe Hunk was wrong. Maybe he had thought he’d seen a gun, and all of that was just a big misunderstanding. Een the fact that Lance McClain, the guy who went to high school with them, had been in the exact same trashy bar as they had been in was just insane. Maybe that wasn’t even Lance. Maybe they were all drunk and tired.

But they barely had a beer if any, and even if Lance did have a gun, was it really so terrible? Everyone inside that bar seemed dangerous. Keith could bet his ass that there were at least two drug dealers in there. A lot of junkies to.  (Was Lance a drug addict?)

 They continued walking, each breath making their chests lighter as they went far away from the bar.

They were at least five blocks away from the pub when their slow steps reached a big, trash-filled communal trash box and a refined, soft toned voice interrupted their silent walking. “This is why I should have been the one to be on the stake-out position. Your childish demeanour has yet again jeopardized our operation-“

The british accent was quickly cut off by another voice, tone low, grunting and familiar. “Your little prince platinum hair would never be caught dead in a place like that, asshole. They would’ve suspected of you the moment you got there!”

“At least I would have caught the man, by any means, alive!” the british guy was shouting now. “Committing to murder was supposed to be our last resource!”

“I wouldn’t have used our last resource if your fancy ass would have been on the lookout the way you were supposed to!”

After sitting in the same classroom with Lance, who talked with twice the volume of a normal person, for years, they could have recognized his voice anywhere, and that was definitely him.

Pidge stepped towards the voices in the alley before Keith could stop her, the small figure advancing in the dark until the rest followed her: like a movie scene, there was a light post that painted white the fallen figure of a man, probably in his forties, laying flat and unmoving on the floor. There was a slash in his neck, deep wound that continued to bleed like a pressured pipe. Standing in the left in front of Pidge was a man they had never seen before; tall as Shiro, but with delicate, long facial features. His skin was pale and homogenous under the light, framed by silvery, long, straight hair. He looked like the protagonist of a fairytale, or Legolas, from The Lord of The Rings. Yet he was angrily staring at Lance.

Lance, who was wearing the same unzipped hoodie, but that now had his whole tanned face splashed with speckles of blood. A colour that also painted his hands and the side of his torso in the most terrifying way possible.

“L-Lance?” Pidge stuttered, her frame walking into the light with tight fists.

The two set of eyes in front of them flied to her. The unknown man with silvery hair looked confused at her, but Lance’s face turned into an ugly frown.

There was no sugar-coating for their minds anymore. Blood pooled under the fallen man’s body, around his neck split open, and Lance’s right hand was not only the most bloodied one, but it was also the one holding a knife.

They stood there, stunned. The image in their view wasn’t one that could connect with their memory of Lance. Especially not when happy, carefree, trust-inviting Lance was right there, a couple of inches taller and buffer, with blood all over him and looking at them with one unsaid message their feet could not act on. Leave.

“Who are you?” The guy next to Lance said, caution and fake courtesy slipping into his façade. Slightly behind him, Lance moved his head to the sides in a clear “no” motion, eyes now sharp and dangerous.

“Lance?” Pidge either ignored Lotor and Lance’s look or just was too astonished to notice. Lance’s face grew darker, but the guy’s compliancy went dim as confusion took over his features.

“May I know your name, miss?” The guy insisted.

“La-“ she was cut off.

“Nothing’s going on here, folks. Turn around.” Despite his disinterested tone, the warning was clear in Lance’s tone. Suddenly, the atmosphere was tense.

“Pidge,” Shiro spoke behind her, hand falling on her shoulder to lead her away. “We should go.”

‘Yeah, we should’. Keith thought, fingers twitching with anticipation.

“Lance.” Pidge ignored the stranger and shook off Shiro’s grip on her shoulder, body trembling yet straightening up, like arming herself with courage, a determinate look on her frowning eyes. “What the Hell is going on.”

The angry look took over Lance’s face completely, and at the same time, the guy was turning around to look at him with the same confusion and just a bit of amusement.

“Lance?” The name rolled of his tongue like a question. Hadn’t they been yelling at each other just before that? The guy raised his eyebrows with mockery. “You know these people?”

“No.” he said, the statement strong and loud and hurtful.

“Yes.” Hunk’s voice surprised them, as he started looking between scared and upset. “We went to high school together. Pidge is right, what is going on?”

“Did you just murder someone?” Pidge shot up, trembling again. “We have to call the police!”

“Lance, man, what did you do?” Hunk was starting to sound stressed. “T-This is a crime! A crime scene!

“Guys!” Shiro yelled, taking steps ahead of Hunk and Pidge. “I think this is just a big misunderstanding.” He said, turning to look back at the two with a hard glare, then back at Lance and the guy. “We were just passing by, we didn’t see anything. I think we’ll head home now.”

He turned back, gripping Hunk’s and Pidge’s arm strongly and he started walking back to the main road, Keith following immediately.

“No.” The guy said behind them. “The big guy’s right.This is a crime scene, we should go to the police.

“We?” Keith spoke up for the first time, face unreadable with furrowed brows.

“Yes, we.” The guy said, tone flicking back to the fake courtesy it had before. “You are witnesses, and this is a crime scene. We ought to report the incident to the police.”

Lance was still standing on the same place as before, gaze hidden as he had his head lowered, staring at the ground.

“The incident?” Keith spoke again, tension rising up at the stranger smiley face. “What exactly happened, huh?”

The sarcasm didn’t seem to faze the guy, as his smile only grew. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll tell you all about it.” He turned around. “Leandro, if you’d be so kind.”

He was looking at Lance, who raised his head. As he did, his face revealed to be void of any emotion other than concentration, and he lifted his right hand.

At first, they thought he was just pointing at them, but the dark barrel of a gun was held tightly in his hand, and it was pointing directly at the closest one of them; Shiro.

Keith’s shout got stuck in his throat as the loud bang! Sounded in the air and Shiro’s form in front of them fell limp to the ground. Then another bang and Pidge fell. Then Hunk.

His curse didn’t leave his lips as he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and his vision clouded with his last glare being Lance; happy and goody Lance looking glum as he raised the gun, pointing directly at him with a frown and tight lips.

Then, he passed out.

Chapter Text

Four years ago

The meeting had been going on for too long, and not in a good way. He hadn’t been allowed to talk except from explaining his very course of action with his patient, and he was growing tired. It was merely a coincidence that the clouds covering the sky were at their darkest shade, and that rain fell down in a pouring haze. The sound was the only thing distracting him from the growing rage that nested inside of him as his superiors continued to blame him for the most worthy and most stupid mistake of his life. To get emotionally involved.

“What was his pressure again?”

He had answered that question five times already. “Seventy-four systolic.” He said, arms crossed on his chest, tightened fists hiding from view.

“And you deemed a partial cecectomy was in order?”

“I said so to the resident, to the nurse and to you, a lot of times. Yeah, he needed a cecectomy, yet I couldn’t get to the appendiceal artery.”

“How couldn’t you?” The chief was sitting on the chair at the end of the large table, hands softly gripping at the papers he had under him.

“I tried to feel down for the mesoappendix, but the pulsation wasn’t strong enough for me to find it in time.” It would have been better had the Chief looked at him in the eye, yet the only stare he got on top of him was the Human Resources personal and no more than the head of general surgery, Breda Hanta.

“It’s a routine appy. Where did you go to school, eh? Mexico? Did you not spent eight years of your life studying to be a half-decent surgeon? Any intern could do a routine appy!” Breda was shouting at him, inclined on his chair with a frown all over his ugly face, and Lance was not gonna take his racist, better-than-everyone-else attitude.

“I had just found the artery in the mesoappendix and your precious intern’s stitches came off. His B.P. was low and he had lost so much blood I had to push two liters of L. R. There was no way of saving him from the beginning. He was a dead man walking.

“So just because he had a history you let him die? You swore an oath.” Breda was a hypocrite.

“Don’t give me that crap.” He finds himself barking. “I didn’t let him die; I’m a surgeon, I did all I could, but he was bound to die the minute he got into the O.R. and the general surgery attending wasn’t there. Why weren’t you there, huh? Where the fuck were you?” His voice was growing in volume, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. “Because while you were partying somewhere else your own stupid interns decided to play grown up and to do the procedure all on their own. I’m not to blame for that!”

“You were the attending that treated him, and he died on your table. For a routine appy. You did not do everything you could; you let him die because of his sentence.” Standing from his seat, Breda started pointing at him. Lance sank further into his chair, arms crossed tightly.

“You mean his death sentence. And I did not let him die; yeah, the guy was a criminal yet he was treated by the interns as any other normal patient would and when I got there it was already too late. He didn’t made it, big fucking deal, people die all the time, it’s not like he was the president; he made a fine donor for at least five people in the hospital, so while yeah it was bad that someone died, the outcome wasn’t half bad either. And you can’t really fire the interns either: this is a teaching hospital and you, their attending, and at the same time the attending on call that night, wasn’t there, so they just had to go with it; you can’t fire them.”

Breda turned to look at the chief pointedly, gaze sharp like a kid ratting up a sibling to their mother. Lance followed his gaze, still slumped on his seat as the older man continued to grasp the papers underneath his hands softly, avoiding his eyes.

Just then, he got it. Breda was there, shoving his knowledge as a so-called head of general surgery and sitting on the other side of the chief was a representative of human resources.

“It takes a large amount of small mistakes for something to go wrong.” It was the first thing the chief said during the whole meeting. He was still avoiding Lance’s gaze, looking down at the papers in his hands. “And while it’s easy to tell ourselves that we just did a small thing…”

He inspired air slowly, suddenly looking up. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were, somehow, dark. “A bunch of misfortuned situations made it possible for a man to lose his life inside our O. R. last week, and someone has to be responsible for it.”

“Doctor Cross.” The man representing H. R. spoke, looking up at the chief with a knowing look. The chief looked back at him and then his gaze dropped back to the papers on his hands.

Waiting for the chief to speak again felt like waiting for a verdugo to finally chop his head off.

“In the wake of the attendings re-evaluation, the needs of the hospital have changed…”

The rain was really pouring hard that night.

“-performance was evaluated, and many attendings had concerns about your emotional stability and resolution pledged to the oath we, as surgeons, take…”

The sound of the water drops is almost as loud as the voice of the man sitting in front of him. The man who provided him guidance during his internship until the very moment he got a job certification. Almost as loud.

“…the largest considerations are legal. As a lawsuit was presented by the family of the deceased towards both the hospital and you personally, the course of action the board has decided to take…”

The man who taught him how to be something other than void.

“…firing you effect immediately, and the removal of your operating license, leaving you banned from all O. R. in any hospital in the area on the Altea District domain-“

“Wait.”

Realization hit him like a wave. The words sounded too painful and catastrophic to be true, but the closest resemblance of shame and remorse shone bright in the chief’s eyes. “You’re banning me? From surgery?”

The chief opened his mouth, but Lance didn’t let him even start. He suddenly stood up, anger boiling up inside of him. “You can’t do that! I’ve saved a trillion people here! I’ve worked my ass off to be where I am while all of the other attendings barely care enough to show up when they are paged!” He turned to the side, eyes suddenly burning a mental hole into Breda’s head. His accent was jumping, as it usually happened whenever he got worked up, but that didn’t matter at the time. “This jackass was drunk out of his mind when the case came! And he was on call! Doesn’t he get a ban, too? I did everything I could! I busted myself studying in college and here for eight years! And now you just revoke my licence, like this is just a driving thing? Not only you are firing me from a job you offered me yourself after plenty of other, better, hospitals wanted me, but you are forbidding me from surgery? Inside the whole District?

It all came clear to him. It was easy to deduct, and that only maddened him more.

He knew for a fact that the hospital had to cut the budget at least at four percent. He knew that while Doctor Cross was as fond of him as any chief would be of his subordinates, the board was just a big mass of white bigotry. A closed off circle that never liked that the most prestigious hospital of the northen perimeter had hired him, a Cuban, smart guy, from the start.

His efforts didn’t matter. If he had the best rated patient care, if he was the top Trauma surgeon, if he had the biggest amount of successful surgeries, and the biggest gap between good and bad outcomes. If he was the best.

 It never mattered. It hadn’t mattered when he was young that he was funny and sociable and empathetic and charismatic and clever and hardworking. Or that he was intuitive and sensible and friendly and kind. All the people he ever met only cared about themselves and now it hadn’t changed at all. Everyone was all on their own, in a metaphorical race where success and triumph was the finishing line and both his friends and the people he worked with were into tricking their way forwards.

And Lance had never even considered cheating was an option. He was tired.

“Fuck you.” He whispered.

He had been alone all of his internship. He had been alone all of his time working as an official attending. But he had one constant to give all of his life to; his career.

And now, he’d been stripped off from it too.

“Lance…” The chief-Doctor Cross, said.

“I’m…” he wasn’t even sure what to say. If he threatened them, they could sue him, and he could not afford that.

He wasn’t experienced at goodbyes. All of the fall outs he ever had were quick and sharp: the cut of communication, the presence all around him ceasing to exist, people disappearing from his life without a complaint or a warning. There had never been any kind of heart-breaking speech or a last hug. Just the too-familiar hollowness and white noise.

“I thought you’d be different.” Is what he ended up choosing. He looked at the two, formerly fellow doctors with the biggest amount of hatred he could muster in his eyes. “Guess I was wrong.”

He didn’t stop at the changing room to retrieve his things. Walking straight up to the elevator, his whole body was stiff with awe as he hurried out to the exit room with a quick pace, knowing fully well that he lived a life he never wanted to have only to have it ripped from him, just as everything else. And while there was a rugged apartment where he could go back to, he had told himself ever since he entered college that the hospital he worked in and the patients he treated were gonna be all of his life. Or at least, the one incentive to live it.

Now he had nothing.

He walked out of the main entrance, and the rain was pouring as heavily as it had before. Water pooled were the ground was unlevelled and there he could see the reflection of the clouded sky and the night that promised to be the last one he’d ever have. Or so it was, until a voice called out to him from behind.

“You were the Trauma surgeon, Lance McClain?”

The voice was rough and deep, scary enough to make him turn around on his heel. The strong lights coming from inside of the entrance of the hospital made a hard contrast against the shadows that enveloped the man standing against the wall. He was tall and buff, but other than that he couldn’t know.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I was.”

“You can still be one, just not here.” The man said. He walked out of his spot, his big figure entering the last strays of light. His face was the one of a hard man on his late forties, and he had more scars than Lance used to have siblings. “If you accept my proposal, that is.”

He did. And that was the most worthy, and the most stupid mistake of his life.

Present day

Opening his eyes appeared to be a difficult task, as his lids fell heavily downwards every time he tried to pry them awake. There was a prickling sensation overwhelming every inch of his skin, like he had somehow managed to numb all of his body and it was now coming back to sensation. The tongue inside his mouth didn’t move as he willed it to, and for a split second he noticed his whole body was asleep, but his mind was wide awake.

And he couldn’t move.

The tickling got more intense before it completely subsided in an isolated specific area of his body: his left arm, who seemed to be plagued by an unusual warm touch. The feather-like stroke that surrounded his left bicep was qualified as strange when the numbness also disappeared on his right arm, which was cold in comparison.

Harder than it should’ve been, Keith managed to open his eyes, immediately willing them close the second the harsh light blinded him. A groan born in his throat came out as he tried again, blinking confusedly for a minute too long. 

After adjusting his vision properly he noticed the room was not illuminated very brightly. It was, even, pretty much dark to his liking. There was one single yellow-glowing light bulb hanging from the concrete ceiling; it’s light barely reaching the corners of the dark, strictly square room he was in. All the walls were a dull grey colour with old, wooden wall mouldings, that, added to the great height of the ceiling, meant that he was probably in a very old building. But unfitting to said image was the mirror in front of him, covering almost half of the wall up.

There was a metallic table against the wall at his left, with nothing but surgical tools on top of a silver platter. Another, larger metallic table stood near, with different kinds of magnifying glasses, scalpels, a rib spreader, syringes and other artefacts he couldn’t recognize.

It was only by looking at the mirror in front of him that he noticed someone was inside the room with him. The warmth on his left bicep was someone else’s hands that fuzzed over him. Brown, wavy hair and tanned neck was all he could see, as that someone was kneeled in front of him.

Suddenly Hunk was looking at Lance with fear, standing up and taking steps back from him. “Is that a gun?”

Taking a sharp breath intake, he jolted at the memory as his brain caught up to the situation.

“Where am I?” he croaked out, as he turned to look at Lance’s head.

The room was empty aside from the two of them, and there was no particular sound that he could hear to know where the building was. When had he moved from the pub? He didn’t recall calling a cab, let alone riding the bus.

The dark barrel of a gun was held tightly in his hand, and it was pointing directly at the closest one of them; Shiro.

His vision clouded with his last glare being Lance; happy and goody Lance looking glum as he raised the gun, pointing directly at him with a frown and tight lips.

He yanked his arm, gasping at a sudden pang of pain flooding from his bicep: The muscle seemed torn and bloodied, sewed together with black, perfectly made stitches. A gnash he hadn’t had before.

“Hey! Careful over there!” Lance complained, gloved hands holding the surgical thread still. “Don`t mess up my work.”

“What’d you do?” he asked, body finally in control. He was sitting on a chair. “Where’s Shiro? Or Hunk? Where’s everyone else?”

The volume of his voice started increasing quickly as newfound panic started welling inside his chest. Not any of his other friends were in the room with him, and that was not a good sign. He leaped forwards, stretching his right arm to grab the hem of Lance’s shirt in a tight fist. He snarled, “Where the hell is everyone?! Tell me, idiot!”

Then he was jumping as he grabbed Lance’s throat, jamming him easily to the floor as he pinned him down in a frenzy, crazy attempt to try and get more information about his friends whereabouts.

“Tell them to sign it.” Is what came out of Lance’s mouth instead. The tanned guy barely seemed bothered by Keith pinning him down like a dog, as he made no attempt at defending himself.

“The fuck you talking about?!” Keith shouted, slamming Lance back down against the floor, trying to intimidate him.

“Tell the others to sign the contract.” He muttered through Keith’s choking grip. His brow was furrowing. “And ask for immunity above everything else. All of you.”

A door opening sounded and then there was another person inside the room with them. Keith managed to look up for a brief second, his glare catching the sight of a tall woman, dressed in black clothes with long, silvery hair and dark skin standing in front of them with a reprimanding glare.

“What is the meaning of this!” she yelled in a british accent, unmoving and stoic like Keith wasn’t strangling her (most likely) partner.

And then, she looked at Lance, her face twisting in ugly anger as she frowned and yelled. “Leandro, stop this at once. We have a job to do.”