Chapter Text
It’s another fucking magic space thing, because of course it is, and this time Shiro is the one who gets sucked right through.
As luck would have it, it doesn’t turn him into a space noodle, which is good because Shiro just recently started being a person again and it would suck to die for a second (third?) time.
As he sits up and brushes himself off, he takes stock of himself and where he is. He’s still in his paladin armor and doesn’t seem to have any injuries aside from a headache. He can breathe, which is good. At least he was zapped someplace with a human-safe atmosphere.
He also appears to be in the middle of nowhere, all barren desert and hot air, but it also looks very… familiar.
That’s when he makes out the shack in the distance.
Well, damn.
Would you look at that.
***
It doesn’t take too long for Shiro to hoof his way to what he’s pretty sure is Keith’s old desert shack, but between the heat and his armor, he’s tired and out of sorts by the time he gets there. He’s also thirsty, and while he’s not hoping there’ll still be running water, he does half-remember a well, which he plans to take thorough advantage of.
The door is unlocked, so Shiro lets himself in. He automatically flips the light switch and is slightly surprised when the bulbs flicker on. But he’s not complaining.
It’s cooler inside, so he forgoes stripping off his armor in favor of heading to the tiny kitchen to test if the water still works, along with the electricity.
It does, small favors, so he grabs one of three mugs out of the cabinet. There’s no dust to wash off which is… strange, but he’s more interested in quenching his thirst.
Then he sets about poking around. He has no doubt he’ll be found at some point, because if nothing else, he’s a fucking important part of the team so they’ll be looking hard. Even if it took too long for Black to open her mouth again. Not to mention Keith–
If they even bothered telling Keith. Shiro’s lips curl. He’s barely been able to see Keith since he joined the Blades, and Shiro’s been thinking of him more and more often.
He’d escaped Zarkon again and hadn’t even been able to relish in the victory.
His headache pounds behind his eyes.
Shiro ignores it, ignores the dark thoughts that have taken to swirling around in the back of his mind, ignores the whispers like he’s had to for-–weeks now, if he’s finally allowed to use Earth time again-–and walks from the kitchen area across the small living room to the bathroom.
When he gets there, he catches sight of the shower curtain, pulled haphazardly open.
There’s spots of water flecked across the plastic, not yet dry.
He leaves the bathroom, just in time to hear the creak of the front door opening again. He whirls around with a snarl, only to hear a wet gasp.
“Sh-Shiro?”
A familiar voice. And a younger one.
Shiro takes him in. The Keith before him is the Keith Shiro remembers from before his first captivity. Small. Cute. Still in that ever-familiar hoodie of his. Keith used to play with the strings, even letting them creep into his mouth on occasion to chew on them when he thought no one was looking.
“Shiro,” Keith breathes again, still raw, still wet. He creeps forward just one step, as if not daring to believe Shiro is real. Maybe Shiro isn’t. For all he knows, this is the past, or another reality, or the past of another reality. This might be His Keith, it might not be.
Shiro’s different either way. Harder and rougher than this Keith knows.
Meaner, maybe, and his head pulses with something that feels just sideways of pain as he takes his own step forward, drinking Keith in. Fuck, he hasn’t seen Keith in so long. He’s so fucking cute like this, all wide-eyed and trembling, falling back against the closed door of the shack, like his legs won’t support him anymore.
Shiro comes closer as if he’s being pulled into Keith’s orbit, crowding him in against the door. He does it without thinking, and that–-that feels good. Not thinking, just doing. Not worrying about what everyone else will think or say or fear. Shiro’s more dangerous than he’s ever been, and they’re still trying to make a diplomat out of him.
Keith looks afraid, eyes darting to the side, and Shiro plants one arm above him and leans in, yanking at Keith’s hoodie string. “Eyes on me.”
Keith licks his lips, and Shiro tracks his pink little tongue. “Y-you came back,” he whispers.
Fuck yeah, Shiro did. By the skin of his teeth. He escaped Zarkon twice and all people cared about was asking how he did it. Like Shiro even remembers? PTSD will do all sorts of shit to your memory. Shiro’s time with Zarkon is a haze, and he’s fine with that. But he doesn’t want to think about that now.
He doesn't want to think at all.
“I did,” he says. It’s not quite a grin, baring too many teeth. “Miss me, sweetheart?”
