Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

***

The old saying goes ‘hindsight is 20/20,’ and, despite the fact that technology has done away with changes in vision as a physical state of being— deficiencies can be corrected immediately upon diagnosis, so long as one has the funds— Shiro certainly has a penchant for regret. Highly accomplished though he may be, there’s no skill in life that Shiro has mastered so well as looking back at his life and realizing all the things he should have done differently. 

He wasn’t always like this. As a youth from a wealthy family, he had every opportunity afforded to him, and with that came a general disregard for hesitation and tenacious desire for the future. That desire was only heightened by his terminal diagnosis at the tender age of sixteen. A physician told him he wouldn’t live to see eighteen and Shiro’s response was to laugh in the man’s face. Now, he thinks it would have been better to treat the professional as such, and perhaps try to learn what was in store for him. 

In his burgeoning career as a pilot, he was labeled first a prodigy, but Shiro soon outgrew and outpaced that word. By twenty, he was labeled a ‘maverick.’ By twenty-one, he had a brand on his chest and a cell aboard a Zarkonian death ship. Shiro’s entire extended family was murdered at least in part due to his attention grabbing career. He learned, only through terrible loss, to weigh his decisions more carefully. 

Six years later, when he took his first steps across Garrison gray tile, he had enough regrets stacked up to wallpaper the penthouse they would eventually put him in. A nicer cell, but a cellblock all the same. Since then, his supply of regrets seems to be following that of an infinite growth model. He could wallpaper the entire colony now. 

Well-meaning words break through his rumination: “Looking super serious there, bud. What are you thinking about that’s got you so doom and gloom?” 

“Redecorating,” Shiro deadpans. 

“Hey!” Pidge pauses their typing for a moment. They spool more noodles into their mouth with a pair of chopsticks and smack accordingly. It may be morning, but time seems to matter very little to them. Mouth full: “Actually, that’s so rude.” 

Hunk is more diplomatic. He reaches into the hot pot with his own pair of chopsticks and selects a few vegetables to place in Pidge’s bowl. “Okay, but. He’s not wrong. It looks like an entire compucenter blew up in here. Pretty sure there’s an xbot ten-K just hanging out over there.” 

Pidge rolls their eyes but doesn’t look past the green glow of their glasses to check his claim. 

“Not that you could get to it,” Hunk says, pressing the issue. It’s true; there’s an overturned surfaceplan in the path— this is halfway between the kitchen where they’re sitting, and the couch— and it would most definitely take some strength to move things around. Hunk contemplates this while fishing more gai lan out of the broth, this time for himself. 

He’s a big man, the Climber, and Shiro immediately likes him when he shows up as promised, a few hours after their phone call. If not for his no-nonsense friendliness and steady hands, then at the very least for his portable hot pot setup. 

“Actually, everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be,” Pidge says, prim. 

“I should’ve made him stay,” Shiro says, stewing in regret. 

“The hound?” Hunk guesses. Keith left shortly after their call, before Hunk could meet him in person. 

Shiro nods. 

‘I’ll find the person for you. I’ll track them down,’ Keith vowed. He was determined after that, body tight with the need to follow the scent, mind singularly focused on this new lead. Shiro swallows, thinking of the thrum of Keith’s body against his, the way he inhaled against Shiro’s neck, the shy, insistent kiss he pressed into Shiro’s cheek as they said goodbye. 

“Mmmm yeah, well,” Hunk shrugs. “If he’s like they say, I don’t think you could make him do anything. He was too much of a wild card for the Marmorans . That’s pretty wild.” 

“I’ve heard something to that effect,” Shiro says. He remembers the conversation with Sanda. ‘Exceptionally talented, but a liability,’ was the initial description. 

“Yeah, but I bet you haven’t heard how he landed a spot with the Marmorans in the first place.” Hunks says. 

Curious, Shiro sets his spoon down. The prosthetic is still charging, and wielding chopsticks with his non-dominant hand is a frustration he can’t tackle in his current state of exhaustion. His muscles are aching, every one of them weighed down and painful. His condition is getting worse faster than he expected. 

Hunk is just as much of a gossip as Pidge claimed. With relish, he tells them: “The rumor goes that he came to the colony tracking the dude who started the fire which killed his father. On planet . Imagine. That’s crazy! I heard he was a stowaway on a world ship to even get here. Took him years to track the guy down, but Kogane found him. Literally, tracked him down from the other side of the solar system. And when he did…” 

Hunk’s chopsticks make a cutting motion across his neck with a broth laden cube of tofu as accomplice. 

“Gross,” Pidge comments. They’re still focused on their work.  

“Skills like that don’t go unnoticed. Marmora picked him up from a juvenile correctional center and put him to use. But, I’ve heard that this hound didn’t do well with them— never followed protocol— imagine! Being too feral for the Marmoran hounds. They’re only some of the most dangerous operatives in the galaxy. Even Zarkon didn’t cross them.” Hunk tucks the tofu in his mouth and chews. “Kogane was a wild card so they gave him this impossible task with the Garrison and you. Probably just to watch him fail and get rid of him, but,” he laughs. “I’d say they really messed up when they put you guys together. Big mistake.” 

It’s tragic in its own right, betrayal by the ones who took you in. If Shiro couldn’t convince Keith to stay, at the very least he shouldn’t have let him leave alone. There’s no doubt that Keith is walking into danger. He’s literally looking for it. On Shiro’s behalf. 

“And it’s not like you could have gone with him,” Hunk says, reading his mind. “With the prosthetic arm out of commission,” 

“Spare me the play-by-play,” Shiro says. He already knows that he’s not at his peak physically, thanks partially to the drain of the prosthetic but mostly because of his not-so-latent disease. Once the arm is fully charged, he’ll still need several hours to recover. Not to mention that when he leaves the safety of Pidge’s shielding tech, he’ll be visible to the Garrison tracking. Keith gives off no such signal. He’s safer without Shiro at his side. 

At least, that’s what Shiro tells himself now. 

*

Keith inhales, searching for the scent of blood. 

He’s masked. Gloves cover his hands and wrists. As inconspicuous as he can be. He arrives to the boarding platform in the industrial district just as the monorail glides into view for the 7:48 a.m. stop. Crowds of people exit the train car, frenzied motion, the smell of lives intermingling and disconnecting. None of it is interesting to him. He steps into the train. The air changes as the doors slide shut behind him. 

Above him, synth purifiers hum. 

The car is packed, shoulder to shoulder. It’s morning, afterall. Rushes of people off to work. Keith keeps his eyes cast upwards, as if he’s studying the signage— there’s a holo ad for a new neural device and, ironically enough, a recruiting notice for the Garrison fast track program. Keith can read some of it— literacy is a skill not everyone in the colony has access to— but he pays the words very little mind; he’s studying the smells. It’s a noxious combination, so much, all at once. Too much. But he bears it, and focuses, for Shiro. 

Next to him, a man headed into the office, liquor still on his breath, though minty mouthwash floats above it. He’s wearing yesterday’s suit. The man on the other side of him, a nurse, piss on the bottom of his shoes, covered up with bleach. Saline lock, forgotten for now, in his pocket. Someone who smells like they’ve come from the docks, caked in human waste, miserable, hunched in a corner. There’s a group of teenagers, rich enough to avoid the youth factory jobs, stupid enough to be getting into trouble. One of them has an envelope of spRkl in her handbag. 

None of it is interesting. None of it is what he needs. 

Keith sifts through the train car, steady on his feet despite the high speed of the monorail and the cacophony of scents surrounding him. He’ll be methodical here— he’s starting from nothing, no trail to chase, no Article in hand. But he’s confident. He has to be. 

The ‘collar’ is heavy around his neck. Shiro urged him to remove it before he left, but Keith refused. Now, Keith touches it, idly fitting his fingertips under it so that he can tug it flush against his skin. Shiro. He can still smell the fingerprints Shiro left. Shiro needs him. 

Focused, Keith exits at the next stop. He paces the platform, lingering while others rush away— it’s almost empty for just a moment, and then the space fills up again, a different group of people waiting for the next train. A woman with heavy perfume, more expensive drugs than spRkl heavy in her blood. A younger girl, a few months pregnant, so slim she’s not showing yet. A man with a dog—

The dog. 

Something about the dog—

Keith lets his instinct take command and follows the man and the dog into the car when the next train arrives. Pets are a luxury that not many in the colony can afford— whether the time or the expense or the space— and to see one in public is rare. The man holding the lead must be wealthy, extremely. 

Pops said he had a dog, Keith thinks. His memories of his father are muddy. Keith isn’t sure if he really remembers it, or if he’s just told himself the story so many times that he thinks it’s real. Planetside, animals were gone long before Keith was born. But Pops might have had a dog, maybe. Keith has never touched one. 

He edges closer, trying to unravel the information hanging in the air. In the man’s clothes. On his skin. The dog’s breath, the collar, the bottoms of her paws. Behind his mask, Keith wets his lips. 

The man tightens the lead in his hand, regarding Keith with a tightness in his expression. Ooh —okay. Of course. He’s not a rich guy— he works for one. Keith has tracked enough rich people to know that they usually don’t pick up on being stalked so quickly. And, obviously, someone rich enough for a pet wouldn’t be on public transit, he realizes. He lowers his gaze and looks at the man in the eyes. There’s a certain satisfaction that follows when the stranger’s blood quickens in response. 

His pulse continues to race as he edges away from Keith, trying to be subtle about it. Behind his mask, Keith smiles. 

Calm, he follows the man and the dog into the next car. The monorail is approaching the next stop; the man gets as close as possible to the exit door. He’s watching Keith out of the corner of his eye, stealing glances as best he can. He swallows and Keith can smell the dryness of his mouth, the fear that’s settled there. The train stops, the door opens, the man all but falls out onto the platform. He walks away as fast as a person can without running outright. 

Keith gives him a head start. The man walks into a neighborhood, one that’s quiet, far more ritzy than the crammed apartments of the Valley. Keith allows him one street, then two, following his scent with ease from a couple blocks away. A game. Then he closes the gap: at the next intersection, he cuts over a street and moves in front of him, closing in from the other direction. 

“Hello,” Keith says, stepping in front of him. 

The man visibly startles— he takes a step back, and then another, but he gets tripped up in the lead and the dog under his feet. It’s a beautiful animal— fluffy chestnut fur, lovely, doe eyes— but no threat to Keith. No protection to the man. There’s no one else around. 

Knife in hand, Keith advances. He pulls down his mask with the other, tasting the air. “Don’t be scared,” he says, smiling. 

In response, the man fumbles out a HTD— handheld taze device— and shucks it out in front of him. “Stop following me!!” He squeezes the accelerator and Keith raises his eyebrows in amusement. 

“Safety’s on,” he tells the man, taking it from him. He flips the HTD in his hand, getting a feel for it before flicking the safety catch off and sending out sparks into the air. Nice. Keith tosses it aside. If it makes a sound as it hits the pavement, Keith doesn’t hear it. He advances. 

“Listen— L-Listen, I don’t have any credits on me—” 

“I know.” Keith gets closer, close enough to see the wide white of the man’s eyes. Alpha-betas can be so cruel to hounds, given the chance. But, when push comes to shove, so many of them fold so fast. Keith removes a glove, flicking the snap open with his teeth, before he bites one of the fingers and pulls it off. He tucks it in a pocket. “I just want to ask you a question.” 

“I’m— I’ll call the police!” 

Keith smirks. “Do you think they’ll come?” 

The man cowers. His skin is blanched pale, hands shaking as he tries to unlock his phone. 

Taking that from him too, Keith throws the device out of reach, just as he did the HTD. This is taking too long— he’s busy. Keith’s smile fades. His temper flares. “I said, I’m trying to ask you a question .” He flips his knife in his hand and sets it against the man’s throat, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt so he can’t run. People leave themselves so defenseless. Keith gets close enough to smell the man’s skin directly. “It’s good manners to listen .” 

Swallowing, the man nods. “I’m—I’m listening.” 

“Can I pet your dog?” 

“Wh-what?” 

Keith jabs his chin towards the dog. “That dog. Can I pet it?” 

“What— I don’t— yeah—” He seems to be having trouble completing the thought. Keith tilts his head. “You can,” the guy finally says. 

“Cool.” Keith drops down to one knee. The animal wags its tail, just like they do in the tele-programs! It even sniffs him! Keith allows himself to marvel at this— the feeling of the soft, real fur under his bare hand— before he focuses on the task at hand. Animals have a much different smell than humans it seems. Strange, like the warm feeling of the animal nuzzling against him. Keith likes it. He puts his face into the dog’s neck and inhales, letting it wrap around him. There’s something there. Something that connects. “Did you go someplace with other animals?”

The man doesn’t answer until Keith looks up at him. His answer is halting: “The park— we always go to the park on 57th after I pick Prissy up for her walk.” 

The park on 57th. Keith doesn’t need directions; he has an idea, faint, but present. The memory of the pungent smell in the prosthetic’s Blood Lock is still fast in his mind. Standing, Keith nods towards the HTD, lying forlorn now on the ground. “You should practice.” He grins. “Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Prissy.” 

The dog-walker doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter. Keith is already off. 

The need to find the trail is itching under his skin. He’s moving faster now, hardly aware of his surroundings until he reaches the park that the man mentioned. Only the colony’s most wealthy have access to places like this: turf and the vis-holo approximations of trees, sky. It’s gated, of course. 

Keith paces along the perimeter, back and forth, searching. The slats of the gate are slanted, openings far too narrow for anyone or thing to pass through, but he can smell— 

C’mon, 

C’mon— 

There! Among the admixture of alpha-betas and pets, something stands out as familiar. Keith crouches down, inhaling deeply, lungs burning with exertion. His chest heaves. 

He found it. Not a trail, not yet, but something .  

His eyes fall shut, he inhales deeply. Shiro. Fuck yes. He found it. He found it! 

There’s no time to celebrate, Keith reminds himself. Keith stands, moving slower now, following the smell along the perimeter. Now that he has something, he can pick it out of the ambient air, like pulling on a thread that’s come loose from an old quilt. He examines it, tasting. It’s a strange scent, blood, but also something unrecognizable about it. He follows it away from the park, now continuing deeper into the wealthiest part of the colony. The trail will be near.

Houses here are set apart from one another. The empty space between them is a status symbol, every extra step of space in the colony worth more than all of Shiro’s fancy cars put together. These castles in the sky loom large in Keith’s peripheral. He doesn’t look at them, doesn’t care to take in any detail save for the smell he chases. He runs. 

He skirts under routine surveillance cams posted along the streets, and keeps moving when he hears the tell-tale sound of watch-drones overhead. If they stop him— when they stop him, because they will, it’s only a matter of time— he’ll be arrested. Or worse. He doesn’t have the proper credentials to be here. A ghost now, he doesn’t have any credentials. He has to be fast, he has to follow the scent. The streets here are clean and empty, air scrubbed clear of the pollution that hangs over the city. Big fluffy clouds float past sunlight that never falters, never wanes, never burns. He shouldn’t be here. 

Distant blood beckons him forward, and he chases it. Legs burning, instincts aflame, mind focused. Shiro. The scent blooms brighter and brighter in the air until it’s choking him, as if the blood is wrapped around his throat instead of the gentle weight of Shiro’s collar. Keith stops, tugging at his neck, trying to catch his breath. Something is wrong. 

Something pricks at his nose. It fits into the smell he’s following like a puzzle piece snapping into its perfect home. They combine and twist together instantly, intimately. He knows this smell, and bile rises in his throat as he turns to greet it. 

Bad cherries. 

*

Sanda’s call is unexpected.

The prosthetic is once again charged, and, with the help of both Hunk and Pidge, it’s been reattached to Shiro’s body. Normally the process is painful— worse than taking it off at night. Shiro feels it every morning: the excruciating pain of forced innervation reattaching, what seems like a thousand ton weight bearing down on his shoulder, a heart pounding rush of adrenaline as he’s bombarded with sensation. The sensitivity lasts for a few moments, subsides to his baseline, and then he goes about his day. 

Normally the process is painful, but this morning it was his undoing. Since the recharge, Shiro has been tucked into that same corner of the couch, fighting waves of nausea and watching the room spin every time he ventures opening his eyes. He’s intermittently burning hot and freezing cold, unable to self regulate the power that’s coursing back through his body. The prosthetic is merciless. He shivers and thinks of purring. 

At first, he doesn’t even register the haptic feedback from the notification. 

“Actually, you can answer that!” Pidge’s shout from the bedroom rouses Shiro from his miserable half-sleep. He opens his eyes and sees the incoming call. “Answer it,” they tell Shiro, now standing in the doorway of the room. Hunk left to prepare for his next climb, some hours prior. “My data is secure here and I want to know if I can get anything useful from the person on the other line.” 

Shiro nods, straightening up. Duty calls, afterall. “This isn’t going to be pretty,” he warns. 

He lets the call connect. 

“Takashi,” mauve lips take hold of his name and use it as a threat. “You’ve been offline.” 

“I have,” Shiro agrees. He has no idea how much Sanda knows but it’s safe to assume that Iverson has already spoken with her. “Another attempt was made on my life. Unsuccessful, obviously, but by a closer margin this time.” 

“Hm.” Sanda’s mouth purses but no emotion floats to her eyes. Out of frame, Shiro can hear the panting breath of one of her dogs. “Unfortunate.” 

‘Unfortunate’ seems to be a common descriptor for his life, Shiro thinks. He shouldn’t just be sitting here— he needs to make sure that she knows what Iverson is doing. The diversion of inventory. The collusion with Zarkon’s empire. The use of Garrison resources to try and kill him, multiple times. “Very. And I have some concerning information about one of my colleagues that pertains to the ongoing investigation of Case-V. It’s of utmost urgency that you review it.” 

“Perhaps at a later time. My schedule, as you well know, is rigorously maintained.” 

Shiro grinds his teeth in irritation. “Respectfully, I would request that this take precedence over anything else you do today.” 

“Hm.” Sanda’s response is a non-answer. Preoccupied, she looks to be more concerned with something else outside the call, barely paying attention to his words. 

“The information should be sent to you shortly,” Shiro tells her. “I will—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sanda interrupts him. “I’d like to have a word with you in person. This afternoon, I think.” A meeting notification rises above the prosthetic. ‘Decline’ is not an option. “If we have the time to spare afterwards, you may present your report then.” 

Leaving the safety of this place is a huge risk. Shiro catches Pidge watching him from behind the screen, but their expression is unreadable. “I’ll review the details and be there.” 

Sanda nods, the dip of her angular chin the barest of acknowledgements. 

“Until then,” Shiro says, ready to disconnect. 

“Hm. One more thing.” Sanda’s boney hand rises, stopping him. Shiro feels a chill run down his spine as she leers at him, an ice cold smile. “We recovered a hound.”

Shiro’s heart clenches. His body goes cold. He can’t speak. When he does, the thought is immediately interrupted, “Wh—”

“The same one as was assigned to you. You may remember that the last time it was taken in, the team had some, hm, difficulties. And then there was the strange circumstances surrounding its death. Very strange. This time, I saw to it myself, personally. There will be no further problems with it.” It’s not Shiro’s imagination that her smile grows more malicious. It’s not. “Hm. That is all.” 

Sanda disconnects the line. 

Shiro stands. He makes it to the toilet before his stomach empties itself, but it’s a near thing. He coughs, and retches again, dizzy with unrelenting nausea. He vomits and it’s just one more way that his body betrays him, this hot, wretched torture. 

Afterwards— he moves a cracked splicelog out of the way so that he can sit on the floor— Shiro feels no relief. The vitals communicated to him by the prosthetic tell him that he is feverish, immune system shredded, organs pushed almost to the point of failure. In an ideal world, he’d let this foul machinery do its godforsaken job and rest until it heals him. This situation is anything but ideal. 

One of Pidge’s robots floats into the bathroom and offers him a towel out of its various compartments. It’s wearing a frowny face. Shiro agrees. 

“Thanks,” he mutters. 

Pidge has on a similar expression as they look down on him from the bathroom doorway. They wait for the toilet to finish flushing and say: “That sounded bad.” 

“The phone call with my supervisor, my subsequent emetic outburst, or the implication that Keith is currently being tortured?” 

“Actually,” Pidge adjusts their glasses. “All three.” They grab one of the datasheets hovering over his forearm and lift their glasses to read it. “Are you going to go?” 

“I am.” Shiro uses the wall as a crutch to stand. His head is pounding in time with his heart. Every moment could be crucial for Keith. And this time there will be no clever theatrics to get him out of the Garrison’s claws. This time, Shiro thinks, it will have to be by force. 

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Pidge is dubious as Shiro rinses his mouth out over the sink. 

“I do not.” 

Pidge snorts. They go back to reading behind their green lenses. A few finger taps at the air and a map unfolds next to the datasheet. “She took the call from her residence,” Pidge muses, comparing the call details with Garrison facilities. “Is that normal? Actually, nevermind, you don’t know.” 

“It’s…unusual,” Shiro allows, ignoring Pidge’s added commentary. That information doesn’t give him much additional information. But it hardly seems relevant and he just doesn’t have time to waste. 

“Hang on a minute,” Pidge stops him as he makes to head towards the door. “At least take this.” 

Shiro watches as Pidge goes and collects something out of their room. The object is about the same size and shape as the watches men sometimes wear in old tele-programs. It’s black with multiple prongs spanning out, all of them tipped in gold. They wrap it around his wrist. “What is it?” 

“Actually it was Hunk’s idea,” they tell him, holding some kind of tool in their teeth as they adjust the prongs. The piece of technology fans out flat over his wrist, mimicking the vasculature he lacks. They type and make some adjustments and type some more. “He has good ideas sometimes. Don’t tell him I said that.” 

“I won’t,” Shiro promises, watching the tangles of their hair bounce as they work. This person is so brilliant, and so young. He hopes, desperately, that this connection to him doesn’t bring them any harm. “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Pidge.” 

The bouncing pauses for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. Anything to fuck with the Garrison, actually.” They look up at him and grin. “Okay listen. This isn’t going to do anything to shield you from them so that sucks— I can’t disconnect you from the Garrison without admin privileges, it’s just not possible. But what I can do: patch myself in.” 

There’s a slight sting to it. The new hardware zips with energy and a text box— different from the notifications he routinely receives— rises over Shiro’s arm. 

Hi : ]  it reads. 

“As soon as you have access to the Blood Lock, I’ll take over as administrator and uncouple the arm from Garrison control.” Pidge nods. “Actually, I’ll be able to do it remotely and everything. Just don’t die before that happens.” 

“I make no promises,” Shiro says. “But I’ll work on— ah!” It’s unexpected that Pidge barrels into his chest, wrapping skinny arms around him. Shiro can’t remember the last time he was embraced like this. “I’ll work on it,” Shiro tells them. This might be what having a little sibling is like. “I’ll do my best.”

“So stupid,” Pidge declares into his chest, though whether this is self-reflective or aimed at him is unclear. They mutter something about actually preferring robots. Shiro ruffles the mass of their tangled hair and they squawk and push him away. “Fine! Go!” 

Shiro has no time to waste. Grim, he heads to the Garrison for what he knows— no matter the outcome— will be the last time. 

*

No sight. 

Keith blinks, but the darkness is absolute. He’s blind. 

No sound. 

Keith strains against the bonds that lay tight against his skin. He can’t move. He can’t hear anything. Not even the intake of his own breath. 

No smell. 

He senses nothing of his surroundings, not the people, not the place. Not himself. Nothing. 

He’s dizzy with the lack of sensation, unable to parse the passage of time, just hung there, terrified, in nothingness. 

Everything breaks, all at once: 

Bright, sharp, white hot pain— 

Afraid, Keith wrestles away, tries to escape. He cannot move. His body flinches on instinct but the movement is jerky, unsuccessful. He cannot move. 

He tries to cry out, but he cannot scream. 

The pain bears down on his skull and Keith imagines that he’s being crushed. Panic suffocates him— he can’t breathe— and he imagines thick smoke choking him. The lick of flames seems to follow because sharp, hot pain runs down his body— he feels it, as he feels the hot tears on his cheeks— 

Shiro! Shiro, please!! 

Then, nothing else. 

*

The door to Sanda’s office slides open with a wave of the prosthetic, and all three of Sanda’s Dobermans are waiting on the other side. 

The first one— two polycarbonate limbs affixed to a sharp-edged spine with a clunky mess of wires— is the biggest of the three. It’s stuttering and uncanny in the way it lopes back and forth, as if preparing to lunge, body jerking, head stable. Watching him. It growls a low, tense sound. Vicious. 

Red eyes watch him in the second. They roll unnaturally in the sockets of the skull, the sound of their sticky clicks sickening, as the animal edges forward, ears pointed. Muscles ripple under sleek, black fur as it bares pink gums over yellowed fangs. 

The third one’s teeth are silver. Made of the same alloy that lines the inside of every holosnipe the Garrison creates, Shiro knows that its jaw houses one of the few materials that is strong enough to rip through his prosthetic arm. Saliva hangs from its jowls, splattering across the floor in a messy arc as it snaps its jaws at him, ready to kill. 

“By all means, Takashi, continue to hover in the doorway.” Sanda’s voice is different in person. Shiro notes that the technology of their calls must soften it— in person, her voice is brittle, a match for her thin stretched skin and skeletal hands. She doesn’t look up at him as she speaks. 

Shiro wonders if the dogs can smell fear. Shiro has seen them rip people limb-from-limb on multiple occasions. He walks in, affecting the same aloof confidence he usually wears on Garrison business. The animals surround him, one on either side, the third snapping just shy of his ankles, trailing behind. He has to get this right, he has to tell her of Iverson’s deception, of the connections to Case-V, of everything. He has to find Keith. He has to rid himself of this place once and for all. “Sanda.” 

Her office is bare. No personal items, no windows, no decor. Garrison gray tile on the floor and the company’s logo on the wall. Nothing else. The dogs’ nails make a skittering noise on the glossy tile as they take their places close to Sanda on the other side of her desk. 

“Hm.” Sanda finishes the file she’s reviewing and the datasheet slides out of sight. She looks at him. Gray eyeshadow accentuates eyes deep set with age, and, in person, her mauve lipstick is pilled and cakey over thin lips. She stands. 

Shiro watches as she lifts a datasheet from the surfaceplan; the screen is as wide as the desk is long, and tall enough to stretch even over his own head. With another click, a timeline shimmers into view. Shiro looks at the larger-than-life graph before him. Sales projections for the next five years. The projection is favorable. Very. 

She clicks again and there’s a breakdown of the data— private firms, colonial security, police force, military, and one section, blocked out in a dark purple, that makes Shiro’s stomach drop. It’s the largest percentage of the total sales. 

“Lotor Sincline is expected to regain control of the Zarkonian forces in the very near future,” Sanda says, lightly, as if she isn’t talking about the most dangerous coup d'etat that this galaxy could witness. “The rising violence in Daibazaal has finally reached a boiling point. He’ll take planetary majority within the week. From there, he’ll begin an offensive on the surrounding system. He has the weapons, the ships, the political advantage. He’ll be successful.” She looks at Shiro. “Of course, this is confidential information.” 

Shiro opens his mouth to speak, but finds that the words don’t come. It’s not just that he was personally victimized by Zarkon’s empire. The Zarkonian forces did untold amounts of damage throughout the galaxy prior to their destabilization after their leader’s death. Lotor taking back control will mean the end of entire civilizations. 

“We are fortunate to have fostered an alliance with Mr. Sincline in the past year,” Sanda continues, tone flat and cold. Shiro is sick with the sound of it. And the blank realization that rolls over him, all at once: she didn’t need his reports about the diversion of inventory; she orchestrated it. It’s been Sanda from the very beginning. He’s been played for a fool. Her voice grows warmer when she smiles at him, returning to the sales data, “This new war will prove to be very profitable for us.” 

“No…” 

“Takashi, you will be my lead on this project.” Sanda touches the bottom of the screen and Shiro feels the prosthetic shudder as it downloads the data against any will of his own. They tried to kill him, but then decided he was worth more alive than dead. Too much trouble to successfully murder? Too easily controlled to continue the effort? Shiro’s eyes swim with the knowledge and this new noose tightening around his neck. “Familiarize yourself with our Quarter Two goal points. You have a meeting with Lotor tomorrow.” She pauses, considering. “Hm. That is all.” 

“I won’t do it.” Shiro finds his voice. He feels sick. “No. I won’t be a part of it.” 

Sanda laughs, a short burst of air that feels as unnatural as the beasts at her sides. “You will.” 

“I will not,” Shiro counters. Sanda isn’t even looking at him. She’s preoccupied with one of the dogs, lightly stroking its muzzle with the back of her thin fingers. “The ‘profit’ you’re talking about will be at the expense of innumerable innocent lives. This is wrong .” 

She looks at him and must see the rage and disgust written across his face, but Shiro’s feelings have always mattered very little to her. She pats one of her dogs on the head and coos at it, “I don’t know why you have always shown such an aversion to my sweet little pets, Takashi. It would seem to me you might feel a certain kinship with them.” 

White hot rage boils in Shiro and he feels the power in his arm start to thrum as the anger overtakes him. “I am not your dog .” 

Sanda’s smile is cruel. “Oh? And yet, I called you to heel and here you are.” 

“You—” Shiro’s damned prosthetic will be good enough for this— the dogs snarl at him and he takes a step forward despite it, ready to end her—

“Hm. One more thing.” She touches the surfaceplan and another datasheet unfurls, this time a photo, slightly blurred as if captured from a video feed. 

No—

Shiro whimpers and with that sound, the rage leaves him, draining out of him so quickly he feels dizzy with the emptiness. 

No—

Rage is replaced now in one swift, thundering wave. Despair. Keith— 

Keith is slumped against a wall as if thrown away. The side of his head is covered in blood, so red it’s black. Mottled and tarry with bits of torn flesh and chunks of hair that got in the way. The gore covers his ear, the side of his face, down his neck, his shoulder. There’s a bright new appliance on the side of his skull, behind his ear. His mouth is ajar. His body is limp. 

Taking the sheet from the air, Shiro holds it, trying to get a closer look. To see his chest rise, movement in the shoulders or his mouth that might constitute a breath. Anything. “ No. Keith…”

“I’m told it might still survive. Perhaps.” Sanda sweeps her hand and all the datasheets fade, leaving Shiro grasping at nothing. “Though if it does, the brain damage will be lasting.” Nonplussed, she folds her hands. “A decent first attempt— unsuccessful, but one can’t expect too much from clinical trials, afterall. I had planned to get rid of the failed result, but I was told you developed a certain affection for it. Maybe if it lives— you could keep it. Provided you behave, of course.” She removes a jar from her desk: it’s full of hearts from some unfortunate breed of creature, freeze dried. She dangles one in front of her dogs, all three of them falling into line. “A little treat?” 

Clenching his jaw, Shiro doesn’t speak. 

“Good boy.” Sanda tosses it and the dogs snap, vying for the morsel. “Hm.” She looks at Shiro, up and down, appraising, mouth pursed. She dismisses him. “That is all.” 

*

*

*

*

*

Shiro waves a notification away— it’s a message from Pidge, asking if he has made any progress with finding Keith or understanding the Blood Lock. He goes back to his office. 

All the petals from his orchid have fallen. The blooms lie in delicate bundles around the bare and creeping branch. He picks up the pot. With his human hand, he hurls it against the wall. A yell escapes him, a voice that doesn’t sound like his own. Pieces of ceramic ricochet, dirt explodes there in a cloud of dust, spraying over the floor with the force. Shiro is crying. 

He will no longer be a tool of this organization. From now on, the blood that’s on his hands will be of his own volition. His human hand is rough as he wipes his cheeks. He takes a holosnipe out of the bottom drawer of his desk. He sits with it. Considering. 

It’d be so easy. 

A more gentle end than what he’s owed. Simple. Not, Shiro swallows, not like how Keith has been treated. Not like what he went through on Shiro’s behalf. Shiro closes his eyes and sees the image, Keith bloody and broken in a heap on the floor. 

It’d be an easier end than Shiro deserves. And, really, a win for the Garrison. No damage to Sanda at all. 

Shiro stands. Like the power from the prosthetic, resolve rolls through him. If he wants one thing— here, now, where he wants nothing and feels nothing— Shiro wants to make sure that the Garrison feels his loss. Acutely. 

He goes to Iverson’s office. 

The door is locked, of course, but Shiro’s rank is such that a wave of the prosthetic opens it. Iverson is there—so is a young cadet, a girl, her uniform in a state of disarray. She scrambles away from Iverson, hastening to straighten out her clothes as Shiro strides in the room. She gives him a hasty look and makes her exit. 

“About the same age as your daughter, Mitch,” Shiro observes when the door has shut behind her and the cadet is gone. 

Iverson spreads his hands as if to say, what can you do? He smiles at Shiro, arrogant. “She has a bright future ahead of her.” He gets up from his desk, casually zipping his fly as he does so. “I’m glad you dropped by, Shirogane. You met with Sanda so I’m going to assume you heard about your new assignment?” 

“I’ve had the pleasure, yes.” Shiro doesn’t move, but instead watches Iverson walk to his bar and select a bottle of liquor from his myriad collection. Unlike Sanda’s office, Iverson’s walls are covered with memorabilia of his time in the Garrison service. He’s one of few who have been here longer than Shiro. There’s a plaque from his ten year commemoration ceremony, a Galran sword, a tattered flag from a long forgotten country. With a sick twist of his stomach, Shiro recognizes the EF monitor that was around Keith’s ankle on one of the shelves. Iverson is displaying it like a big game prize. 

“Well then.” Iverson pours them each a couple of fingers of liquor, neat. “Congratulations are in order.” He hands Shiro the glass and taps his own against it. The sound it makes is hollow in Shiro’s ears. “I’ll be honest with you, nasty work about the attempts to remove you from the force. Nasty work. Glad the old broad reconsidered. Take my advice: don’t dwell on it. Put it behind you.” He swirls the glass, sending the liquor into a shimmering, contained wave. “No hard feelings between us, son. We all have our orders to follow. I’m sure you understand.” 

“Completely,” Shiro agrees. The glass is small in the prosthetic. He could crush it with no more than a thought. 

Iverson’s smile is so sure. His wide, square face marked with some pantomime of joy. “To our  next great war,” he says, saluting Shiro with a glass. 

Shiro shoots him point blank in the head. 

The hiss of the holosnipe, the spray of blood across the shelves of memorabilia, the heavy thud of his body hitting the floor. “Dead men don’t feel pain like humans do,” Shiro tells him. He walks over to the bar and pours the liquor down the drain. It’s not to his taste. 

Holt’s lab is next. 

The labs are in a different building. Shiro breathes in the air between them and wonders about all the nuance there that Keith could have understood. He feels numb. The Garrison campus is crowded as always, but Shiro walks through the throngs of people like a ghost. 

The labs are empty. 

Shiro turns the lights on and a sharp intake of air splits the silence. 

It’s his own breath that makes the noise. The scene that lies before him is utter carnage. There’s the chair where Keith was strapped when Shiro ‘rescued’ him before. The same one, but this time the apparatus is covered in blood. The back of it, where Keith’s head must have been, is soaked. All down the back. Shiro has a hand over his mouth, gagging at the rank smell of it. He gets closer. There’s scratches in the arms of the chair, deep jagged tears. Five of them on each side. Keith’s fingernails. 

Not just the blood— over the floor there’s broken vials, a shelf of lab equipment overturned, all the temperature controlled storage cabinets in the walls ripped off their tracks. Despite Sanda’s claim of an easy capture, Keith definitely put up a fight. 

Where is Keith now? And where is Holt? 

Shiro logs into the nearest data terminal but finds that it’s too damaged to use. The bowels of the machine have been ripped out— small sheets of metal and wires and polycarbonate and silicon are strewn across the floor. He finds a portable terminal in another corner and manages to log in. 

There’s a video log detailing the experiment. 

Swallowing, Shiro hesitates. He closes his eyes. Resolves to open them. He owes Keith this much—  

“Good morning.” 

Dr. Holt is speaking to the camera, already in full surgical regalia. His face is covered with a yellow mask, his hair, a blue net over a surgical cap. He introduces himself and his colleagues. The camera angle is too tight to see Keith, if he is in the room: 

“This is Samuel M. Holt, medical engineer and physician, currently acting as head of the Medical Research and Development Division of the Galaxy Garrison. I am joined by Drs. Ryan Kinkade and Nadia Rizavi, as well as doctoral candidate, Ina Leifsdottir. The time is 11:07, star date 09:3036:18:03, and we are here at the Garrison’s central campus, main laboratory. Today we have a remarkable agenda! Today, we will begin in vivo experimentation of a biohybrid neural interface, or, as we have taken to calling it, colloquially, a ‘link.’ The ‘link,’ when successfully installed, will optimize neurosensory input from an omega host and translate that into nanomaterial-based microelectrode arrays, which can then interface with the appropriate code, thereby functioning as a bidirectional omega-user connection. When used in combination with Nu, the Garrison’s proprietary drug compound clinically proven to enhance omega sensory function, the link is expected to have remarkable results. More details regarding this are available in my research—” 

He goes on to cite several articles, all of which list him as the primary author. He explains that the practical use for this kind of technology is limitless— omega have been known to be able to smell different types of cancer or disease, making it viable for early stage detection in healthcare settings; they can smell trace amounts of water, making it a possible tool for future terraforming projects; omega have instinctual urges to provide and protect, opening up possibilities in the consumer market to drive sales— Shiro knows that all of this is a lie. Once the technology is viable, the Garrison will use it as a weapon. 

Several more minutes of exposition— Holt is long winded and a narcissist— and finally the shot changes. Holt is still in the foreground, but Shiro can see Keith’s dark mop of hair behind the doctor. Shiro’s fingers curl around the table’s edge, so tight it cuts into his human hand, watching. 

The instruments look wicked. Shiro is holding his breath when Holt raises the first one. It’s a circular bone saw, for removing a portion of the skull. Dr. Holt explains the first steps of the surgery before he begins. Despite this, Shiro is still not prepared for the scream—

The scream— 

Keith screams and it is piercing, it is instantly a memory of Shiro’s time aboard the prison ships, it is instantly an addition to every future nightmare. He’s howling in pain and Shiro has cut himself with the way he’s gripping the metal table and the prosthetic has ruined the other side and how, how can they do this— 

“Unfortunately,” Holt says, voice above the whirr of the saw and Keith’s stuttering sobs, “the omega must be at least partially arousable to sensation, otherwise proper calibration of the device will be impossible. We’ve taken great pains to keep the subject comfortable, and, as always, all of our research is well within the limits set forth in the colony’s most stringent guidelines for ethical animal testing—” 

“SHIRO—!!” 

Shiro puts his fist through the machine before he even knows what he’s doing. The datasheet quivers at the loss of connection and fades. The room is silent save for Shiro’s heaving breaths and Keith’s voice ringing in Shiro’s skull. 

“Takashi Shirogane, I would advise that this room has been designated a crime scene and request that you vacate the premises,”

Shiro turns and finds the monotone instruction belongs to the youngest of Holt’s lab assistants, Leifsdottir. She is still in scrubs. The bottoms of her pants are rolled up. She’s wearing tan loafers. The loafers have blood on the toes. Shiro shoots her. 

Rizavi shrieks and Kinkade steps in front of her, shielding her from Shiro—

Motioning with the holosnipe, Shiro instructs for him to step aside. Kinkade does so, hands up in the air. “Sir—” 

Shiro shoots him too. 

“No!” Rizavi tries to back away but slips, tripping onto the various debris strewn across the floor. She cries out, glass vials cut her hands as she makes to get away, but Shiro grabs her by the front of her scrub top and lifts her up off the floor with little effort. He holds her against the wall. His hand, the prosthetic, is wrapped around her throat. He is deadly calm. 

“Nadia Rizavi.” 

She’s shaking her head and her eyes are squeezed shut, though tears are still managing to escape. She has a white headband in her hair, it slips out and falls to the floor, now lost among the debris. 

“Rizavi. Where is Holt?” 

She can’t speak— 

“Calm down.” Shiro is commanding. Shiro is soothing. Shiro is merciless. “Take a deep breath. Tell me: where is Sam Holt?” 

“I—” Rizavi shakes her head. As much as she can. She sucks in a breath like he told her to. As much as she can. “I-I don’t kn-know, sir.” 

“You don’t.” Shiro can tell she’s being truthful. He’s gentle with his tone. “Okay. That’s okay. You’re okay.” He follows his own advice, and takes a breath. “Then. Next question. Where is Keith?” 

“Keith?” 

Shiro can see the blank look in her eyes. She had no idea that the hound’s name is ‘Keith.’ He tightens his hold. He squeezes. 

“Please,” she gasps, begging. She claws at his hand until she can’t anymore. He doesn’t feel it. This hand was designed for this— he barely even feels her struggle, until she doesn’t any more. He lets her limp body slide to the floor. He leaves. 

Dr. Holt is not in his office. 

By the time Shiro is finished searching the room, it looks like a bomb has detonated inside. He destroys everything from wall to wall. The shelves, this time not of memorabilia, but of research. Binder after binder, all of them full of datachips painstakingly labeled and cataloged. A life’s work. Shiro can still hear Keith’s sobs as the last one is crushed under his heel. 

Allura will know where the doctor is. The thought comes to Shiro as if from somewhere outside himself, someone rational, someone whole. Shiro wipes sweat from his brow with his forearm— his hands are covered in blood now. He looks down at himself and realizes the spray is across his pants legs and his suit jacket. 

What does it matter?

He begins the walk towards Allura’s office. Every door opens at his command, every Garrison employee flees at the sight of him. The ones that don’t, well, it’s the last mistake they’ll ever make. He leaves carnage in his wake. He’s thinking of Keith. 

“Oh my,” there’s a hint of a smile on Allura’s mouth— she opens the door for him before he can wave it open himself. Her glossy pout curls and it’s obvious she’s trying to hold in a giggle. “Oh, my .” 

The two of them have always gotten along. Shiro doesn’t consider anyone employed by the Garrison a ‘friend,’ but Allura Alfor comes the closest to the title. She ushers him inside. 

There’s a glass— rose water, mixed with sparkling, her drink of choice— collecting condensation next to the hovchair in which she was sitting. A datasheet hovering nearby. The room smells of spun sugar and a sharp floral that must be her perfume. Shiro thinks that Keith would have been able to explain it better. 

“I need to find Sam Holt,” Shiro tells her, allowing himself to be drawn into a chair. Her hand is cool on his face. She brushes hair out of his eyes. 

“And then what will you do with him?” Allura asks, amused. She turns over the palm of his human hand, withdrawing the holosnipe from his frenzied grasp. He has a long cut in the meat of his hand from crushing the table in the lab. Even now, blood seeps from the wound, dripping down to his elbow, leaving its marks on the floor next to his shoes. She tuts and presses a cloth into it. 

“Don’t bother,” Shiro snaps, withdrawing his hand from her soft hold. The prosthetic will heal him soon enough. 

She huffs out a quiet laugh. “Suit yourself.” She walks to the opposite side of the room, wiping her hands off on her skirt before she raises them to twist her long hair into a knot on the top of her head. Golden bangles tinkle over her narrow wrists as she secures it, wrapping it into an elegant knot. And then she picks up her handheld, typing a few words into it. An iridescent wall shimmers into place, separating the room into two. Shiro is on one side. The door and Allura are on the other. 

“Allura—” 

She smiles at him, fingers wiggling in a wave. A datasheet unfurls as a call connects. “Hello, Ellen. As promised, I have Takashi here with me.” 

Shiro grits his teeth, rising to his feet. What—

“No,” Allura laughs, responding to whatever Sanda said, “It wasn’t difficult.” 

“You!!” Shiro slams the prosthetic against the iridescent wall. It’s as though he’s hitting solid concrete— pain jolts through his shoulder, so intense that it brings him to his knees. 

“Darling,” Allura peers around the datasheet, “Darling, don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” She looks back to Sanda. “When would you prefer I—oh, yes, certainly. That will be fine.” The call disconnects. 

She looks at Shiro, bright. “She’ll be here shortly.” 

With a yell, Shiro grabs the chair and hurls it against the wall. The iridescence shimmers but doesn’t budge. 

Allura giggles. “Oh, Shiro. Really. ”

“I— I—” Shiro shakes his head, sinking once again to the floor. He’s not too proud to beg, not if it’s for Keith. Not if he might only have minutes left, if the hound is still alive at all . If Shiro can do anything, if he can still manage to save him— his voice cracks. “Please— Allura,” 

He thinks he sees it— the slightest second of remorse, a passing hint of genuine emotion— but then it’s gone. She laughs. 

There’s a notification at the door. It’s too soon for it to be Sanda— Allura must think so too, based on her reaction: a hum, a wrinkle of her perfectly manicured brows. “Who— ? Oh! It’s the doctor!” 

Shiro looks up, sharp. He’s trapped, bloody, broken. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take. Being this close to Dr. Holt and not being able to do anything. Knowing that Keith's tormentor is only steps away and yet Shiro is here, leashed. Hands squeezed into fists, he grits his teeth and lowers his gaze. 

After Allura verifies him, Dr. Holt is able to unlock the door with a biosignature, his fingerprint. From his glass cage, Shiro hears the door decompress as it opens. He hears Allura’s breath— a quick inhale, shock. 

Shiro looks up just in time to see Holt’s corpse being flung into the room. He doesn’t go far; the body thunks against the floor and slaps once more as it rolls over to a stop. Holt’s mouth is open in an endless silent scream. Some teeth missing, angry red gaps in their place. Eyes rolled back. A patch of his scalp torn away, ugly flap of skin mixed with his sandy brown hair hanging from his skull. There’s a piece of metal in his neck, sticking out at a vicious angle from the jugular. 

The piece of metal is the neural implant, the ‘link’ that Dr. Holt surgically bonded to Keith’s skull. 

Keith strides in the room, stepping over Dr. Holt’s body. He looks at Shiro— half of his face is stained red. The blood is viscous and thick, creasing in the lid of his eye and the lines around his mouth as he turns to Shiro and smiles a toothy grin. “Found you,” he says. 

*

The smell in the room is like nothing that Keith has ever experienced before. 

Death hangs in the air, cloying and sweet. Shiro is covered in it. 

“Keith— I thought.” Shiro shakes his head, and Keith can smell the salt of tear tracks cutting through sweat and coppery blood. He tries to stand and stumbles. “She told me you—” He swallows, clearly unable to finish. 

“Are you okay?” Keith can tell that some of the blood in the air is Shiro’s own. He’s injured. 

“Am I okay? Keith— Keith, look at you.” 

Keith forgets himself and looks down at himself with a shrug. He winces, touching his head. The roaring burn of pain has settled, but it returns with a vengeance if he moves wrong. The wound over his ear is open and raw and tender. But his need to save Shiro has kept him going despite it. His alpha needs him. 

“I thought you were dead,” Shiro chokes, “ I thought they killed you. ” 

The doctor with the cold hands definitely tried. But he won’t touch anyone again. Keith made sure of that. Keith moves to comfort Shiro, but finds that there is a barrier between them— some scentless thing, warm and sparkling under his hands when he touches it. Shiro is trapped. 

Keith turns towards the laughing woman, “What did you do to Shiro? Let. Him. Go. ” 

There’s already a smile on her lips. “Marvelous,” she murmurs, and the smile breaks into a full grin, a girlish laugh. “Just marvelous, the both of you.” 

“Be careful, Keith.” Shiro’s voice is steady in his ears as Keith advances on the woman. She’s sitting on her desk, one ankle tucked behind the other, back straight. Like ancient royalty atop a throne. “Allura is much more dangerous than she seems.” 

“Shiro, darling, I’m blushing.” Allura chuckles and meets Keith’s eyes, amusement dancing in her own. Keith doesn’t see color as humans do— he doesn’t know how her eyes would look to Shiro, but to him they are unnaturally blue. There’s some understanding there, when Allura looks at him, that gives Keith pause. She notices it, and her smile lifts. She leans closer. “You’re just as clever as they say you are,” she says, just soft enough for him to hear. 

Keith flicks his knife into his palm. He wets his lips. His head is pounding. He’s dizzy and his vision is blurry. His limbs are heavy, like lined with lead. Death fills his lungs. 

Instinct jerks his attention away. Keith takes a deep breath, chin tucked as he turns his head, focus pulled elsewhere, the trail once again lighting up in his mind. This time, coming to him. He smells the owner of the Blood Lock approaching. At the door— 

Allura slides to her feet, heels snapping against the floor in graceful succession. “Be a dear and put this away for now,” she tells Keith, lightly touching the top of his hand which holds the knife. A whisper: “It’ll be over soon.” 

The scent of cherry drenched in chemicals, alcoholic, medicinal, foul, breezes into the room. 

“Sanda,” Shiro says, and it’s a curse. 

Three dogs are with her, huge animals trotting at her sides. 

“Oh—” Keith realizes. “Shiro—” 

A low growl cuts through the realization. All three dogs lock onto Keith as they enter the room. They are predatory; he knows that they must smell the way his blood races in his veins despite himself as the largest one staggers near, limbs unnaturally bent. Another one sniffs the body on the floor before it turns its attention to Keith. The third trots around the perimeter but finds him soon enough. Keith takes a step back and swallows down the smell of his own fear. Death. Terror. Pain. He’s drowning. 

“Hm. It lived afterall.” The woman called Sanda regards Keith with a cool look. She draws her gaze from him to the corpse of Dr. Holt on the ground. She sighs. “Takashi, this is not what we had agreed to. Disappointing.” 

Shiro swears at her, the prosthetic’s powerful glow leaving him standing in a pool of white light. He looks murderous. But Keith can’t study him, or reassure him— all of the focus he has left is on the dogs. They’re going to tear Keith apart. 

The one with metal teeth has its head lowered and fangs bared. It snaps at him and Keith takes a step back, almost falling into the one with the prosthetic limbs. Red eyes leer as the three of them corner him against the wall of Allura’s office. 

“Call them off, Sanda. Call them off!! ” Shiro is frantic. 

“Shit. Okay, okay, uh, nice doggies,” Keith coos, hands up, placating. They smell not just like animals, but something else too. He’s trapped. 

The door closes behind Sanda. Panic grows in his chest and Keith’s vision goes in and out. He blinks, focus darting between the dogs and Sanda and Shiro and Allura. Something strange about Allura— Keith can’t smell satisfaction, but he thinks it would be rolling off of Allura if he could. She’s positively beaming as he watches her secure the only exit behind Sanda. 

“Hm. Allura, call the closest security detail. I’d like this thing out of here immediately— just look at the mess it’s made. After that’s taken care of, there’s the matter of the escort for our meeting tomorrow.” Sanda types something out on a datasheet and Shiro’s prosthetic goes dim. Evidently she’s able to disengage it. “Takashi,” 

Her voice trails off— 

With the dogs’ breath hot over his skin, Keith follows Sanda’s gaze as it turns towards Allura. Allura’s bracelets are glowing, drawing energy into her hands. The energy has a warm smell, one that takes Keith a moment to place, but then he realizes: it’s the smell of sunshine. He closes his eyes and can remember growing up on planet. How real warmth feels different on the skin, how light and strong it felt. For a moment, just that split second, the pain goes away. Keith opens his eyes. 

The glow takes shape, not a blade, or a holosnipe, but of an arrow. Allura looks at Keith over it, and smiles, and raises her arms as if stringing a bow, 

And she releases it: 

Energy pierces the air, cleaving it in two. It has a snappy, sharp smell, bright and floral. Green. Sunny. The arrow strikes Sanda and she goes staggering back, but it’s the strangest thing: 

It’s as if her scent splits in two— dry, brittle death releases from Sanda’s body like a cloud of crematorium ash rising off of her. It leaves behind a human scent, skin and blood and breath, fabric and lotion and makeup and hair. Someone who was living. 

Sanda screams. It’s a horrible sound. Keith doesn’t hear like alpha-betas hear, he’s been told, and he wonders if Shiro is hearing the same thing— the split of her voice. It’s as though two voices are screaming, one human and one pitched all wrong, so thin and terrible it sounds unnatural, undead. The two voices are choked from her as the energy strikes her. She falls. She seizes on the floor, thin bones clattering until life leaves them. 

When Sanda settles, dead, the body left there somehow looks more alive than the skeleton that walked into the room. 

“What—” Shiro breathes out a question, leaving it unfinished, hanging in the air.

One of the dogs, scared by the noise, whines. The one with the unnatural eyes winces, red orbs half closed as it lets out a low, worried whimper. The biggest one hangs its great head and cowers closer to Keith. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Keith says, drawing up courage. He puts his hand out and it smells him. These are not monsters— they are dogs. He attempts comfort with a rub of his hand over its head. Poor guy. Instinct kicks up a purr. Keith swallows and lets it expand from him, offering comfort. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” 

“Ha!” A laugh breaks from Allura’s mouth. Another, and another, and then she throws back her head and laughs and laughs and laughs, shoulders shaking. Her long hair falls out of the knot and cascades down her back, shimmering as joy bubbles out of her. “Boys,” she says, finally catching her breath. She grins at Keith and Shiro. “I’d like to formally welcome you to the resistance.” 

*

“The resistance?” Keith wonders aloud, but Shiro is more focused on the motion of Allura walking over to her desk once more. With a press of her fingers against a holo-key, she releases the iridescent field surrounding him. 

Shiro crosses the room in an instant. He wraps Keith up in his arms. Holding him. “Keith.” He’s alive and whole and here, and Shiro will never, never let him walk into danger alone like this again. Not for Shiro, not for anyone. Relief floods him, so profound he could sob with it. “Keith,” 

“Yeah?” Keith breathes against his neck. He sounds weak. Even his purr, once a steady thrum, is disjointed, meager. “M’glad you’re feeling better, Shiro. I found the Lock for you. I did good, huh?”

“You did so good,” Shiro releases him. Keith’s pupils are narrow and unfocused. Blood is smeared and drying all over him— down his face, in his hair, his clothes. Shiro holds his hand in the prosthetic and finds that Keith’s vitals are thready. His hands are cold. He has a significant open wound on his head, and bruising down his neck and arms— and that’s just what Shiro can see, just the parts of him that aren’t covered in blood. “Allura, we need to get to a doctor.” 

“No doctors,” Keith says, shaking his head. “Ow.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “That hurts.” 

One of Sanda’s Dobermans whines and boofs into Shiro’s legs before sitting and looking up at him significantly. It seems like they’ve all taken a liking to Keith. 

“I have just the person,” Allura says. She touches Shiro’s shoulder. “Follow me.” 

“What about your arm?” Keith asks, frowning. He puts his hands on Shiro’s chest, backing away. “And what’s she talking about with ‘resistance’? Can we even trust her? Shiro— stop. You can’t just forget about everything just for me.” 

He doesn’t understand. “I can assure you: I’ve had a very recent experience which indicates to me that if you are not okay, none of those things matter to me.” Shiro takes Keith’s torn up hand and presses cold fingertips against his mouth. “Your hands are cold, baby. Please.” 

“Baby?” Keith squints. 

“You’ve saved me,” Shiro says. “Now it’s my turn.” 

At that, Keith blinks through a soft smile. “I told you we weren’t keepin’ track,” he slurs. He looks unsteady on his feet. 

“Taking turns is not the same as keeping score,” Shiro informs him, and gathers Keith into his arms. It’s criminally easy to lift him off the floor. Immediately, instinctively, Keith nuzzles into his neck. “And I am not above exploiting a technicality.” 

Keith hums and Shiro feels it against his skin. 

They must make a strange sight, parading down the hall— Allura in the lead, heels snickering against Garrison gray tile. Shiro, holding Keith in his arms, both of them covered in blood, some of it their own, much of it belonging to other people. The three great Dobermans, trailing close behind. 

Keith is right— Shiro should be concerned. Allura— it’s difficult to even process this— Allura killed Sanda. Sanda is dead. Sanda— was not Sanda? This whole thing is bigger than he knew. 

They exit the building, and a transport ship is waiting. It’s small enough for public thoroughfares, large enough for space flight. Unmarked. Hovering and ready to leave. 

“I believe you’ve met before—” Allura starts, 

“ Wowsiers . Busy day, huh? I should really cut you a deal with how much business you bring in.” The colony’s most obnoxious medical examiner shoots Shiro a lazy grin. 

“Lance.” Somehow Shiro is not surprised. 

Lance gives him a casual salute from the entryway of the ship. “The one and only! Good to see you again, big man.” He waves them in, “C’mon, c’mon, chopchop, that guy you’ve got is looking like death warmed over. And I would know.” 

‘The resistance,’ Shiro learns, is an interstellar organization devoted to counter Zarkon’s cruel reign. They’re spread throughout the galaxy, but Allura, as one of their core members, was the one tasked with infiltrating the Galaxy Garrison. She worked her way to the very top until she was able to position herself directly under Sanda. Today was the culmination of a very long game. 

“You’ve always been a special case,” Allura tells Shiro with a knowing smile. They’re off Garrison property now, transported to a room on a ship that Shiro didn’t even know existed prior to stepping foot inside. It looks foreign— not at all the industrial buildings of the colony, or the malignant architecture of a Zarkonian ship. Not even like the Harvester’s ship. Something else. “We have had our eyes on you for years, Takashi Shirogane.” 

“I’d like to offer you an apology, then,” Shiro says, dry. Allura has his hand in hers again, and she’s tending to the wound in his palm. This time he’s letting her— only because Keith is safe and within arm’s reach. 

“Stop. It.” Keith grits out. “That hurts, you asshole!” He may be safe, but he is not happy.

“It’s because you keep moving!” Lance declares. Keith has on a patch for pain and emergency fluids transfusing into his arm via a needleless port. Lance has spread out a MTD and is painstakingly removing the pieces left of the link device and repairing the damage. The lion’s share of the appliance is impaled in Sam Holt’s neck— Keith pried it out of his skull and gave it a new home on his own. “I’m used to patients who know how to lay still!” 

Allura laughs. 

Keith grumbles something under his breath. His head is bowed and Lance’s long fingers are delicately working behind his ear. 

“That is so rude,” Lance says. He spins the tool he’s using with an exaggerated flourish. “People are dying to get an appointment with legendary Dr. Lance McClain. And here I am, once again, helping you out of the goodness of my beautiful heart—” 

“What people? You smell like Axe body spray and banana pudding and embalming fluid,” Keith counters, arms folded across his chest. “It’s disgusting.” 

“Yeah, well, you have a tragic haircut. Mullets haven’t been in style for at least five hundred years—”

“Lance,” Shiro warns. He sees Keith’s hand moving and he still has a knife on him. “For your own safety: stop.” 

“Mouth breather,” Lance hisses. 

Keith casually flips the MTD over with a push of his foot. Medical supplies tumble across the floor. One of Sanda’s Dobermans— all three of them have stayed close to Keith— lifts his head in interest. 

“Worst patient!!! Worst patient award, right here!!!” Lance shrieks. “Mr. Merciless, can we do something about this guy, or what?!” 

Ignoring him, Keith stands, rips out his port, takes a step. And immediately stumbles. 

Shiro is there to catch him. “Keith.” 

“M’okay Shiro. Really.” Keith steadies himself. “What about your arm?” Keith’s touch is light over Shiro’s artificial wrist. The device that Pidge installed is still there, lying dormant until they can somehow undo the Blood Lock.

The prosthetic is functioning as normal for now, but with Sanda dead and lying on the Garrison floor, from which they are getting ever further, Shiro may have missed his opportunity to free himself from this technology’s rule. He finds himself oddly at peace with this, if the alternative was losing Keith. 

“I don’t know if that is in the cards for me, afterall.” 

Keith looks up at him, yellowed eyes more clear than before, dark brows pulled together. “What do you mean?” 

“Sanda was the owner of the Lock, correct? And she’s gone.” 

Allura offers as much explanation as they’re likely to get: “Unfortunately, the woman known as Ellen Sanda has been gone for a long time. Haggar of Zarkon was using her. Controlling her with a technology that we still can’t fully elucidate even after years of observation. The weapon that was designed to separate the two,” she lifts a bracelet from her wrist, “was only developed thanks to much sacrifice. Whether her involvement with Haggar was through Sanda’s own arrangement or, more likely, against her will, at long last in death she is finally free.” 

“And Shiro should be free too,” Keith insists. “But, not in death,” he amends. He won’t let this go. “It wasn’t the bad cherry lady who had the Blood Lock.” He squats down and scritches at the head of one of the Dobermans. The one with the artificial limbs. The animal is huge. “It’s this guy.” 

Shiro can’t comprehend this— blood from one of the dogs is the key to uncoupling his arm from Garrison domain?

A chuckle from Allura. “Haggar had a horrible sense of humor. He might be right.” 

“Of course I’m right.” Keith retorts with a scowl. He withdraws his knife. Shiro swallows. “Shake, boy,” Keith tells the dog. Obedient, it gives him a paw. The bloodless one, made of the same foul material attached to Shiro. “Other paw,” Keith says, patient. The dog shifts and offers the other paw. “Now you,” Keith tells Shiro, with an insistent motion that Shiro give him his hand. “Ready?” 

It takes just a prick of the paw pad— the slightest hurt, a drop of blood against an ocean of the blood that Shiro has already spilled— and Shiro watches as his arm comes to life. It opens up in a way that it never has before— pieces of polycarbonate overlay unfurling like a flower in bloom. It feels…strange. Not painful. Datasheet after datasheet after datasheet rise over the prosthetic. Pidge’s device glows and begins to spin around his wrist. 

Actually, that took forever, Pidge’s message floats between the datasheets. Glad you finally found it. Stand still. I’m working.

Keith disappears from view as Shiro finds himself surrounded by innumerable screens, all of them moving—Pidge’s code runs past him. His arm feels light. His arm feels new. The power that he’s hated is rushing into him, strengthening and healing. But now it comes less violently, as if poured with care rather than a typhoon in which he is caught. He takes a deep breath, adjusts his posture with a roll of his shoulders. He can breathe again. 

“Oh,” he says, and it’s not just his arm that feels light. It’s all of him. He didn’t realize how weighted down he was until just this moment. One-by-one, the datasheets fold into themselves, disappearing from view. Finally, just one remains. 

Assign new administrator? It asks. 

Shiro places his palm— his human hand— on the screen. The sheet collapses. It’s done. He’s free. 

“Good boy,” Keith says, planting a toothy kiss on the dog’s muzzle. It wags its docked tail, and the other dogs catch onto the excitement. They bound around the room, happy. Keith stands and looks at Shiro. “How does it feel?” 

Heart in his throat, Shiro embraces him. The arm is moving differently than it did before; he’ll have to learn how to control this. He finds himself somehow looking forward to the challenge. To the future. The Garrison won’t be involved. Gratitude— for the feeling, for the freedom, for Keith— overwhelms him. “Thank you,” he says, holding him. “Thank you.” 

*

Keith is thankful to get the scent of other people’s blood washed off of him. After Shiro’s arm is fixed, the loud and nasty smelling doctor did some more poking and prodding before declaring that Keith is ‘medically cleared’ to wash up. The laughing woman— Allura— is in charge here. She leads Shiro and Keith through a hall with many scents and gives them each a room of their own. 

Other people have stayed in this room recently, Keith finds. The ship is essentially a moving safe house, meant for members of the resistance to use between jobs in the colony. It’s docked for now, but with all the chaos of the Garrison Massacre— the propaganda outlets have already coined a name for today’s events, though they won’t get the facts right, he knows— Allura said they’ll likely leave the colony as soon as clearance goes through. Though some key members of the Garrison are now gone, the organization will doubtlessly regroup in no time at all. The resistance will be waiting. Letting his mind wander, Keith examines the smells of past guests while he scrubs himself clean in the en suite. An older man,and then a guy that smells somehow similar to Pidge, even another hound. It makes Keith wonder about what kind of future lies in working with the members of the resistance. Keith can’t imagine having the ability to come and go as they please.

He stops when he smells Shiro at the door. Curious, Keith leans forward to peek around the bathroom entryway— Shiro is standing outside the door to the room, but the door isn’t opening. “It’s unlocked!” Keith calls out. “Come in!!” 

The door opens. Shiro has showered already— the smell of death that was blanketing his skin is more subtle now, taking a backseat to skin freshly cleansed and different clothes. 

“I want to make sure you’re ok— oh!” 

Keith can smell the blush that floods the tips of Shiro’s ears. “What?” he asks, looking down at himself. 

“Apologies, Keith,” Shiro shuffles away out of view from where Keith is sitting in the bathroom tub. “I didn’t realize…”

“What’s the problem?” Keith looks around to see if there’s anything to be concerned about— he doesn’t smell any problems. It seems foolish that his alpha would be concerned about seeing him without clothes. 

“Oh, Keith. Sweetheart, your head.” Shiro gets closer then, tentative in the way that he seems to wait for Keith’s objection between each step. No objection will come; Keith wants to teach him this. 

He leans in to get a closer look at Keith’s chopped hair and the injury, a mournful sound escaping him as he does so. He doesn’t touch, though his hands are raised as if he wants to. Then Shiro kneels down, position of the raised tub such that Keith is sitting taller than him. Keith looks down into grayblue eyes and finds them full of emotion. “I’m so sorry, Keith. I’m so sorry.” 

“It wasn’t you,” Keith says. The wound on his head is sore, but the dull pain now is nothing compared to the sharp burn of before. And the bruises from escaping the lab— around his neck, down his chest, his wrists, even the soreness of his fingertips— all of that will fade in time. He’s okay. 

“It may as well have been,” Shiro says, so soft that Keith almost doesn’t hear the words. “Keith— I’ve hurt so many people. Not hurt. Killed. Slaughtered. Today— I— when I thought you were gone,” 

Keith makes a sound of acknowledgement as Shiro’s voice falters. His elegant features twisted in pain. He looks so lost. Nothing like the cold confidence of the Garrison’s most powerful. 

“I’m not a gentle man,” Shiro finally tells him, like a confession, voice weighty with the truth of it. Even now, the smell of death lingers in the peripheral, a memory not far off. 

Mouth open, Keith inhales. 

Shiro. 

Water splashes as Keith lifts his hand, offering Shiro the washing cloth. He can’t think of another word than ‘gentle’ as Shiro takes it, presses it to Keith’s temple, the tender line of his hair, wiping away the last of the antiseptic used in managing the wound. Shiro is markedly careful with him, rinsing out his hair, wiping down his chest, his shoulders, his back. Keith thinks that the way Shiro presses a soft mouth to the back of his hand, his arm, kissing where the needleless port was, can only be described as ‘gentle.’ 

Keith stands and Shiro stands with him, encircling his waist with an arm, helping him out of the tub. His hands— both of them— are big, warm, steady for holding. Water collects and runs in rivulets down Keith’s legs until Shiro kneels and dries them with a towel. He presses the towel against Keith’s skin, maddeningly slow, moving up Keith’s body as if he has to check every part of him for injury or hurt. But Keith can smell the sweet quickening of his pulse. A build of darker arousal that Shiro can’t hide, that Keith doesn’t want him to hide. Keith takes the towel that Shiro is using to squeeze out his hair, so gentle as not to pull, and lets it drop to the floor. 

Keith reaches up for his face and Shiro bends closer, eyes falling shut. Apprehension is laced in between his brows, grief still pulls at his mouth. Of all the people and circumstances that Keith has faced in his life, none of them have treated him as Shiro has. If Shiro isn’t ‘gentle’ then ‘gentle’ isn’t what Keith wants. 

Keith kisses him. 

As before, he smells so good, so right , that Keith can’t help but thrum with it. He wants to live in it, to cover himself with the way Shiro smells, to stay there. He lets out a low, satisfied, purring groan, licking into Shiro’s mouth, looping an arm around Shiro’s neck, pulling him closer. Shiro’s body is solid against Keith’s own. The prosthetic is a heavy weight on the small of Keith’s back. Shiro’s mouth is hot, his teeth are blunt and strange, he holds Keith’s jaw with his human hand, 

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice is heady. 

“Don’t tell me to stop,” Keith warns. He laps at Shiro’s neck, teeth skating alongside his jaw. Pressing into hot flesh made hotter with his mouth. They’ve been through this before. “Don’t act like you—” 

“No, no, I won’t be doing that again,” Shiro murmurs. Keith feels Shiro’s hand slide down his neck. He is rubbing at the sensitive spot there, one thumb over the scent gland. Keith shivers with the sensation, slickness already spreading between his legs. 

He whines, touching himself, and Shiro swears. The sound of it is low and heavy, a match for the smell of his desire. Organic and weighty— it’s the way his blood pools in his thick veins, the taste of his mouth, the flavor of his skin. Keith grabs at Shiro’s shirt, holding him in place. He presses his face into Shiro’s neck, inhaling deeply against him as he ruts into his own hand. 

“Look at you,” Shiro says. Breathes. And then he’s kneeling before Keith again, but with a different intention than before:

His mouth is hot over Keith’s stomach, hands heavy over Keith’s hips. He trails kisses down, teasing with his blunt teeth, nosing into dark hair, mouth soft over Keith’s thighs, breath hot over Keith’s aching cock. He takes it into his mouth and Keith inhales, sharp, wet, spiling slick. Shiro. 

Keith cries out as Shiro laps at his entrance. His hand encircles Keith’s cock and he’s gentle with it, stroking Keith even as his tongue is merciless about collecting the outpouring of slick. Keith’s fingertips are buried in Shiro’s still-damp hair, sending motes of fragrance into the air as his fingers spasms and he pulls. Clean citrus of the shampoo floats above the potent smell of sex. Shiro has found that Keith has scent glands on his inner thighs as well; when he presses into one at the same time as his tongue dips inside Keith, and his other hand works at Keith’s cock, Keith shudders and fills the room with the smell of his own release. 

“Fuck,” Keith swears, head thrown back, breathless. The way Shiro’s mouth smells with Keith on his lips— “Fu-uck,”

As soon as he stands again, Keith is pushing him into the wall, lapping at his skin. Tasting himself in Shiro’s mouth. “Off,” he demands of Shiro’s clothes, every steady bound of Shiro’s heavy pulse caught in his senses. Shiro’s broad shoulders and chest— Keith mouths along, worlds harsher than Shiro was against his skin. He leaves stinging marks, redolent of the blood beneath the surface in his wake. 

“Ah, Keith—” Shiro is hard, cock straining in his trousers. Keith wants to taste it, wants to drink in every part of him, wants to breath him from the inside, 

“I believe I said something before about a door. And a bed,” Shiro says, voice pitched thin. 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. 

There is a bed. The room is small, quiet, dark— but Keith sees better in the dark. 

He watches like a predator starved as Shiro’s button down slips from his shoulders. His trousers dip below his ass and Keith wets his lips. The sheets might have had their own smell, but in moments they’ll be covered in something else. Sweat and sex, lush exertion, dominant, instinctual, right . 

Shiro is sweet about it— a little awkward— as he motions for Keith to join him in the bed. Holding him closer than before, his chest pressed against Keith’s, kissing him, kissing him. He’s stroking under Keith’s ear, with the lightest touch as his mouth moves, as though he can assuage any pain. Keith is caught in the taste of him, in the smell of his skin, in the way their hips roll together. He can smell the hard length of him, even as he feels it presses against him. He wants it. 

Keith pushes him, turning them over so that Shiro’s back is flat against the sheets. He takes the sweet pull of Shiro’s mouth and turns it fervent— sloppy and sharp as he bites his lips and breathes his breath. The firm flesh of Shiro’s chest breaks under his teeth and Keith tastes blood— coppery, decadent— and Shiro gasps. 

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice is a haze, “Fuck,” 

He pets down Keith’s back, but Keith grabs his human arm, forcing it over Shiro’s head, pinning it against the bed. He licks a stripe up the exposed flesh— where the muscle of his chest knits with his underarm, where his underarm becomes the taut muscle of his upper arm. Keith buries his face there, inhaling his scent, kissing that all-too-tender flesh with his fangs. It’s a shame he showered recently, but still. Keith’s mouth is watering. Musk and metal, salt, Shiro, 

Keith licks at Shiro’s fingers, tasting the edge of the wound in his palm, already mostly knit together from the power of the prosthetic. He sucks Shiro’s fingers, rutting his hard cock against Shiro’s thigh. 

Shiro is touching himself, the prosthetic wrapped around his dick. His body is taut with the force of it, blood pounding in his veins. Keith can smell the glisten of pre as it spills over his cockhead. Keith releases Shiro’s fingers, eyes fluttering closed as they stroke his neck, pressure against his sensitive marks. He’s drooling but doesn’t have the presence of mind to wipe it away, aware of it only as he wets his lips, watching the movement of Shiro in the dark. 

The sound of it— sharp snap of skin and metal— is uninteresting compared to the heat of Shiro’s skin, the smell of his mouth, the slide of Keith’s slick over his thigh as he jerks himself. Keith heaves out a breath, dizzy with want. Shiro’s hand smooths over Keith’s ass. Slow, firm— his fingertips press into Keith— big. Keith bites down, feeling his body shudder. His fangs nick the top of Shiro’s shoulder. A drop of blood wells there. Shiro groans as Keith laps it up. Shiro’s scent blooms over his tongue, and Keith is so wet and hard— his world is limited to this, just this: Shiro. Finally, his. 

At long last, Keith buries his teeth in the side of Shiro’s neck. 

His mouth is flooded with Shiro’s scent— the scent of his alpha, printed indelible on his memory, the one whom he will always find, like a North Star from ancient times, his constant— he comes tasting Shiro’s pulse. Pleasure strikes him in waves. Keith swallows, drinking him in, lapping as the bite in the cords of Shiro’s neck gushes again, hot and splendid, painting the inside of his mouth, down his chin and chest.

“Alpha,” Keith is drunk on it, wanting, wanting, “ Shiro ,” 

With a grunt, Shiro rolls them over, pinning Keith underneath him— and Keith revels in it, his alpha, so commanding, so strong. Shiro’s weight settles over top of him. He pushes inside with one long, slow thrust, 

And Keith is full. Mouth and nose bathed in him. He can feel Shiro all the way down his throat. His chest is a thick, stuttering purr, and Shiro is praising him above it— “Keith, Keith, you feel so good, I—” Keith pulls him closer, gasping as Shiro fucks him so deep, fills him so well. His hips rock against Keith’s scent glands and Keith is drowning in it. 

When Shiro climaxes, it is with Keith’s body pressed against his. He can smell Shiro’s cum, his blood, his skin, his sweat, his desire. Shiro holds him and Keith shakes, his own cum painting his chest, mingling with the overwhelming smell of his alpha. 

He blankets Keith, holding him, the prosthetic hand cradling the back of Keith’s head so that his injury isn’t hurt. Keeping Keith safe. Blood drips down Shiro’s neck, over his clavicle, down towards the swell of his chest. Keith makes sure that no drop will go wasted; he gathers it up with the curve of his finger and slips it into his mouth. 

Alpha. 

Shiro. 

His. 

*

One Year Later: 

*

A notification rises over Shiro’s prosthetic. It’s silent, but accompanied by a slight pressure— almost like someone is touching the back of his hand— and, in this case, a green hue. 

“How long until you reach target?” 

Shiro adjusts the datasheet, angling it away from the open entrance of the cockpit, and lowering the volume. Keith stayed up late piloting—Shiro’s devoted the last few missions to teaching him in their downtime, and it’s come as no surprise to him to learn that Keith’s a natural— and he’s still asleep for now. No need to wake him for a phone call. Shiro sips at an Orange Crush— he keeps his ship well stocked. “Whatever happened to ‘good morning’?” 

Pidge wrinkles their nose. They’ve been doing better since reuniting with Matt, their brother, but Shiro knows from many a long overnight chat with them that insomnia can still be a challenge. He understands. “Actually, I was just about to go to bed.” 

“‘Pidge.” 

“Shiro.” At his unamused expression, they roll their eyes and tamp down a smile. “Okay, alright, don’t sic Allura on me, I promise to get all kinds of ‘rest,’” They pair the word with aggressive quotations, “As soon as this assignment is over, actually. Which is why I need to know: how long until you reach target ?” 

Calculations for re-entry are promptly sent; Shiro and Keith have been preparing for this assignment for weeks. They’ll be entering the colony again. This time not as Garrison executive and hound, but as Shiro and Keith, members of the resistance. Undercover, of course. Officially, they are Mr. and Mr. Jones, visiting the colony for an intersolar event. Shiro enjoys the charade a little too much: he even had a ring made for Keith. “It looks like we have about five hours in orbit until Class 0.6 tethers are available. Let’s say 13:00 by the time we’re boots on the ground.” 

“Thirteen hundred hours, got it.” Pidge is already doing something else, code flitting back and forth over their glasses. “I’ll let everybody know.” 

“Pidge.” Shiro uses the prosthetic to squeeze their hand. He likes that the digital touch can go both ways now. “Sleep.” 

“Actually, you’re as bad as Hunk,” they grumble. They swat his ‘hand’ away.  

“Nope! No one is as bad as me!” Hunk chimes in, cheerful, from outside the frame. 

Shiro shakes his head as the call devolves into mild bickering between them. Pidge has already moved on to the next task; he disconnects the line. 

Outside his cruiser, the colony spins. 

It looks beautiful like this, Shiro thinks. The sun is positioned such that the colony is gilded in gold, all its arcs and levels glittering as they slowly rotate around one another. The hooked spires look delicate as they stretch outward into space— like a flower in bloom, aching to send humanity ever further. 

He thinks of the suffering there in the depths of the colony’s streets. In all her towering buildings and lowly alleys, so much of it driven by the baser urges of human nature, greed and corruption and cowardice. He’s aware of the part he played there. He’s part of something bigger now, an organization that actively undoes some of the damage he caused. The work is healing, but it’s about so much more than his personal journey. It’s about creating hope. A future. He believes in it. 

Anchored in space, he watches the colony spin for a moment more, and then stands. 

The door to their bedroom opens with a touch of his human hand against the keypad. Red eyes glance up at him from the floor, but soon close again with a sleepy snuffle. The largest of the Dobermans, whom Keith has dubbed ‘Humphrey,’ is sleeping at the foot of the bed. The other two are close by. Keith’s purr blankets the room in sound. 

Even in sleep, Keith recognizes Shiro. Shiro can hear the purr soften as Keith inhales when he enters the room. He mumbles under his breath, “Thhiro,” and nuzzles into a pillow. Shiro is quiet as he leads the dogs out to feed them their breakfast, and shuts the door behind him, now alone with Keith sighing out his name. Shiro has long since abandoned the practice of denying Keith anything; he makes his way through the significant nest of blankets which Keith prefers, and positions himself at the center, with Keith in his arms. 

He must fall asleep, if only briefly. 

Shiro wakes up with the press of Keith’s teeth against his neck. “Keith.” 

Keith sits up and grins down at Shiro, eyes yellow and glinting in the low light of their room. “Hey.” 

Shiro laughs and rolls over, pinning Keith to the sheets. They tussle, but Shiro knows a finishing move: he kisses across Keith’s jaw, then downward, sucking at one of the scent glands at the base of his neck. 

“Ah!” Keith arches against him. He must have been enjoying himself on his own before waking Shiro— his small cock is already shiny with slick, purple and lovely as it strains from the dark hair between his legs. The thought makes Shiro burn . He knows Keith smells it by the way he wets his lips, tossing his head back, eyes fluttering. Shiro takes Keith’s cock—

It fits into Shiro’s hand, just so; slick like silk against Shiro’s palm. He knows how Keith likes to be teased— he’s slow, deliberate, as his touch tightens around Keith and he sucks hard at Keith’s neck. 

“Shit—shit,” Keith gasps, body jerking as he comes. He soaks Shiro’s hand. His nails sink into Shiro’s bicep on one side and scratch against the impenetrable material of the prosthetic. He sags into the bed with a purring sigh, going lax under Shiro’s weight. 

Shiro takes his slick soaked hand and wraps it around himself, then, groaning against Keith’s sweat sticky skin. He’s already close. “Baby,” 

“Shiro,” Keith squirms underneath him. “Shiro—c’mon, no, Shiro ,” 

Pain— bright, clean— laces through him. Keith bit him on the chest. Hard. Shiro stops and presses the mark he left— just over Shiro’s right nipple. “Keith!”

Licking his lips with a smirk, Keith pushes him. Shiro goes willingly, letting Keith arrange him amongst the pillows and the blankets. He crawls on top of Shiro, all pointed knees and leering eyes. “You weren’t listening,” he says, “And I want—” His eyes are almost fully black, pupils pulled so wide. He’s open mouthed as he licks penitently over the bite, then lower, meaning to take Shiro,  

“You need to be careful with these,” Shiro says, stopping him, reaching up to grab Keith by the jaw. His fangs glint with saliva in the dark. 

“No, I don’t,” Keith returns. This is a discussion they have, not infrequently. He holds still while Shiro presses the pads of his fingers against the points. Dark brows raise suggestively. He sucks. Shiro’s dick twitches. Keith grins down at him as Shiro blurts pre cum. He already knows it’s there by the scent alone. “Yeah. Stay still,” 

Releasing his hold, Shiro watches as Keith shifts and lowers his face to smell him. He feels Keith’s breath shudder out, and a soft “Fuck,” as he touches himself, mouthing at Shiro’s balls, inhaling deeply, mouth hot as he licks up Shiro’s shaft. There’s a suggestion of teeth— the suggestion of something feral, uncontrollable. It’s insane how Shiro craves it. Wilder still, how Keith stokes the flame. 

Shiro swears. Keith must know how close he is. He’s open mouthed and drooling as he changes position. Shiro’s hands are tight over Keith’s narrow hips— Keith lowers himself onto Shiro’s cock in one slow movement, both of them groaning as he slides inside. 

Keith is so wet and soft and hot— Shiro holds him, rolling his hips up, body tightly strung, unable to think except for this: “Keith, baby, I can’t, sweetheart, you’re so, you feel so good, baby, fuck, Keith, Keith—” 

He comes, holding Keith, so tight, too tight, “Keith!!” 

“I’m here,” Keith breathes, his hands work at getting under Shiro’s clenched fingers, firm, until Shiro realizes himself and releases his grip. “Better,” Keith approves, purring, settling against Shiro’s chest. Shiro is still inside him and the vibration is too much until Keith distracts him from the sensation, licking at his neck. 

Shiro’s hands settle over the small of his back, stroking up and down his spine in soft, slow movements. Keith ruts against him in time with the movement, teeth grazing Shiro’s throat. Shiro encourages him, voice thick: “That’s right, baby, I have you, Keith, good, good,” Keith’s mouth clamps down, just hard enough to draw blood, and Shiro hears his small, breathy cry at the same time as Keith clenches around him and spills against him. He goes lax in Shiro’s arms. 

Keith’s skin is so soft, almost downy with the light dusting of hair over it. He holds him, fingertips careful over his hips. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Shiro asks. He was gripping Keith’s waist and the prosthetic arm— 

Snorting, Keith rolls off of him. He makes a face, eyes fluttering, mouth ajar, and then he realizes himself and responds to the question: “No, you didn’t.” He wets his fingertips and wipes at Shiro’s chest and neck before sucking them clean. “But, uh. I don’t know if this will be healed before we drop for the mission. Sorry.” 

“You’re not,” Shiro chuckles. He reaches over and tucks hair behind Keith’s ear. There’s still a rough patch there, where the implant was, but it’s unnoticeable to anyone but Shiro. The same can be said for the trauma he endured, sometimes manifesting in tight breathlessness or sudden fear. But, just as Keith holds Shiro during nightmares, Shiro makes a safe place for him in those moments. They take care of each other now. Shiro sits up on one elbow. “It’s fine. I’ll just tell Allura I came into contact with a rogue assailant and had to take him out.” 

“Rogue assailant.” Keith looks unimpressed. “Shiro, everyone knows you’re a complete softy. You have a reputation for being the resistance’s sweetest golden boy. No one’s gonna believe that.” 

Shiro frowns. 

“Yeah, so,” Keith yawns. “So just tell them it was me.” He snuggles into Shiro, pulling him back into bed, piling multiple blankets over top of them both. 

“Keith. You can’t go back to sleep. We need to shower.” 

“No.” Keith plants a kiss on Shiro’s jaw. 

“Keith. I’m sticky.” Shiro moves to get up, but Keith holds him in place. 

“No. You smell good like this,” Keith tells him. His tone is lethal. “Don’t move.” The look he gives Shiro is usually accompanied by the sharp edge of a blade— one that Shiro knows is within arm’s reach. 

Shiro checks the time and their location in orbit on the prosthetic. “A few more minutes,” he allows. 

He thinks that Keith likely doesn’t hear him over the sound of his purring. 

* 

Inside the venue, it’s crowded. Hundreds of alpha-betas, all of them dressed in designer clothes, drenched in luxury— it doesn’t matter. Excess, opulence, these alone don’t have a smell, and so, they mean very little to Keith. Outside the venue, hidden, he paces back and forth, waiting for Allura to finish talking so they can get on with this. 

“...from there, you’re quite comfortable with the plan? You’ll let us know?” 

“Correct. Once we locate the inventory, I will message the team and we can begin the recovery phase.” Shiro’s voice is steady. “We won’t have much time.” 

Allura’s laugh is a short little thing, no more than a breath. “No we won’t. I imagine Lotor is expecting something of this nature. He’ll all but roll out the red carpet once he knows of our presence.” 

“We’ll be ready,” Shiro reassures her. He’s dressed to blend in with the crowd: a devastating three piece suit, and the kind of vis-holo jewelry that’s popular nowadays. Keith thinks the artificial diamonds look like starlight against his skin. “We always are.” 

“Can we get on with it?” Keith cuts in. There’s only so much rehashing he can stand. He feels like a holosnipe primed to fire with the trigger untouched. “Just give me the Article already!”

“Very well.” Allura produces a softpack, vacuum sealed. Inside is a single glove. Axca, one of their members, managed to recover it from Lotor’s second in command: Ezor. If the scent on the glove is anything to go by, she’s no stranger to spilling blood. 

Keith takes the Article from Allura, 

He presses it against his face. Keith inhales deeply, tilting his head back, letting the scent overwhelm him. He feels his shoulders drop and his mouth part as it sinks into his senses, coating every one of his nerves until it’s everything , more than he can stand. He wets his lips, tasting it in the air, body primed to find the trail and follow it. 

Shiro’s hand is a heavy weight on his shoulder. He squeezes and Keith swallows, feeling himself settle at the sensation. 

“Got it,” he says, voice throaty in his ears. He touches the back of his neck, and his mask slides into place. It’s more comfortable than the one he used to wear, while still providing him protection in a crowd. Keith moves towards the building, nerves strung tight, every instinct alight with a singular focus. “Cmon,” 

If Shiro says something to Allura, Keith doesn’t hear it. If Shiro says something to the people at the entrance, allowing them passage into the event, Keith doesn’t care. 

The lights are low in the venue. Many high profile people are here; it’s a high profile event, a place to see and be seen. Some of the colony’s most famous, most politically involved, some of the colony’s worst. It’s the perfect cover for Lotor. A year ago, his coup failed after the Garrison Massacre, but while Sanda’s death may have delayed his plans, it did not stop them. He’s forged an alliance with some other politician and they’ll likely finalize the details of the arrangement tonight. A huge supply of Garrison produced weaponry— the very same weapons that Sanda gave him— is supposed to sweeten the deal. But not if the resistance recovers it before it can reach its destination. 

Keith moves through the crowd with little interest in high profile celebrities or what they think of him. Shiro covers him, charming, confident, keeping anyone from getting too close. 

There. 

There. That’s it. The trail. It’s a rush of giddy satisfaction— so much so that Keith almost forgets himself and where he is. He shuffles in place, body thrumming with celebration. He wants to take off at a run. 

“She’s here?” Shiro asks him. 

“Not yet— two floors up.” Keith inhales, tongue against his teeth. “There—”

“That leads to the pavilion with the sky arch,” Shiro says, voice low in the throngs of people. He types something into his prosthetic. Probably letting Pidge know so that they can notify the team. “Ezor must be using the bridge to transport the weapons in.” 

Keith will find them. It’s only a matter of time now. 

“You with me?” Keith asks. From here he’ll be moving at a faster pace. 

“Always,” Shiro says. He catches Keith’s hand and places a kiss against his fingertips. 

Grinning, Keith tugs Shiro forward, body reveling in a new scent to chase. “Stay close, then.” 

Keith takes a deep breath and runs. 

***