#i actually gave her fingernails and i like Never draw fingernails so :0 ! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nanoland · 3 years

Text

drowstiel fic in progress

title: Clean Hands

fandom: Supernatural

pairings: Crowley/Castiel, Crowley/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester

blurb: In which Crowley is no one's first choice and he's totally fine with that! :) Really! :) :) :)

warnings: smut, cannibalism, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered

Trumpets sounded. Mortar cracked. The ceiling collapsed, squashing half of Crowley’s court, and holy, horrifying light flooded into every corner.

“We are going,” Castiel growled, storming up to the throne and grabbing him by the scruff, “for a drink.”

Crowley’s tail twitched, wordlessly instructing his bodyguards to stand down. “Um. Fine?”

“Now.”

“Alright, alright. Where?”

“I don’t care.”

So Crowley teleported them to a cosy little nook in Finland, highly ranked among his personal favourites and unknown to any colleagues or enemies. It had a roaring fireplace, generously padded chairs, thick faux fur rugs, and a table by a window through which one could watch snow gently blanketing the city of Rovaniemi.

They ordered Koskenkorva and cider and Salmari and beer – or rather, Crowley did, while Castiel stared broodingly into the fire – and competed to see who could get totally hammered first.

Castiel won. Castiel always won.

“Coke?” Crowley offered.

Scowling, the angel mumbled, “No. Nnn-o. Dean drinks Coke. Dean bought me a Coke once. Said I should try it. He always wants me to try things. Bacon and Star Wars and cowboy paraphernalia. Human things. Never wants to recipra… recipe… recital… never wants to try my things. Angel things. One-way street. Always.”

“Mmm. I can understand how that might feel invalidating, kitten. However, I was in fact offering you cocaine. Top-quality stuff, of course. Or weed?”

“Oh. Uhh – no. Thank you. Can I sit in your lap?”

With a put-upon sigh, Crowley settled back into his chair.

A woman seated across the room tutted disapprovingly as Castiel clambered onto him, twisting this way and that until he’d made himself comfortable with his legs dangling over the arm rest and his tousled head heavy on Crowley’s shoulder.

Looking her way with a pleasant, if carnivorous smile, Crowley said, “Your husband’s name is Verner. Your sister’s name is Aurelia. They’re currently having sex in your kitchen. Her bare, perky arse is resting on your oven mittens – the nice ones with the canary pattern. If you leave right now, you can catch them at it.”

“You are an abomination,” Castiel murmured into his neck as she bolted.

“You’re an absurdity,” he countered, sniffing his hair. Cheap shampoo. Cheap conditioner. Wood smoke, presumably from the boys’ latest hunt. Traces of blood. Traces of God.

The fire crackled. They drank some more.

“I gave Dean a feather,” Castiel said. “One of mine. It’s what we do to show loyalty. Admiration. When I served Heaven, I received feathers from various admirers every week.”

He sounded smug.

Adorable.

“It wasn’t sexual, mind,” he added, quickly.

“Of course.”

“Nor romantic. We don’t engage in such things. Nonetheless, it was meaningful. Is meaningful.”

“And Dean, I imagine, didn’t realize that.”

“Obviously not. I wasn’t expecting him to. He’s a human; why should he understand our customs? But I thought… I thought he’d at least ask. I was prepared for him to ask. I had an explanation ready to go. And then he didn’t. He took the feather, looked embarrassed, smiled, thanked me, and returned to doing Sam’s laundry.”

“Ouch.”

“I’ve never been so humiliated.”

Crowley gave him a consoling kiss, which he returned hungrily, though not cruelly. In this, Castiel was never cruel. Only demanding. Which was fine; Crowley liked being in demand.

When Castiel withdrew his questing tongue, he looked unsatisfied. (Brattish.) “Why must you always lurk so deep? Come forward. I want to see you.”

Huffing, like it wasn’t something he was asked to do and gladly did every time, Crowley let himself slide from his host’s brain into his eyeballs, turning them crimson; from his chest to his tongue, causing his breath to stink of petrol and graveyard dirt; from his veins to his extremities, prompting his fingernails and toenails to adopt a distinctly claw-like appearance. His expensive black socks would be ruined. “Better, birdy?”

Immediately, Castiel returned to kissing him. (Really, it felt as though he was trying to suck Crowley from his host’s mouth into his own.

Like he wants to eat me.

Crowley shivered happily.)

Drawing back, Castiel said, “Take us to a hotel room. I want to touch your penis.”

“I live but to serve.”

It had taken Crowley a while to work out what Castiel’s odd sexual ministrations made him feel like; a stim toy. The angel liked nothing more than to fiddle with him. To tug at his chest hair, to pluck at his nipples until they were plump and rosy, and yes, to poke and pat and play with his cock until Crowley whimpered.

“I don’t understand why he’s so reluctant to open up to me,” Castiel sighed, breath-taking on black silk sheets and settled between Crowley’s thighs, twirling grey-streaked pubic hair around his index finger.

“I like opening up to you,” said Crowley, and demonstrated.

Castiel lowered his head and peered appreciatively. “Your vessel is so much furrier than mine. Like you’ve glued a badger’s pelt between your buttocks.”

Some might have found a fuckbuddy who had only two settings – i.e. ‘the worst dirty talk conceivable’ and ‘pining for another man’ – frustrating. Crowley had long since put such petty grievances aside, because he was emotionally mature. Worldly. Smooth. Definitely not because he craved Castiel’s presence all day long and whispered his name to the stars at night.

“Hurry up and stick it in me, you twat.”

As Castiel hoisted Crowley’s legs over his shoulders, he stroked the hair there too. “Mmm. So fluffy. Honestly, with all this to keep you warm, I don’t see why you have to cover yourself in so many layers.”

“You’re one to talk! You’d wear that trench to the scorching outback if you got half the chance.”

“Temperature isn’t a factor for me. Besides, Dean likes me wearing it. It gives him a sense of continuity that he lacks in other areas of his life.”

Castiel couldn’t tell the difference between a groan of pleasure and a groan of exasperation. That was for the best.

Afterwards, Crowley arranged his host such that the majority of his weight rested on Castiel’s chest. So far, it was the only reliable way to ensure he didn’t get dressed and leave the moment they were done.

“Were you busy?” Castiel asked, panting. “When I entered Hell? You probably were. You’re always busy. You work even harder than Raphael used to.”

“Never too busy for you, pet,” he purred, punctuating his assurance with a saucy wiggle.

Castiel’s phone rang.

Castiel actually answered it (rather than his usual reaction to ringing phones – his or Crowley’s – when they were in bed, which was to narrow his eyes at them until their screens cracked and they leaked smoke), which meant it was Dean.

“I am needed,” he announced, rolling Crowley off him.

With a mocking salute, Crowley slithered into the warm spot his body had left. “Godspeed, mighty warrior. Try not to lose any more feathers.”

Fumbling with his tie, Castiel said, “I’m planning to give him one more. A second chance. If he doesn’t react appropriately, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

The tie was abandoned, flopping half-knotted against his crisp white shirt. “I’ll be back for more sex. Goodbye.”

With that, he was gone.

Under his stolen skin, Crowley curled into a smoky ball and cursed the whole world.

‘Never too busy for you,’ he’d told Castiel.

‘My door’s always open,’ he’d promised Dean.

But surely they both understood that if they were going to summon him in the middle of the working day, they would, occasionally, be interrupting something?

“Is that a kidney?” said Dean, staring at the bloody lump in Crowley’s hand.

Flustered, Crowley popped it into his mouth and swallowed it. The thought occurred, a second later, that his instinctive, perfectly normal as per demon etiquette attempt to make the situation less awkward might have been ill-advised.

“I’ll just go, shall I?” he muttered dejectedly.

Dean shook his head, sighing. “Nah. Won’t make me unsee it. But we’re not kissing.”

“Could brush my teeth? Suck on a mint?”

“No. Now get your pants off. I don’t have all day.”

Dear boy. He wasn’t always like this. Often, Crowley appeared in the circle to find him red-eyed, puffy-nosed, and at least slightly drunk, and he’d touch Crowley without saying a word all evening. Other times, he’d be wound tight, buzzing with frustration after a hunt gone wrong or a fight with Castiel or Sam. On such occasions, sex would be more like a wrestling match, Dean’s quick reflexes and pickpocket cunning pitted against Crowley’s ability to lift a car with one hand, and after they’d brutalised one another for a few hours Dean would slide off Crowley’s cock with a bone-deep groan of satisfaction and sleep like the dead. Those times tended to be Crowley’s favourites.

But this was nice, too. Brisk, rude, faux-impatient – today, Dean was in a good mood. And Dean in a good mood meant one thing and one thing only.

“Jesus fu-aaah,” Crowley exhaled, having barely slipped his 100% virgin wool trousers down his thighs before the hunter entered the circle, dropped smoothly to his knees, and latched onto the waiting erection like there was a panel of judges mere metres away and a million dollar cash prize on the line.

Dean Winchester wasn’t nearly as good at sex as he thought he was. But he always, always tried his best, and sometimes that raw enthusiasm was erotic enough all on its own.

“So,” said Dean, pulling back to study his work with that critical mechanic’s eye. “Something weird happened the other day.”

“Really? To you?”

“No, not normal Winchester-brand weird. No new apocalypses brewing, far as I’m aware. Just… y’know. Odd.”

Abruptly, he stood up, wiping his lips, and took Crowley by the arm. Sweeping the edge of his shoe through the circle, he all-but-frogmarched him across the room to the old mattress he’d set up in a corner specifically for these occasions.

(They didn’t always have sex in a grimy abandoned shed three miles from the nearest road. Sometimes they had sex in grimy abandoned cars with wheels buried in knee-deep weeds or, when Dean was feeling unusually romantic, dive bar bathrooms. Crowley didn’t care. He’d fucked Napoleon III in a haystack once.)

Absentmindedly arranging Crowley to his liking, Dean said, “Cas gave me a feather.”

Unnoticed by Dean, every microorganism within a seventy-foot radius – excepting those within his own body – died in a flash of hellfire. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And not, like, a pigeon feather or whatever. One of his. Weird, right?”

“Mm. Very.”

Dean thrust into him, business-like. “You read a lot, yeah? Probably even more than Sammy. Ever found a book that analyses – I dunno – weird angel shit? Or ancient prophecies involving angel feathers?”

Goddamn rotten bloody humiliation kink, he thought moodily, feeling his cock begin to leak. Probably done more to damage my reputation than that time Lilith caught me sneaking into David Cameron’s bedroom wearing a silk chemise and a British Lop. “Not that I can recall, no.”

Giving his arse a friendly smack, Dean said, “C’mon. You gotta know something. Or, if you don’t, you gotta have a theory. I know that nasty li’l brain of yours never stops working. Why would an angel give a human a feather?”

The deranged, beautiful monster hadn’t stopped buggering him.

Even worse, Crowley hadn’t stopped liking it.

“Alright, alright,” he groaned, fingernails surreptitiously sharpening as he dragged them over the mattress. “Stop. Lemme think for a moment. No, no, scratch that. Absolutely do not stop. Oh fuck, fuck, please don’t stop.”

“Crowley,” Dean whined, and while he’d have loved to think that he was whining in passion, he knew better.

“Look, it’s a gift, yeah? He gave you a gift. Use – fuurgh – use your brain, squirrel. Why do people usually give gifts?”

A big, calloused hand wrapped around his cock. “Birthdays. Bribes. To say thank you. To say sorry. Hey, could that be it? Has he… aw, shit, has he done something stupid behind my back? Again? And he doesn’t want to admit it but he’s feeling guilty so he’s giving me weird presents? I bet that’s it.”

Crowley wasn’t certain what language he used to say, “Jesus Christ, you’re both beyond hope,” in the seconds before he came. He was only just mentally present enough to make sure it wasn’t English.

After finishing off with a hearty grunt, Dean belly-flopped onto the mattress next to him. “Fuck yeah, man. That was great. Wonder if I can use it for something? A bona fide angel feather’s gotta have serious mojo, right?”

Facedown and breathing into the pillow, Crowley made a ‘who knows?’ gesture.

“Maybe it could be made into a weapon,” Dean murmured, gently stroking Crowley’s scalp. “There’s precedent. The First Blade was a mule’s jawbone. Or maybe I could write with it – like a quill. Heh, imagine a devil’s trap drawn with an angel’s feather. That would fuck you guys up, right?”

“Sure,” Crowley rasped, lifting his head. “Why not?”

Dean yawned. “So how’s Hell? Been about a month since we last did this, so… what’s that… about a decade down there? Had any problems? Moved the furniture around?”

“No. Hell doesn’t change much these days. Lilith was the innovator. Always installing a new lake of fire here, a new torture chamber there; slaughtering her political opponents en masse; throwing out promotions and demotions and beheadings left and right. Not my style. I prefer stability. Behind my back, they say that I’m the most boring monarch Hell’s ever had. Well, no – they say that wherever they want. When they’re behind my back, they try to stab me.”

He rolled over, wincing at a twinge in his well-used arse.

“Stability’s great and all,” Dean mumbled, sounding half-asleep. “And for real, I think it’s cool that you’ve made Hell so much less… torture-y. But y’ever think about aiming higher?”

“Eh?”

“Making Hell not suck, I mean. You know? Not just stable but actually tolerable for everyone who’s gotta live there. Now and then when I’m ganking some demon dickbag, I start thinking that maybe they wouldn’t always be causing so much trouble on Earth if they liked being in Hell more.”

Crowley laughed. Long and loud. “Where’s this coming from? Is this a Sam idea? It sounds like a Sam idea. Your bleeding-heart centrist of a brother going through another introspective phase, right? Bless.”

Scowling, Dean said, “Wow, someone’s defensive. What’s wrong? Pissed that the Boy King could run the place better than you?”

“Come off it, Dean. You don’t believe that for a second. Sam’s no leader. Much less a leader of demons. And the notion of ‘fixing’ Hell… it’s Hell. It’s not meant to be fixed. It’s not meant to be tolerable, it’s not meant to be endurable. It exists to break people. Horror is its bedrock. Sure, I can tidy up, I can replace the Gitmo vibe with the good ol’ eternal queue, but I can’t make it nice.”

“Huh. Okay, I get it,” said Dean, stretching, slyness in his eyes. “It’s not that you don’t want to – it’s that you don’t think you can. You’re not powerful enough, or smart enough, or whatever. I guess that’s fair. Surprised to hear you admit it, though.”

Like a blowfish, Crowley’s smoke puffed up to thrice its usual size, spilling from his eyes, ears, and lips as he pounced on Dean and pinned him to the mattress.

“Watch your tongue, brat,” he hissed, tail manifesting with its point aimed at Dean’s throat. “I’m not your pet pigeon. Had I the magnanimity of Saint Francis himself I’d not sit here and listen to some cunting mortal question my leadership. What in the name of God’s greasy bollocks do you know about ruling anything? You’ve never so much as managed a fucking corner shop. You’ve never even been employed.”

Dean grinned. “Damn, did I touch a nerve? Sorry, sweetcheeks.”

A canine rumble poured from Crowley’s thick throat. He felt Dean’s wrist bones creak under his grip. “Arrogant little rat.”

They glared at one another, unblinking.

“You ready to go again?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

In a violent flurry, they competed to see who could jack the other to completion first. Dean won. Dean always won.

“Same time next month?” Crowley enquired, watching him get dressed afterwards.

“Maybe. It’ll be coming up on Halloween and that’s always the worst time of year for us.”

“Mmm. Same. You’d be amazed how many false alarms we get; idiot teenagers deciding to summon a demon for fun and not actually wanting to make a deal or not letting them out of the trap afterwards. Last year, my secretary found them waiting for her with SuperSoakers full of salted holy water. Still – unless I’m busy – and, obviously, I probably will be busy – I’ll only be a phone call away if you poor lost lambs get yourselves mixed up in something you can’t handle.”

“Cool,” Dean said over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “Catch you later.”

Crowley waited until his footsteps had faded and his scent had cleared. Then he grabbed the pillow, pressed it to his face, and screamed for forty minutes.

(to be continued)

#supernatural #crowstiel #drowley #crowley #castiel #dean winchester #drowstiel #fanfic #my fic

14 notes · View notes

banditywrites · 7 years

Text

The Reluctant Soldier

Created for Voltron Whump Week

Prompt: Day 7- Head Injury/Internal damage (yes, it’s late)

Summary: Lance gets badly injured. If he’s not the sharpshooter, than he is nothing, right?

Notes: Over 4K. Warnings for blood, major and minor injuries, anxiety attacks, PTSD, nausea, near death experience. NOBODY ON THE TEAM ACTUALLY DIES.

The Reluctant Soldier

Lance was the sharpshooter. It was something he was good at. He wouldn’t say he loved it. Shooting robots was fine, but he never liked it when his targets were flesh and blood. He always put that aside though. This was a war and it didn’t matter how he actually felt about killing living things.

He fired off two more shots, taking down the soldiers that were headed for Pidge.

From his position on top of the cargo crates, he could see the entire battle around him. They had gotten themselves cornered in a supply room and they were waiting for an emergency extraction from Keith in Red. Until then, they just had to stand their ground. Avoid capture.

Lance ignored the way his stomach twisted when he shot an officer through his head. They’d been going toward Hunk. He couldn’t allow that.

His team chattered consistently over the comlink. Lance, get the door. Lance, concentrate fire in front of me. Lance, can you help me out?

Lance was trying to keep low, but occasionally he had to kneel on his one knee to get a shot. He adjusted his position again trying to get a clear view. Just don’t think, just end it quickly, you’re a good shot, none of them will even realize what happened.

In his crosshairs there was an unmoving soldier. Lance went to pull the trigger, but something in the soldier’s stance made him hesitate.

This Galra was just standing there. He wasn’t giving orders or trying to attack anyone. In fact, his arms hung at his sides, he had a gun in one hand but he didn’t raise it. He just stood frozen.

Lance blinked, lowered his rifle. He stared at this Galra who had stopped on the battlefield. At this soldier’s feet lay several other Galra soldiers that Lance had already taken out.

To be on a battlefield and to see most of your comrades already fallen with holes in their heads…

Was the soldier shaking or was Lance imagining it?

Lance felt like he was falling.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Distantly, he heard his name on the com, but he couldn’t turn away.

Just walk away. If you’re scared, just turn around and leave, Lance thought fiercely at the soldier. Just leave.

Pidge appeared in the corner of Lance’s vision and he saw the moment the soldier was able to pull himself together. Lance saw the way he clenched his fists to stop the shaking and how he took several deep breaths… raised his blaster at Pidge…

He was dead before he could even aim at her.

Lance dropped down onto his stomach. He told himself it was to avoid the shots that were coming his way. But he felt the way his heart hammered in his chest like it was going to burst through. And he swallowed down the sick that was in his throat.

Lance felt his breathing get all caught up in his chest. His hands were shaking hard. He rolled into his back and tried to get a hold of himself.

He could hear Shiro’s voice in his ear, but couldn’t find the breath to respond.

Staring up at the hangar ceiling he tried to pretend that he wasn’t in the middle of a fight. He needed to pull himself together. He was fine. The others needed him.

Lance took a few deep breaths, clenched his hands into fists a couple of times and rolled back onto his stomach. He raised his rifle. Someone was giving Hunk a hard time, he could end it quickly.

Lance hadn’t heard the large soldier that had climbed his stack of crates. He was concentrating so hard on quieting his own breathing that he didn’t hear the ragged breaths behind him.

One moment he was lining up his shot and the next he wasn’t.

Pain exploded from his back as his shoulder snapped forward. He was being grabbed by the ankle and dragged backwards. A hit across his face and he tasted blood. Lance couldn’t bring his bayard up, his arm was useless and instead of fighting back, his only good arm went up in a defensive position.

The Galra had some kind of club and it broke and crushed his armor in places. There was pain and pain and Lance couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t do anything. He felt it when his ribs cracked, felt it when his arm was broken and knocked to the side, leaving his head exposed.

He thought he heard the others shouting for him before it all faded away.

At least it had been over quickly.

0-0-0-0

Shiro caught Lance’s body when it was thrown through the air.

He had seen the Galra soldier too late, holding Lance aloft by his neck and then Lance was tossed from the crates.

And Shiro knew he was dead because there was so much blood and he had never seen Lance look that lifeless.

Shiro ran, extended his arms and caught him. Lance’s head lolled sickeningly to the side. There was so much blood dripping down his face. Shiro froze, panic gripped his heart. Please, no no no no.

Hunk took care of the soldier, Hunk took care of all of them.

“Shiro! Shiro! He’s breathing. Look!” Pidge was shaking Shiro’s arm and shouting at him. Shiro’s world came back into focus. He could barely hear Lance drawing in gurgling breaths. He was alive.

“Move! Move! Keith is here!” Pidge was now pulling him and Shiro snapped back into his role.

“Hunk! Let’s go!” He shouted over his shoulder.

Soon they were all crammed aboard Red and Shiro held onto Lance as tightly as he dared. Shiro was reporting back to the castleship in a detached way. Coran was talking to him telling him to go directly to the cryopods. Usually Coran liked to do an assessment before he put someone in a pod, but they didn’t have the time now. Shiro let him know that he understood and then he went silent. Keith was tense, trying to fly as quickly and smoothly as possible. Pidge had curled in on herself, resting her forehead on her knees, trying to breathe evenly. Hunk was left hovering over Lance, speaking quietly to him.

They had nearly arrived when Lance’s unswollen eye fluttered open. His gaze fell on Hunk and he let out a groan.

“Lance?” Hunk asked shakily. Lance coughed in response; blood trickled out of his swollen mouth and down his chin. He shut his eye and groaned again. Hunk was pretty sure his jaw was fractured.

“Just hang on. It’s going to be alright.” Shiro whispered. He didn’t sound like he believed it.

Hunk nodded.

“Yeah, you’re going to be fine.” Hunk didn’t sound so sure either.

0-0-0-0

Lance’s armor was quickly discarded and when the helmet came off, there was so much blood caked into his hair that Shiro couldn’t tell if there was one wound or several. Shiro snapped at them all to step back. Stop. Don’t touch him. Leave if you have to.

Coran didn’t even stop to inspect any of Lance’s wounds. They just shoved him in a pod as quickly as possible.

“Are we in time?” Shiro finally asked. Coran didn’t say anything. The silence frightened Shiro more than anything he could have told him. Shiro looked behind him; he saw the others in various states of panic and fear.

Keith was pacing away from the others. Shiro guessed that he had found a way to blame himself, though he didn’t know how.

Pidge and Hunk were standing close to each other. Hunk kept wiping away tears and Pidge was fighting hard to keep it together. She was squeezing Hunk’s hands so hard that her fingernails were leaving indents in his skin. Hunk didn’t seem to notice.

Keith felt bad because it took him too long to evacuate them. Shiro sighed when the thought clicked into place.

“Keith, take the others and step out.”

“I don’t want to go,” Pidge spoke up.

“Shiro… no,” Hunk mumbled. “I’m not leaving.”

Keith gave Shiro a desperate look, he didn’t want to be in charge of them and he wasn’t going to make them leave.

“Alright, alright. Keith, can you go and get some water for everyone then?”

Keith nodded and walked quickly from the room.

Shiro let out several deep breaths and looked back at Coran. Coran finally looked up from the computer and met Shiro’s eyes. He gave a small nod and then cleared his throat.

“It looks like he’s going to be alright.”

The room gave a collective sigh of relief.

“It’s going to be a few days though. You’re welcome to stay as long as you all want.”

Over the next few hours, everything they would need was brought into the cryopod room. First it was just water and some food, because Shiro insisted they eat something, then there were blankets and pillows being brought in by Allura and they were soon camping out in front of the pod. They were sure to leave room for Coran to get to the controls and do anything that he needed to.

Coran and Allura both stepped away, giving the paladins space and time. Keith had stayed for a while, but then he walked out as everyone was settling down to try and sleep. Shiro followed him, they heard him call Keith’s name before the door shut behind him.

Left alone in the quiet dark, with only the glow of Lance’s pod lighting up the room, Pidge shuffled over closer to Hunk until their arms pressed together.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Pidge asked.

“Coran said he would be.”

“He didn’t sound sure.”

“We just have to hope for the best then.”

Pidge nodded, leaning her cheek into Hunk’s shoulder.

Neither of them slept well that night.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Keith was distant for days and it didn’t matter how much Shiro told him that he wasn’t to blame.

“It happened right before I got there. If I had been faster he wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all,” Keith finally told him.

"Keith, it’s not your fault… it’s a war.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

They hadn’t been able to work through it. Shiro hoped that once Lance was out of the pod, morale would go up again.

That’s not what happened though.

When Lance finally woke up, he was disoriented and he didn’t seem to understand what was going on. His head had healed, but his hair hadn’t grown back yet, leaving a crooked bald spot that spiderwebbed out from a large patch above his ear.

Coran was asking if he knew where he was, but Lance’s face screwed up and he began crying. Hunk grabbed him when his legs crumbled beneath him and held him tightly. He was trying to tell him it was okay, but while Lance leaned into the touch, he didn’t seem to be aware of his surroundings.

“Sometimes that happens. It’s not unusual with a head injury.” Coran was trying to console them.

“Is it permanent?” Shiro asked as calmly as he could.

“Just give him some time. Wait.”

Coran hadn’t said that it was temporary or not. After Lance sobbed hard for several minutes, he took a great gasping breath and abruptly stopped.

“Hunk?” Lance asked shakily.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What happened? What’s going on?” Lance looked around the room at all the faces peering at him. It made him uneasy.

“You got hurt, man.”

“I did?”

“You don’t remember?” Shiro asked.

“I don’t know.” Lance wrinkled his nose. “My head hurts.”

“That’s normal,” Coran assured them all. “It should pass.”

They managed to get Lance back to his room to rest without any trouble. The next issue didn’t arise until Lance caught sight of himself in the mirror. He had been using the restroom when he looked in the mirror and saw the bald patches and lines in his hair. He reached out his fingers and touched the mirror. Then he slowly put one hand to his head and ran his fingers over the healed wounds over and over again. Hunk had to physically drag him away from the bathroom and tell him to just go back to bed.

“It will grow back,” Hunk tried to console him.

“Looks awful.” Lance lamented.

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. It will grow back.”

Lance refused to walk around the castleship without his jacket on and his hood up after that.

More concerning was the way Lance was refusing to talk to any of them. They would ask him a question and he would just stare blankly at them.

“Is it brain damage?” And Shiro wanted to throw up at the words.

“There is no lasting damage that I can see. But brains are tricky. Even after they heal, they may not work exactly the same way. It might be something else too.” Coran spoke softly. “Has he said anything about the day he was attacked?”

“You think it’s psychological. You think it’s PTSD.” Shiro crossed his arms in concentration. It made sense.

“Is that what humans call it?” Coran asked quietly. The Altean sighed. “I think he has had a painful experience and he needs time. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time he needs. He will have to fight again.”

“He doesn’t like training. Won’t even look at his bayard.”

“He won’t listen to me, but maybe he will talk to you. Try talking to him first and then he may be able to start recovering.”

Shiro uncrossed his arms and nodded.

He had to fix it. He needed to fix it. For everyone’s sakes.

0-0-0-0-0

Shiro didn’t have to wait long for an opportunity to speak to Lance. That evening, when they all sat down to dinner, Lance didn’t show up.

Hunk had started to stand to go check on him, but Shiro waved his hand at him.

“Let me try,” Shiro rose from his chair and walked briskly out the door.

Shiro found Lance curled up on his bed with his jacket on. The hood had slipped off his head and Shiro could see the missing patch of hair that Lance hated so much.

“Lance,” Shiro called softly. Lance’s eyes opened but he didn’t say anything.

“Your hair looks better. It’s growing in.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say.

Lance pulled the hood back over his head sharply.

“Hey, do you want to try coming to eat? Or I could bring food here?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Still, you should eat, buddy.”

There was a long pause while Shiro decided how to approach the topic.

"Lance,” Shiro sat down on the edge of the bed. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

Lance curiously turned his head slightly and looked at Shiro, surprised at the subject change.

“What is it?”

“Can you talk to Keith for me?”

“Talk to… Keith?”

“Yeah, he’s been upset lately. He feels bad that you got… hurt. He thinks it’s his fault.”

Lance sat up slowly to face Shiro.

“It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

There it was.

“How is it your fault?” Shiro asked carefully. Lance opened and closed his mouth several times and then he cast his eyes down towards the mattress.

“Lance?”

“I froze up. I freaked out. I wasn’t paying attention. It was my fault.”

“You froze? Do you know why?”

Lance shook his head and then grabbed the edge of his hood to make sure that it hadn’t fallen down.

“Look, I’m not going to be mad at you. I want you to be okay.”

“There was this Galra soldier…” Lance pulled absently at a loose thread on his blanket. “He hesitated, he looked scared.”

Shiro nodded to let Lance know he was listening.

“I killed him.” Lance slowly brought his knees up and buried his face there. “He would have killed Pidge if I didn’t.”

“Lance, Lance, you were doing it to protect Pidge, to protect us.”

“But… maybe he was protecting someone too. Maybe I had already killed someone he cared about.”

Shiro moved to sit beside Lance. He gently wrapped one arm around Lance’s shoulder.

“Lance, I am sorry. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not easy.”

“Then I got hurt and everything feels so far away and… broken now.”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not though. It’s not going to be okay. It’s a war, Shiro.” Lance had started crying and he moved his hand to his mouth to try to smother it.

“Listen, I know it won’t be the same ever again. I know, but you just find reasons to keep going. Keep moving.”

Lance let out a choked sob.

“Look, if you want to step away for awhile, we’ll figure something out.”

“No,” Lance’s head shot up. “I want to help. I want to fly Blue.”

“In that case, you need to talk to us. Don’t shut us out. We can’t help you if you shut us out. And you don’t have to talk to me. You could talk to Hunk or Coran or any of us.”

Lance was nodding and Shiro rubbed his arm encouragingly.

“It’s better to talk about it then keep it all inside.”

Lance wiped at the tears that had dripped down his face. He brushed his sleeve across his nose and sniffled loudly.

“My hair looks s-st-stupid.” Lance began crying hard and he buried his face into Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro smiled sadly. It must have seemed so silly, but it had bothered him so much and was such a horrible reminder of what had happened.

“No, it’s fine.” Shiro wrapped his other arm around Lance and hugged him tight.

It wasn’t long before Lance was telling Shiro everything, all the details about the reluctant soldier to the anxiety attack he had in the middle of the battle to getting attacked and being so scared and helpless.

“What if I freak out and I can’t fight and someone else gets hurt. It will be my fault.”

“Hey, even if that did happen, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

Lance was shaking his head.

“No, listen. I know you would never let anyone hurt us if you could stop it.”

“My head hurts,” Lance scrubbed at his eyes. He then allowed himself to collapse into Shiro’s shoulder and take several shuddering breaths.

“It will get better,” Shiro mumbled into the cloth of his hood. “Little by little. It’s going to be okay.”

Shiro hoped that he wasn’t lying. Lance was so strong, Shiro knew that, together, they could get through this.

0-0-0-0-0

The next morning, Lance showed up to breakfast with his hood down. At the end of the meal, he pulled it over his head again, but nobody said anything about it either way. One step at a time. Shiro thought as he smiled hopefully at Lance.

0-0-0-0-0

Lance found Keith training in the early morning. He stood by and waited for Keith to finish his round before he called out to him.

“What is it, Lance?” Keith asked as he approached the other boy. Lance hunched his shoulders at first and looked like he might have changed his mind about approaching Keith.

“You alright?” Keith asked with a raised eyebrow. Lance slowly pulled the hood off his head. Keith’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’m alright… I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“Yeah. Of course, what is it?”

0-0-0-0-0

“Are you sure about this?”

“Well, I figure, even if you mess it up, it can’t look worse than yours.”

Coran had let them borrow some hair clippers and Lance was sitting in a chair in the middle of one of the lounge areas with a blanket around his shoulders.

“How short?”

“Just shorter, make it look more even.”

“It’s not going to be even unless I shave it.”

“No, don’t make me bald! Just trim it.”

“Alright.” After a moment of hesitation, Keith started clipping away. Lance watched his hair fall onto his chest and shoulders.

They were both quiet for a moment before Keith spoke up.

“Why me? Why didn’t you ask Hunk or Shiro to do this?”

Lance thought about it.

“Hunk would worry too much and I don’t know if Shiro could hold clippers with a metal hand, he might slip up.”

“What about Pidge?”

“I figured Pidge wouldn’t be able to reach.”

Keith actually let out a huff of laughter.

“Alright.”

They fell into a comfortable silence.

“Keith?”

Keith hummed in response.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Keith hesitated before he continued trimming.

“Shiro says it’s not my fault, so if that’s true, there’s no way it’s your fault either,” Lance insisted.

Keith didn’t say anything.

“Keith?”

“Yeah, alright. I get it. Fine.”

A while later, the trimming stopped and Keith went silent.

“Done?” Lance asked.

“Yeah.”

Lance was up quickly and carrying the blanket away to throw into the laundry.

“It’s still… um short on the side.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not going to be perfect.”

“Yeah, guess not.”

Lance walked around with his hood down after that. He still winced when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, but he refused to hide it anymore.

He was going to heal from this.

0-0-0-0

Weeks went by and Lance was slowly starting to open up again. He had a few nightmares and would end up in Hunk or Pidge’s room during the night. But everybody was really patient with him.

The next time they were on a mission, Shiro didn’t ask him to separate and be a sniper. He stayed close to them, only taking down a few targets when it was absolutely necessary. Lance was still anxious over even holding his bayard again. He started breathing too quickly and Shiro was relieved when they were able to get back to their lions instead of fighting on the ground.

After they were back at the castleship, Shiro found Lance fighting back tears in his room.

“If I’m not the sharpshooter… I’m not anything,” Lance started crying. Shiro sat with Lance for a long time and just listened. Sometimes all he could do was listen and try to encourage the younger boy. Sometimes it never seemed like enough.

“Brains are tricky,” Coran told Shiro. “He may not ever go back to the way things were. He’s had a bad trauma.”

It would be several more weeks until Lance had to play the role as a sniper again. Pidge was watching his back, staying close the entire time. She stood with him on the edge of a cliff and made sure that nobody got near him. Down below, the battle raged and Lance felt guilty for keeping Pidge from it.

Lance’s shots weren’t as accurate, some of them were going wide and that was probably because his hands were shaking so hard.

It was taking two to three shots to bring down some of the soldiers. It wasn’t quick.

Lance’s breathing speed up, his lungs wouldn’t take in anymore air.

“Lance,” Pidge knelt by his side. “Keith never looks over his shoulder, he’s got someone coming up behind him.” Lance shifted, aimed, there was no time to panic, fired…

One more dead soldier and Keith was safe. Lance took in big gulps of air and he let the gun fall to the side.

Pidge sat a hand on his back.

“Just breathe. You’re okay. You did well.”

“Thank you,” Lance said after he had been breathing for several minutes.

“You’re kind of amazing, did you know that?”

Lance was startled by the compliment. Pidge wasn’t usually so open about that kind of thing.

“I messed up a lot…”

“I’ve been watching you save everyone. I just saw you save Keith. You’re amazing.”

Lance nodded. It wasn’t like he enjoyed killing soldiers, he just wanted to protect his team.

“You’re very brave, Lance.”

Lance wanted to tell her she was wrong, but Pidge was looking at him with such a genuine expression that Lance couldn’t argue. He could only nod in response.

When they made it back to the castleship, Shiro pulled Lance into a sideways hug.

“You’re alright?” Shiro asked.

“I’ll be okay,” Lance answered honestly. Shiro smiled at him and Lance returned it. The war was taking a lot of things from them, but they were going to survive it. Shiro was sure of it.

Lance removed his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. His hair was still too short, but the bare spot that was the result from his head injury had completely grown in.

You couldn’t even see it anymore.

The end.

#voltronwhumpweek #voltronwhumpweek2017 #langst #hurt/comfort #tw: blood #tw: anxiety attacks #tw: ptsd #tw: nausea #tw: near death experience

239 notes · View notes