I don't wanna sail tonight

[bde]

[ It was supposed to be simple. In the aftermath of the war, there were handfuls of planets which had access to outside information so thoroughly suppressed that they were unaware they were now free. Rarer still, planets in distant corners of the universe that had been unaware of the war at all. It’s a big decision, to reach out to those planets, unsure if a visit will constitute first contact, but weighed against the possibility that should invasion ever happen again they may have no allies to call upon, it’s the lesser evil. It’s one of these trips that Shiro volunteers for. One of the diplomats who was supposed to be involved is needed elsewhere, and the visit is set to be delayed, and Shiro – bored while Keith is away working with the Blades and something of an ambassador-by-default due to his work with Voltron – offers to step in.

It’s not until they’re close to landing and all the communications on their ship cut out that they realize their mistake. This isn’t a planet that has escaped the war at all – it’s the first kind, still in the grips of it, mining their own resources to be sent offworld to make weapons and ships for a now-defunct empire. Shiro is surprised to find almost no Galra presence at all – most of the guards are natives of the planet itself, as is the woman he’s taken to when he asks to speak to whoever is in charge. He explains, carefully, that the war is over. That the Galra Empire has fallen. That they’re free.

There’s pure, undisguised hate in her eyes when she responds. This is a test, she spits. I know who you are, Champion. I won’t give your masters a reason to slaughter the people I’ve sacrificed everything for the way you slaughtered my brother.

Pain, then, a bright flare of it as one of the guards hits the side of his head, and just enough time to see the rest of the delegation restrained before consciousness slips away from him.

~

It sounds almost like they’re underwater. He hears the whoosh of his pulse in his ears but the words – the questions he’s being asked, things he couldn’t answer even if he wanted about some conspiracy that doesn’t exist – are all far away, blurred. It takes long moments to realize he’s stripped down and restrained, but the information comes to him less in a flash of horror and more like remembering a nightmare – it’s distant, fuzzy, like it’s not really happening. One of the guards produces an implement that looks like a cross between a pitchfork and a cattle prod, the end lit up and sparking, and nothing changes but for sudden arrival of a high-pitched whine in his ears, and Shiro watches quietly. He’s quiet, too, when the door is torn from its hinges and people in tight black uniforms pour through, moving like water. One of them – the shortest – moves to him, rips off a hood that reveals yellow, slit-pupilled eyes and eye teeth like fangs, tips his chin up with a hand that ends in pointed claws and says his name, urgent and insistent.

Oh, Shiro says, Keith, before it’s all dark again.

~

He is uninjured. He knows this both from the feeling in his own body – a little tender where his head was hit and chafed at wrist and ankle where he was restrained – and from the checks that Keith insists on, more than once, to reassure himself. It’s better now, quiet in the room they’ve been given as he’s shuttled back to Earth, and he realizes that it wasn’t injury but overload that shut him down the second time.

He has a small army of therapists, back home. He hopes they’re not busy, and that they’re well-paid.

There’s been a debrief, though it was nothing that he couldn’t have guessed. The poor woman was insane, acting as slavemaster to her own people in the belief that it would keep them safe, and if it hadn’t been for the extremely timely arrival of the Blades, Shiro and the rest of the delegation would likely be dead by now. The remains of the last batch of offworlders to touch down on the planet were testament to that.

This information comes to Shiro via pad, while Keith paces the length of the room they’re in. Honestly, that’s more of a concern to Shiro than anything that happened. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen this reaction in Keith before, but it’s always been temporary. Fleeting, even – something that appears briefly with a loss of control or extraordinary stress, and then is gone just as quickly. Shiro’s never seen it cling to him this way. And it would be interesting, even beautiful, if it weren’t accompanied by the pacing and snarling and the need to make someone pay that Shiro can feel pouring off of Keith. Eventually, he sighs. ]

Keith. Would you come and sit down? I’m fine.

Comments

[feralistic]

[ shiro is safe.

it should be enough to take the fire out of keith's blood, to soothe the angry roar in his skull. shiro is safe -- confirmed first by the combat medic who meets them where shiro was being held captive, and then again by the medical team aboard their shuttle back to earth. and keith has confirmed it for himself a number of other times; touching, scenting, making sure of the rhythm of shiro's breathing and his pulse as if it would dispel the battle-fever that has its claws in keith.

but it doesn't.

he can still see it clearly in his mind's eye: shiro, bound and bleeding in a cell, meeting keith's eyes in one flicker of recognition before the light of awareness faded and he slumped forward. and for a few raw, terrible moments, keith had thought he had lost him. that shiro was gone, taken from him, lost to him. he didn't even remember what happened next; something like a scream rose up from the very deepest parts of him, and he didn't come back to himself until the combat medic was finding shiro's pulse with his fingers and giving keith that tight nod that meant things were all right.

shiro is safe. shiro is alive. shiro is okay.

and still, keith can't remember how to calm the roar inside of him. killing the people who'd hurt him this time wasn't enough -- there's something inside keith that wants to rip apart time itself, travel backwards and then forwards until he's killed everyone who ever hurt shiro and anyone who ever will. even the warm rumble of black at the corners of his mind doesn't ease him off the edge; he feels stranded inside this place within him, ink-black quicksand that drags him deeper the harder he tries to struggle out.

it's the first time the transformation has been this complete, lasted this long. it's fortunate that the hooded uniform of the blades covers up enough to keep anyone from asking questions -- without it, galra is written across every inch of keith. the purple skin, the yellow eyes, the wicked-sharp teeth, the clawed fingers, and the tail that lashes behind him like an angry cat's. just as damning are the fluffy purple triangles of his ears, immediately up and straining towards the sound of shiro's voice like satellites.

i'm fine. shiro is fine. shiro is okay. shiro is alive.

the words ping uselessly off him, rain on a tin roof, and keith growls a low note of frustration. ]

No.