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The battle was over. Smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal hung heavy in the air. Shiro's voice crackled over the comms, tense but steady.
"Everyone, report in."
One by one, voices cut through the static. Hunk, exhausted but unharmed. Pidge, shaky but safe. Keith, breathless from adrenaline. Silence followed.
Shiro's voice tightened. "Lance, report."
Nothing.
Keith’s stomach twisted, dread pooling in his gut. His fingers gripped his weapon tightly as he scanned the area. They hadn't taken their lions for this mission, opting for the small pod ship to slip through enemy lines. Now, scattered and vulnerable, Keith felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
The rubble shifted to his right, and Keith whipped around, pulse racing. His heart stopped when he saw the blue armour, dust-coated and half-buried beneath debris. Lance.
Keith sprinted over, skidding to his knees. Lance was sprawled on his back, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle, his face ghostly pale. Blood matted his hair, pooling from a deep gash at his temple; his helmet was nowhere to be found. Keith's hands trembled as he reached out, fingers hovering before gently brushing Lance's cheek.
"Lance, hey," Keith whispered, voice cracking. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
"Lance?" He took a shuddering breath. "Lance, wake up."
Desperate, Keith’s hand moved to check Lance's pulse, fingers trembling against Lance’s neck.
A few seconds of sinking despair passed where he sensed nothing, no indication of a beat beneath his fingers.
Keith felt bathed in cold, shudders wracking his frame.
Please, please, please-
Then, he felt it.
Uneven. Weak. But there.
Relief, however short-lived it was, surged through Keith with a gasping intake of breath. Keith took the hand Lance had resting over his abdomen and leaned in closer, his voice trembling.
"Lance, hey," he whispered, voice tight with a mixture of hope and fear. "Can you hear me? Come on, just—just open your eyes, okay?"
For a moment, nothing. Then, to Keith’s shock, Lance’s eyelids fluttered weakly. His eyes barely opened, just a sliver of blue, glazed and unfocused. A soft, pained sound slipped from Lance’s lips, and Keith felt his heart skip a beat.
"Hey! Hey, you're okay," Keith urged, forcing down the lump in his throat. "It's-it’s Keith. You with me?"
Lance’s lips twitched, almost like he was trying to form words, but his voice came out in a faint rasp, broken and barely there. Keith couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Lance was responding.
Keith bit back a sob, brushing his thumb over Lance’s knuckles. "That’s it," he breathed. "Stay with me, okay? You’re doing great. Just... just keep fighting."
Lance’s eyes drifted shut again, his head lolling slightly to the side.
Keith realized there were tears leaking lazily from Lance's eyes. It was almost as if Lance was crying without even being aware of it, his body responding to pain even if his mind was somewhere far away. The sight twisted something deep in Keith’s chest, his own eyes burning as he wiped the moisture from Lance’s cheek with his thumb.
"Don't cry," Keith murmured, barely above a whisper, "It's okay. You're okay. Just hang on."
He didn't know if Lance could hear him, but the words kept spilling out, soft and desperate. Keith wanted to take away the hurt, to shield Lance from the pain that made silent tears leak from his eyes. But all he could do was stay by his side, refusing to let go.
"Oh, God."
He hardly noticed the others had made it to them. Hunk dropped to Lance’s side, fear etched into his features. Pidge’s eyes were wide, hands clenched together in front of her trembling lips. Shiro knelt opposite Keith, a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.
"Is he...?"
Keith shook his head, his eyes burning. "He's alive," he choked out. He still held the boy's hand, resting on Lance's sternum, feeling the unsteady rise and stuttering fall of the boy's chest. Lance’s breaths were tenuous, barely there, but nonetheless evidence that the boy was still with them.
Shiro nodded, lips pressed in a thin, sombre line. "Coran," he called through the coms. Shiro was their leader for a reason; his voice was steady - urgent, but stable, whereas Keith could barely trust himself to speak. "We need EVAC, now, and have Allura prepare a pod. Lance is in critical condition."
Critical condition.
"We need to clear the area before Coran gets here," Shiro said, voice steadier than his eyes. "Hunk, could you-"
"Uh-On it!"
Hunk looked almost green, about ready to double over and upchuck the contents of his stomach. Keith was almost tempted to do the same. But unlike Keith, who stayed rooted to where he was, Hunk moved quickly, hands fumbling, but his strength unfaltering as he pushed debris aside to clear a path for the pod ship.
Keith hesitantly gripped Lance's good hand tighter, his thumb continuing to brush over the bruised knuckles as if the gentle motion could somehow anchor Lance to consciousness. He whispered words of encouragement, soft and almost desperate, things like, "You’re okay," and "We’ve got you," knowing full well Lance probably couldn’t hear him anymore. The words were more for himself than anything else, a way to keep his own panic from spilling over.
Distantly, through the white noise of fear in his mind, Keith could hear Shiro listing off Lance's injuries—presumably to Coran. Broken arm. Head trauma. Possible internal bleeding. Keith bit his lip, his stomach twisting as he listened. It sounded worse every time Shiro spoke, the reality of Lance’s condition weighing down on him like a physical force. He fought the urge to shake Lance awake, to make him open his eyes and prove that he was still here, still fighting.
Pidge was pacing, searching the skies for the awaited pod ship like she couldn’t bear looking at the scene below her. Keith wished he could look away, but his eyes remained tethered to the Blue Paladin.
“Lance? Can you open your eyes for us, kiddo?” Shiro tried.
Kiddo. The nickname made Keith feel queasy.
Lance really was only a kid. They all were.
The only response Shiro received from the Blue Paladin was more shallow breathing. "He's unresponsive," Shiro relayed to Coran, face grim.
Unresponsive.
“Lance, can you hear us?” Keith asked. "I need you to respond - please."
There.
The smallest flicker of Lance's eyelids.
A wheeze broke through Lance’s lips, his body arching slightly as pain jolted through him. Keith tightened his grip on Lance’s good hand, grounding him.
"Good, good. Okay," he whispered, his heart aching. "Just hang on, Lance - alright?" He looked to Shiro, as if to say: See? He's still here. He's still with us.
Shiro nodded at Keith. "Coran, what's your E.T.A.?"
"A hundred ticks out!" Coran's voice buzzed through the coms.
"Only a hundred more ticks. Stay awake for a hundred more ticks," Shiro told Lance.
"Don't fall asleep yet. Stay awake, Sharpshooter," Keith encouraged.
God only knew if he could hear them or not.
As they waited for the pod ship to arrive, Keith found himself hyper-focused on Lance's face, willing his friend to wake up. Lance's breathing remained shallow and uneven, his lips tinged a faint blue, and Keith fought back a surge of terror.
He squeezed Lance's good hand, leaning in closer. "We're almost out of here. You just gotta hold on a little longer, okay?" He didn't expect a response, but it didn't stop him from talking. Keith needed to fill the suffocating silence with something, anything. "Stay awake."
Keith glanced up to see Shiro looking at him, a mixture of concern and quiet encouragement in his eyes. Keith swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic. It was the most impatient and desperate he's ever felt in his life. Watching Lance felt like watching the sand in an hourglass drain, each grain of sand a second longer Lance spends wasting away while they await help.
Finally, the sound of the approaching pod ship broke through the tense quiet. The low hum of the engines and the crunch of landing gear against the ground felt almost surreal, cutting through the oppressive silence. Keith’s breath hitched, and he didn’t dare let go of Lance’s hand, his knuckles white from gripping so tightly.
As the pod ship landed and Coran rushed out, Keith could barely breathe. It wasn’t quite relief—more of a stubborn, reckless hope mixed with a bullish eagerness to get Lance off this stupid moon. The sight of Coran’s familiar figure gave him something tangible to focus on, something that wasn’t just fear and helplessness.
Coran kneeled, eyes flickering frantically around the Blue Paladin's body as he seemed to assess Lance for a moment before looking to Shiro.
"We need to move him inside," Coran instructed, his voice firm but gentle. "Number One, can you carry him?"
Without hesitation, Shiro bent down, carefully sliding his arms beneath Lance's shoulders and knees. Gritting his teeth, Keith reluctantly gave up his hold on Lance's hand and rose to his feet, staying close as Shiro adjusted his grip, making sure Lance was secure before lifting him effortlessly. Keith couldn’t help but notice how limp Lance was, his long limbs flaccid, head lolling back over Shiro’s arm.
Lance's face was slack yet simultaneously pinched in pain - Keith couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. Lance was in pain, but the fact that he felt it meant that he was conscious in some capacity, right?
As they moved toward the ship, Keith followed alongside them like a lost puppy. And God, he felt so lost. His mind still buzzed with adrenaline, but he felt weighed down like he was dragging a ball and chain of fear behind him, like lead was coursing through his veins.
Once inside, Shiro lowered Lance gently to the floor, stretching him out on the padded surface Coran had hastily arranged. Keith knelt down beside him, finally relinquishing his hold on the boy's hand as he watched Coran immediately set to work on addressing Lance's injuries. Keith didn’t leave his side. He couldn’t.
Just as Coran seemed to get some bleeding under control, his broken arm splinted, Lance's breathing hitched, eyes flying open in a sudden, wild panic. For one agonizing moment, he seemed almost lucid, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for something - or someone.
"Keith..." The word was barely a rasp, but Keith's heart lurched at the sound.
It was the first and only thing Lance had said since they found him.
Keith leaned closer, gripping Lance's hand tighter. "I'm here," he whispered, voice shaky but determined. "I'm right here."
Lance’s brows knitted together, eyes wide and terrified. His mouth moved, forming words that didn’t quite make it past his chapped lips. Then his breathing grew more erratic, like his body was fighting for control. Keith could see the fear flicker through Lance’s expression, the way his fingers twitched as if reaching for something unseen.
Just as Keith opened his mouth to reassure him, Lance’s body stiffened, his back arching as his limbs jerked violently, head snapping back with a sickening crack.
Panic surged through the team. Coran barked instructions, his voice strained but firm. "Hold his head steady! Keep him from hitting anything!"
Keith moved without thinking, fumbling to cradle Lance's head. He ended up with his hands around the base of the boy's skull, careful not to restrain him but just enough to cushion the movement as Lance’s entire body convulsed, teeth clenched, eyes rolled back. Where once shallow, his breathing was now harsh and erratic between the full-body spasms.
"One of you," Coran turned to Pidge and Hunk, "help us get him on his side."
Pidge moved first, helping them adjust Lance's position so that he balanced on his side, propped by his unsplinted arm. Keith rearranged his hands so that he was still cushioning Lance's head - he could feel blood soaking through the gloves of his suit.
Keith's heart pounded so hard it hurt. "What is this?"
"What's happening?" Hunk cried.
"He's seizing," Coran gravely responded, draped loosely across the boy's jerking legs to keep him from flipping back over.
A seizure.
"Make it stop!" Pidge shrieked.
"I'm sorry, Number Five," Coran dropped his head. "Regrettably, this is all we can do for him here."
"But-but it will stop, though, right?" Hunk asked, bottom lip quivering.
Coran paused for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Keith's stomach to plummet, the back of his neck - hell, his whole body breaking out in a cold sweat. "Yes," the man answered, sounding relatively certain despite the hesitation.
Keith couldn’t look away from Lance, his heart thundering in his chest as the seizure continued. He had never seen anything like it—Lance’s entire body jerking uncontrollably, face contorted, teeth gritted as if fighting against some invisible force. Keith could see the faintest trail of blood trickling from the corner of Lance's mouth where he must have bitten his lip, and it made his stomach churn.
He felt helpless, like he should be doing something more, anything to stop it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but cradle Lance’s head and whisper assurances that felt more like pleas. He wondered if Lance could hear him at all through the haze of pain and chaos. His own breathing grew shallow, almost mirroring Lance’s gasping between spasms.
Maybe worst of all were the quiet, pitiful little whines escaping Lance's throat, barely slipping past his blood-stained lips.
Pidge was wringing her hands, muttering about seizure durations under her breath, her voice tense and brittle, and while Hunk stayed close, prepared to jump in and help if needed, tears were welling in his eyes as he watched his best friend seize.
Only after what felt like an eternity, the seizure finally slowed, the jerking motions fading to tremors before finally ceasing altogether. Lance’s body stilled, his limbs going slack, and it was as if the room had deflated along with it. Coran’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and Hunk let out a shaky breath.
Pidge released a watery breath, "Thank God."
Coran straightened, "Let's get Number 3 out of here."
Suddenly, Keith realized that the pod had already lifted off and was making its way to the castle ship where Allura waited. At some point, Shiro must have moved to the cockpit because he wasn't beside Keith anymore - he hadn't been since before the seizure started, but Keith hadn't even noticed him leave.
Keith barely registered any of it as he lifted his head, hope stirring as he searched Lance’s face for some sign of consciousness.
The seizure had ended.
Lance was still now.
Lance wasn’t jerking or convulsing anymore.
He wasn't…
"Coran...?" Keith whispered, voice fragile and too quiet for anyone to hear over the ship's whirring engine.
This wasn't happening. Not Lance. Not like this. Keith's heart screamed at him to move, to do something, but his body wouldn't obey. All he could do was whisper, barely audible, "Coran?"
Coran looked over from where he was untangling some sort of respirator. "Yes, Number Four?"
The pod somehow quieted further—or maybe Keith's hearing was just cutting out, muffled by the overwhelming rush of blood in his ears. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, cold and brutal. His mouth opened, but no sound came out at first, his brain struggling to process the thought.
It felt like the world had shrunk down to this single, suffocating moment. Keith's pulse pounded, and his hands hovered uselessly above Lance's chest, wanting to do something—anything—but not knowing how to fix this. He couldn't stop staring at Lance's face, so still and pale.
Finally, he managed to strangle it from his throat:
"He’s not breathing."
Silence crashed around them.
Coran tilted his head, “He’s not…?”
“He’s not breathing!” Keith repeated, more urgently now. “He’s not-! He’s not-“ He nearly choked as his throat suddenly closed.
Coran looked over Lance, his face morphing from shock to full-blown panic when he saw for himself the stillness of Lance's chest.
He cursed under his breath, moving over Lance to perform CPR, frantically pulling the boy’s chest plate off before beginning compressions.
Keith froze, watching Coran’s hands press rhythmically against Lance’s chest. The sight was terrifying—Coran’s hands pushing down hard, forcing Lance’s chest to sink with every compression. Keith had read once that CPR could break ribs, and seeing it firsthand was horrifying. Each compression felt like a hammer to Keith’s own heart, the dull thud reverberating through his entire being. It looked almost violent, like a fight to reclaim Lance from the clutches of death itself. Keith couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It was like the world had stopped with Lance’s heartbeat.
Coran looked at Keith, his eyes sharp but steady. "Keith, I need you to do the breaths. I'll guide you through it. Just follow my count," Coran instructed without ceasing his rhythm.
Keith nodded shakily, forcing himself to focus.
Coran counted steadily, his voice cutting through Keith's panic. "Now, Keith—two breaths. Make a seal, tilt his head back. Steady. One... two..."
Keith leaned down, tilting Lance's head back by the chin and forcing air into Lance’s lungs, praying it would be enough.
When he pulled back, he tasted Lance's blood on his lips.
Coran resumed compressions without missing a beat. The rhythm continued, and Keith found himself holding on to Coran's steady instructions like a lifeline, even as his mind spiralled through memories, flashes of Lance's bright grin, his mocking laugh, the way his eyes lit up when he teased Keith. How could that just... stop? His heart clenched painfully, the thought of losing Lance sinking in, suffocating him. The idea of never hearing his voice again, never arguing over dumb things, never seeing him light up a room—it was unbearable.
"And now!" Coran ordered.
Keith breathed for him again.
A sharp ache bloomed in his chest, and Keith could feel the sting of tears burning his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to cry. Not now. Not when Lance needed him to be strong. But the weight of it was crushing, the fear wrapping around his lungs and squeezing. What if it was too late? What if Coran couldn’t get Lance’s heart beating again? He felt a tremor in his hands, barely noticeable, but it was there. Keith wanted to scream, to fight against the injustice of it all, but he stayed where he was, fingers brushing Lance's chin, as if that small connection could tether him to life.
"Again, Keith!"
Lance’s lips were cold beneath his own.
Keith’s mind was a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts: Lance can’t die. Not like this. Not after everything they’d survived. He didn’t know how to exist in a world without Lance’s laughter, without his bravado and warmth. The idea of that empty space was suffocating.
Pidge was sobbing, her shoulders shaking violently as she clutched Hunk’s arm. Hunk whispered fervent prayers, his voice barely above a breath, eyes squeezed shut as if blocking out the scene before him. Shiro’s hands were clenched hard around the ship’s steering gears, face taut, eyes impossibly wide as he stared determinedly ahead. Keith wanted to scream, to shake Lance and demand he wake up, to force life back into his limp body. Instead, he whispered, over and over, "Come on, Lance. Please. You’re stronger than this. You have to fight."
His hands twitched at his sides, itching to do something more, but he didn’t dare interfere. He couldn’t risk disrupting the rhythm Coran had established, couldn’t risk taking away even the slightest chance that this might work. As Coran's compressions became more frantic, his movements more forceful, Keith could feel his stomach twist. It was as if Coran was fighting with everything he had to pull Lance back from the brink, refusing to let go. Keith squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of Pidge’s sobbing and Hunk’s quiet prayers, the thump-thump-thumping of Coran's compressions.
"Again!"
Again.
He was in a vacuum. Time fell away from Keith. His ears began to ring.
Then it all came rushing back as a gasping cough shattered the air.
Keith's eyes shot open, catching on Lance’s heaving chest, at the way his eyelids fluttered.
Hunk and Pidge had both collapsed to the floor, hysterical.
And Keith, overwhelmed by the sheer relief of seeing Lance breathing again, choked out a laugh. He laughed. The sound was raw and broken, tears streaking his face before he could even register them. He buried his face in his hands as more choked laughs - that may have actually been sobs - burst from his chest, muffling them with the bloodstained fabric of his gloves.
Coran was panting, shaking from exertion as he shifted to adjust Lance’s position, ensuring his airway stayed open.
Keith eventually uncurled himself, reaching for Lance’s hand once more.
He stayed rooted at Lance’s side, squeezing his fingers gently, as if afraid that if he let go, Lance would slip away again.
The others remained nearby, each lost in their own wave of relief, fear, and exhaustion. Hunk couldn’t stop muttering thanks to every deity he could think of. Pidge wiped at her face with trembling hands, shakily floating over to the cockpit to relay Lance's condition to Shiro, and report back on progress on the trip back to the castle - per Coran's request.
Keith put a hand on Coran’s shoulder after the man situated a respirator over Lance's nose and mouth. There was no way he could express just how thankful he was for the Altean's efforts, the monumental determination it took to pull Lance back. Coran was truly a blessing; they owed him everything, all of them were forever in his debt, and although Keith couldn't find the words to express that fact, he hopes that Coran still receives the message as the man meets Keith's eyes.
Coran, still catching his breath, managed a small, tired smile. "He’s not out of the woods yet," he cautioned, his voice softer now. "But he’s breathing on his own. That’s a good start."
Keith nodded, barely fighting back the tears clouding his vision, his eyes hot and watery.
He looked at Hunk kneeling on Lance's other side, a gentle hand on his best friend's shoulder. Their gaze met. Nothing was said.
Keith brushed hair from Lance's forehead, his touch feather-light. Despite the fear still gnawing at him, he couldn’t help but whisper, "You’re too stubborn to give up, aren’t you, Sharpshooter?"