#but still whoo i had a Gut And Skin And Chest reaction to turning the valves even on top of everything else going on.

[jigsawwrangler]

'eyy I am very much a body/gore/visceral horror person and I declare the Valve Puzzle segment in Mouthwashing to be the first scene in a horror piece to spur me to go "i dont like this :(" out loud in a long time.

[adventuresloane]

The Wanted (Revised Hurloane Fic) -- Ch. 4

“They had nearly as many names as they had stories told about them. Ram. Raven. Red. Devil. Deputy. Outlaw. Short ‘n Long. Ghosts of the Rapids.”

Hurley’s a bounty hunter, the Raven is an outlaw, and the desert is a lonely place.

(The 50k+ Old West Hurloane AU Where Hurley Becomes A Thief Too that no one asked for. Updates every Friday. Edited and reposted from an old version of the story–more significant changes to come in later chapters. T for non-graphic violence and discussions of death/injury/trauma.)

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"Absolutely no way."

"Oh, yes."

"Nope. Nope. You can't possibly hit that thing."

"Bet you anything I can."

Sloane snickered. "I'll take that bet. That bird is at well over a hundred meters away, faster than shit, and you're going at it with a goddamn revolver instead of a proper hunting rifle. Not possible." 

"Shh, don't let it hear you." Their heart pounded against the ground like a closed fist as they lay flat on their belly, fixed on the roadrunner. Without thinking about it, they did what they always did, tilting the gun up an inch for every twenty meters. Just like hitting clay. They aimed for the question mark-shaped neck. Next to them, Sloane, meanwhile, had rolled onto her back with her hand flopped lazily over her stomach. Her neck was arched all the way back to look at the bird with a droll grin. She was looking at the thing upside-down. What did she know anyway?

"It's not gonna hear shit from this distance, which is, I'll remind you, very fucking far," she said. 

"It could! You don't know!"

"You manage to hit that thing, I'll eat my ha--"

They shot, and the bird dropped with nary a squawk.

Hurley popped up from the ground. First they smiled at the still dark lump on the ground very fucking far in front of them, then, without changing their expression, turned to a gaping Sloane. When she glanced their way, they raised their eyebrows and swung their revolver by the trigger guard, back and forth, on one finger. Admittedly, they made a show of milking it. 

She snapped her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes. Then, without so much as a sigh, she removed her hat, walked over towards the unlit fire pit, held it for a moment over the skillet sitting nearby, and, with a certain solemnity, dropped it. 

They laughed. She didn't, but she smiled in this particular way they had come to recognize, where she wrinkled her nose, as though it were a grin repurposed from a failed sneer.

"I'll go grab the bird," they said.

She watched them the whole time they were walking back. When they got close enough, they could see the studying glint in her eye, her head cocked. 

"Hey," she said. A second later, she tossed an empty can into the air. They drew and picked it off, hearing the satisfying tang as the bullet connected. 

They took a moment to watch it fall to earth, diverted from its original course, before looking back at her. "Whoo!" They pumped their fists in the air, despite the fact that a carcass still swung from one. 

She chuckled. "Damn." Holding her hand out toward the bird, she said, "Give me that." When they handed it over, she started plucking the feathers. 

"You don't have to do that."

"It's fine. You ever had roadrunner before?"

"Nope. Have you?"

"Oh, a few times. It's alright."

"So you've shot them before!" They sat beside her cross-legged to watch her work. "Why were you giving me shit about it just now?"

"No, I've only trapped them. Just a few times, when I'm away from any towns for a good long while."

"Isn't that harder?"

"Yes, which is why you should be impressed." She glanced at them, then went on, "Also, I'm a terrible shot. Things look blurry to me when they're at that distance away, so there wasn't much point in learning." 

"Really?" As her words sank in, they felt their previous excitement congeal in them like a blood clot, stopping them up. They wondered if she might be lying, but they weren't good at spotting that kind of thing in anyone, least of all her. She had not tensed or looked away as she had spoken, at least that they had seen. She just kept pulling the feathers. Anyway, it would have made for an odd thing to lie about in this moment. 

The number 113 flashed through Hurley's head over and over. Abernathy had been shot from 113 meters away, the distance from the door of the bank to the general store's porch. Her bad sight and the clean gun and the fact that--they could tell--she hadn't thought to shoot when she had gotten caught. Her reaction to simply hitting Hurley in the nose. Would the law know all that? Would it care? It wasn't what one would call hard evidence, certainly nothing capable of proving her innocence, but it didn't add up. What did it mean to bring her back to a Goldcliff unaware of such things?

They didn't ask all that. Instead, they pushed past the stewing in their guts to ask, "Are you often out here for a long time?"

She shrugged. "Depends. Sometimes I have a harder time getting some sheriff off my trail, and I have to hide out here a little longer before I go back to a town. I can be here for a few weeks without much of a problem." She cocked her brow at them and jabbed, "When I'm prepared."

They flicked a spot of dried mud from their boot. "That sounds lonely," they said in the most neutral way they could, which was probably not very.

She snorted. "No. The quiet's nice out here."

Hurley looked around. "I think I agree. It's funny. I didn't like that about it when I first got out here, but being in a place that's sort of...stuck out of time, that's a nice distance to have."

"You can disappear, yeah." She passed the featherless carcass to them, and they began to slice its belly.

"I wouldn't want it all the time, though. Eventually I think I'd want someone around."

"I don't like answering to anybody."

"I'm aware of that," they said with a grin. 

"Well, do you? 'Cause you seem like you'd rather be the person people answer to."

"Do I?" They paused when their knife was partway through the thin, shining muscle under the skin as they held the bird over the dead charcoals. The blood rose up out of it and dribbled onto the ashes, so that it would be soaked up. "I don't think it has to be about answering to anyone. You can just be with people."

"Where'd you learn to shoot?"

"Well, when I was young, maybe seven or eight, my mother--"

"Oh, gods."

"Hey, do you want to know or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just I should've known you'd make it something sentimental." She gave them a flippant wave while still looking down at the roadrunner. Hurley chose to be optimistic and assume that was her version of a joke. "Go on."

They huffed. “Well, I’ll make it quick for both our sakes, I guess. I was gonna say that my mother always told me I thought with my belly.”

“Huh. Rude.”

“No, she didn’t mean it like that. She meant I listen to my gut before anyone else, including her, or my own brain. Like how I’d go running out the door in my underwear to frighten off the foxes if I thought I heard them near the chickens. I was maybe three when I did this, I should mention.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“Anyway, finally Mom decided that if I was going to keep running into things without thinking about them, I might as well figure out how to protect myself while I did it. I started off with a slingshot when I was maybe seven, but I wanted a gun before long. She managed to put off giving me one until I was, oh, twelve or so.”

Sloane chuckled. “Very irresponsible. I love it.”

“Hey, at least she found someone to teach me before she let me lay my hands on the thing myself. I’ve been practicing ever since.”

“I can tell.”

“Yeah.” 

It was some time before either of them spoke again. Several times, Hurley took in a big breath to speak, held it and let it grow hot and tight inside their chest, and then let it all out. The sun had melted into a band of fading yellow on the horizon. 

Finally, they said, “Hey, let me switch out your shackles.”

They went to chain her ankles so that they could remove the irons around her wrist, but she rolled out of the way at the last second, flopping onto her back. “Nah, don’t feel like it,” she answered, playing up the lazy tone. 

Hurley snorted. “Don’t be an ass, come on.”

This time, she flipped over onto her belly, still skirting just out of reach. Her head was in her hands as she fixed them with a playful grin. “You gotta catch me first if you want to do that, Red. I thought you were good at that.”

They stared her down and made a point of being unsmiling. “Sloane, it’s got to happen eventually anyway.

The smile slid from her face fast. She cast her eyes down to the ground. When she finally let them approach, it was while she was turned away from them and looking out to the fading light. She had closed. 

Over the nearly three weeks that they had been on their own together, this was what Hurley had come to dread far more than the dark of the nights and the heat of the days. It was the feeling of collapse, of having to knock down something that they had built up themself. Because they could almost pretend, before they remembered the chains again. It seemed, sometimes, that she almost forgot them as well. 

They had been sleeping closer together lately. On a particularly cold night, Sloane had even conceded to being under the same blanket with them, so long as Hurley kept their hands curled up against their chest. But it wouldn’t be tonight, regardless of how much either of them shivered.

[serendipitous-magic]

Director's Cut: Real Season 3, your take on the theater scene

(For the “give commentary on a scene you’ve written” thing)

OKAY SO I’M ACTUALLY REALLY GLAD YOU MENTIONED THAT SCENE BECAUSE THERE’S SOME VERY CLEVER FORESHADOWING IN THERE THAT I’M NOT SURE IF ANYONE CAUGHT. (Ahem.) I don’t think I’ll actually point it out, so that it can still be A Surprise, but just allow me to say that I am stupidly pleased with ~something~ in that section.

That being said, I’m interpreting “the theater scene” as like all the way through the theater scene, like from the movie starting to after Will’s episode, so (rubs hands together) here we go. Buckle up, kids. I’ll put it under a “read more” line and hope that works (Tumblr has been so weird about “read more” lines, has anyone else had that problem?)

-_-_-_-

Will ranks movies based on how easily they can make him forget the outside world. A score of one means, what movie? and a score of ten means, what real world? 

This one is an eight.

Will gets swept up in the story, delighted by the clocks and the Delorean and all the old-fashioned ‘50s stuff and Doc Brown’s exaggerated facial expressions - and captivated by Marty McFly’s skateboard, turned-up collar, guitar, and handsomely rumpled hair. He’s even able to mostly forget how crisp the air conditioning is, in here. The air smells like buttered popcorn; his tongue is probably stained red with artificial strawberry; and for the first time in a long day of hiking and racing across town, he’s sitting down in a comfy chair. A good end to a good day. 

It’s long been a headcanon of mine that Will gets a bit of a crush on Marty McFly when BTTF comes out in summer of 1985. I mean…

C’mon. He skateboards. He plays guitar. He’s clever (“Whoa, whoa, Biff… What’s that?”), he’s funny, he’s handsome, he’s cool and he knows it, he’s confident… Tell me Will wouldn’t be blushing in his theater seat. Go on.

His mood is dampened just a tad when he glances over and happens to see Mike’s fingers linked with El’s, as per the usual. 

“Whoa. Whoa, Doc, stuck here?” Marty says from the screen. “I can’t be stuck here, I got a life in 1985! I got a girl!” 

“Is she pretty?” 

“Ah, she’s beautiful.” 

Will looks back to the screen, because he doesn’t want to see the meaningful, affectionate glance that Mike sends his girlfriend. 

I just had fun kind of using the movie to bounce back and forth with what’s going on in Will’s head - like how Marty, in the movie, says, “Ah, she’s beautiful,” and Mike gives El this meaningful look and Will has to look away. That was just so much fun to write. I actually had this scene of BTTF pulled up in a different tab while I was writing this scene, to refer to, so I could get the dialogue right.

“She’s crazy about me. Look at this. Look what she wrote here, Doc, I mean, that says it all. Doc… You’re my only hope.”

Crazy about me.

Yeah, crazy -

“Crazy,” as related to being in love, has been somewhat of a motif through Stranger Things. We’ve got, of course, “Crazy together,” but also “Only love makes you that crazy, and that damn stupid,” and, “It makes you crazy,” etc. And I do believe I’ll be using that motif a bit, myself, in the rewrite. (Hueh hueh hueh.)

“Marty, I’m sorry. But the only power source capable of generating 1.21 gigawatts of electricity is a bolt of lightning.” 

At first Will thinks that the sudden darkness is part of the movie. And then, when the audience groans and he sees that even the exit signs above the doors have gone dark, he realizes what happened. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Lucas gripes from somewhere in the darkness.

There’s a general muttering and shuffling as the packed theater protests the blackout.

Spreading.

Where his hand rests on his thigh, Will’s fingers twitch.

It’s spreading.

The blackout.

This was kind of a half-callback to S2 where Will is trying to explain to Joyce and Hopper what he’s feeling/seeing with his Now Memories, and he says something like, “It’s growing, and spreading, and… killing.” 

Sweeping across Hawkins in a powerful, silent surge. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. He can feel it. Hot bulbs going dark; buzzing wires falling inert, lifeless.

Everything inside of Will drops. A horrible, sick, sinking, numb-cold swoop that starts to spiral somewhere in his gut, tingling up his spine and at the base of his skull, prickling at the back of his neck until one hand twitches up to press at the skin there.

It’s moving.

The knowledge comes to him unbidden, imparted to him with a sinuous, papery, reverberating flutter - like the sound of thousands of insect wings all beating at once, and Will wants to scream, he wants to bolt out of his chair, but he’s frozen.

His fingers are shaking. Something at the pit of his throat is shaking. His whole body feels like it’s sinking through the floor, leaving itself behind, his limbs going cold and weak as if he’s about to faint. His head swims.

I wanted to be as physical as possible with the descriptions of how the Mind Flayer feels. That little bit of dialogue we got from Will in that-one-season-that-never-happened actually gave some nice details: how it feels like dropping on a roller coaster, but cold. 

Sluggishly, as if in a dream, he drags his hand off of his neck and gropes for the seat next to him. His mouth is already forming the M, voice ready to croak out one single syllable, when his fingers rake through thin, cold air.

His first instinct is to turn to Mike. ‘Nuff said.

There’s no one in the seat beside him. There’s no one in the whole theater. The air-conditioned, popcorn-scented air has gone frigid and sour, and Will is on his feet. Turning in circles. Scanning the dilapidated space wildly, shoes fumbling and slipping over slick, fleshy vines. 

No.

No, no, no, no, no no no -

His eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, but the blueish gray palette of shadows is so horribly, cruelly familiar. And the fluttering - that dry, hissing, grinding flutter seems to spike through his whole body, shooting through him from neck to fingertips to toes, making him grimace, driving his feet forwards in a panicked, instinctual stumble towards the door. 

It’s not real.

He tells himself that as he shoulders open the swinging door, coughs into his hands at the sting of toxins in his lungs. The coughing is as sharp as gunshots in the dead silence, echoing harshly through the darkness as he propels himself through the theater lobby. Spores drift listlessly in the stale air, bringing back a thousand memories, a thousand deeply ingrained instincts to run and hide and -

It’s not real. I’m not here. Not really.

He’s twelve years old again. Cold and alone and scared, the soles of his sneakers skidding on sludge. Jerking away with a half-swallowed sob as a fringe of dangling vines comb over his cheek.

Okay so Will is stuck between two conflicting reactions right now: a) instinctual, trauma-driven mortal terror, and b) complete denial. At this point in the story, he’s gonna be doing everything he can to convince himself that this isn’t real, it’s not really happening, it’s just a flashback, he’s just seeing things. But at the same time, being abruptly thrown back into the UD for the first time in sixth months is triggering a whole nasty slew of panic responses.

The lobby opens up into the mall, and Will comes to a halt. Starcourt is hollow. Storefronts devoid of products, of people. A few lights waver to life here and there as he passes, faint and blue-tinted, their meager glow smothered under softly rustling tendrils. He’s acclimating to the silence, the quiet pressing in against his eardrums like a high air pressure, and now his ears are picking up on the barely-detectable whispers and chitters of the Upside Down. The sound of vines growing, moving, shifting. The sound of creatures skittering into the shadows, somewhere unseen.

Like Dart, something in the back of his mind whispers. 

The back of his throat opens, a call for Mike rising instinctually, but he bites down on it before it reaches his lips. He shakes his head, hard. Like he’s trying to wake himself up after nearly nodding off in class. He’s not a little kid anymore. It’s not real. It can’t be real. The Gate is closed. Nothing has happened since November. It’s just in his head. He can snap himself out of it.

And here’s that tilt towards the denial end of the spectrum.

His eyes squeeze shut. He clenches his fists at his sides, splays out his fingers until the tendons ache, breathes five long breaths. His throat scratches with the cold, acrid air, but he forces himself to breathe smoothly. The chittering grows louder, darting past him, coming close enough that he can feel something brush past his shoelace. But it’s not real. He won’t cringe away. He won’t let these memories control him. He won’t. 

When he opens his eyes, he’s still there.

His skin crawls. His eyes trace up, over the shadowy silhouettes of the food court, over the vine-choked space above, past the neon STARCOURT sign that gutters and flares in sporadic bursts. And beyond the great glass skylight, there’s a shape. Dark - dark as the void of space, like a hole cut out of the universe. Looking at him. Watching him. The numb-cold swoop drains through him again, stronger this time as the Mind Flayer’s featureless head lowers towards the skylight.

A broken whimper twists in Will’s chest. Fear takes over. His mind goes blank, body reacting on animal instinct as his feet shove him back, away -

Aaaand we’ve tilted back in the direction of panic and terror. Whoo.

No -

No, please -

Hey do y’all remember how when they started burning the tunnels in S2, if you listened closely, Will said something garbled that sounded like “No, please -!”?

Pepperidge Farm remembers.

Lights flare at random, strobing, flickering across the length of the mall, static popping in Will’s clothes, and oh god he sees him, he knows Will is here, he’s looking at him -

Will can feel him beckoning. Calling to him. He’s getting closer, pressing down towards the glass, and Will can hear the whooshing, rumbling roar, muffled through the roof, and he’s still backing up, back into the theater lobby, lungs pistoning behind his ribs - Go away! Go away! Go - dread and powerlessness and panic cutting through him in sharp, icy waves, and not again, please not again, it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real, please please -

An abrupt grip on his upper arm makes him sputter, his scream getting tangled up in his mouth before it can come out, and Mike’s dark eyes go even wider with worry.

Mike.

Here I was going for the effect that they do in the show when Will suddenly snaps out of his episode and is back in the real world - yanno, where it’s all blue and gray and cold looking, in the Upside Down, and then all at once bam in the next shot the color scheme shifts and there’s Mike and he’s back in the real world?

Mike’s oh-so-familiar features, lit by the warm gold-and-pink glow of the lobby displays. The smell of buttered popcorn. A curious glance or two from the people milling around, who doubtless just witnessed Will’s erratic flight. 

Relief swells so abruptly in Will’s chest that it bubbles up over his lips as a watery laugh. 

Not real.

His head whips up, scanning the skylights that are just visible beyond the overhang of the second level. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. He’s not there. Will’s heart is wobbling hard between his lungs, adrenaline pounding at his temples and fingertips, and his -

His shoes. They’re wet. The soles slimy with the residue of… of…

Soda. He must have stepped in some soda. Yes - yes, there. There’s a banana-yellow caution, wet floor! sign propped up a few yards away. He just stepped in something as he crossed the lobby, that’s all. He breathes hard, consciously slowing the push-pull of his diaphragm, clearing out the phantom chill from his lungs.

He registers all at once that Mike has been saying his name. Will focuses in on the face of his best friend - the tapered cheeks, nearly devoid of the baby fat that used to round them out. The smattering of freckles over his sunburnt nose. The dark half-curling waves falling over his forehead, one strand just barely brushing the eyelashes of his left eye. He’s staring down into Will’s face with an expression of alarm, and when their eyes meet, he repeats, “Are you okay?”

Hmm. Watcha lookin’ at, Will?

Deja vu is making Mike’s head spin. It’s a sick, sinking feeling, like realizing all at once that you’ve forgotten something important. Like thinking that there’s one more stair than there is, and stepping into empty space with a disorienting jolt. Because Mike has seen Will like this before.

Will is gasping for breath, his body trembling under Mike’s palm, his eyes wild. The skin of his arm is chilled from the air conditioning, peppered with goosebumps.

Itty bitty detail, but: Mike assumes that Will’s skin is cold from air conditioning, and not… you know… the Upside Down perhaps?

“Will? Are you okay?”

But Will doesn’t seem to hear him. His chin is tilted up, eyes flickering over the ceiling like he expects to find something there.

“Will?”

His breath begins to even out. His head turns, scanning the lobby of the movie theater. 

“Will?”

Finally, Mike’s voice seems to filter through whatever haze is surrounding him, and hazel eyes meet Mike’s.

“Are you okay?”

Something strange happens then. As he looks over Mike’s face, Will’s eyes lower for a moment, like he’s glancing at Mike’s mouth. And for a fraction of a second, it sets off an automatic response in the back of Mike’s brain. He shuts down the impulse as soon as it rears its head, but it was there: for a split second, Mike was about to tilt forward and… Well, no, not really. Of course he didn’t really think about kissing Will. It���s just that he’s been with El all day, so he’s still in boyfriend mode. It was automatic. 

Still, the impulse startles him enough that he drops his hand from Will’s arm as Will opens his mouth to answer.

And here we have some Repressed Internalized Homophobia! Because of course Mike only thought about kissing Will because he’s been with El all day, and of course he only dropped his hand because it surprised him, and not because he’s subconsciously shying away from anything too “gay.”

“Yeah,” Will mumbles. “I’m… yeah. Fine.”

Mike can’t help it. He pushes. “Are you sure?”

He’s expecting Will to be mad at him. To roll his eyes or snap a retort or turn away, because he hates when people fuss over him, and Mike knows he hates it. But instead, Will just looks back out at the mall for a moment. He’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. This must have been a bad one.

“‘f course,” Will mutters eventually. He scuffs one foot along the carpet, like he’s trying to wipe something off his shoe.

It was the blackout that must have done it. Will’s panic attacks sometimes come on with no obvious rhyme or reason, but when there is a trigger - say, for example, abrupt, total darkness - they can be twice as bad. He seems better now, though. Calmer. More grounded. Mike decides against throwing an arm around Will’s shoulders, in case he gets shoved off with an annoyed bark of, I’m fine, but he risks an elbow bump.

Again: this is the first “episode,” so I needed to establish a few background details about what’s been going on in Hawkins and in the Party, in the six months since we saw them in S2. And basically what we’re learning here is that Will has been less and less cool with people fussing over him and being worried about him. We saw that starting to happen in S2, and it must have gotten so much worse after that. Remember his speech to Jonathan? How everyone treats him like he’s gonna break, like he can’t handle things on his own? And then the Mind Flayer happened. Every time Will coughed or disappeared to the bathroom for three minutes, people would have been going nuts. And it probably drives Will up the wall. To the point where he’d start to snap at them. To the point where Mike goes to do The Arm Thing, but decides against it at the last second and aborts the movement and only kind of awkwardly bumps Will’s elbow with his, because he wants to comfort Will but doesn’t wanna get snapped at, and he knows Will hates that stuff. So there’s a little bit of a wedge between them, right now (well, another wedge, since there’s already the stuff going on with Mike ignoring the Party a bit for El).

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “They’re about to get the movie running again.”

Will turns at Mike’s nudge without complaint, and they fall into step side-by-side as they make their way back to their seats. The Party greets them with anxious stares and whispers of, “Is he okay?” and “What happened?” Will waves off their concern, putting on a mask of nonchalance, and tosses off a line about fresh air.

One of my favorite HCs (and honestly it’s basically just canon) is how Mike and Will just automatically fall into step with each other as they walk, since they’ve been attached at the hip since they were five years old. They’re so used to navigating the world at each other’s side, quite literally, that it’s a deeply ingrained habit to just sync up their steps, despite the difference of leg lengths haha. 

Also: the Party being concerned makes Will’s walls come up, and he “puts on a mask of nonchalance and tosses off a line about fresh air,” so we can see that he’s plenty used to pretending that everything is fine in order to wave off people’s concerns. 

Before they can question him further, the film reel sputters, and the movie kicks into gear again.

“A bolt of lightning!” Doc Brown exclaims. The audience cheers as the film resumes. Will sticks a twizzler in his mouth and Mike makes himself look at the screen. “Unfortunately, you never know when or where it’s ever gonna strike!” 

Marty slaps the Save the Clock Tower! flyer and thrusts it at the mad scientist, suave and handsome in his denim jacket with its popped-up collar.

“We do now.” 

Mike thinks Marty is handsome too. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, can I just point out that Mike was watching Will eat a twizzler and made himself look away. Liiiitle tiny hints of Mike subconsciously repressing his attraction to Will there. ‘Cause… uh, Mike? Why are you staring at Will’s mouth?

-_-_-_-

Aaaaaand there we have it! You probably didn’t mean that whole thing, but… Sorry not sorry lol. I’ve been accused of not knowing how to make a short post, and those accusations are 100% accurate.

[allorana]

Bruising Waters Pt. 2

Lance wakes us and has to start dealing with the aftereffects of the illness as well as the Team’s different reactions to finding out

Link to AO3 (for full fic directly)  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5

The second thing Lance was aware of was the dull ache pulsing through his veins.  And that’s what startled him the most.  Pain was all he’d been feeling for days now.  Yet, it wasn’t the sickness or the anxieties that had been plaguing him recently that he first noticed.  It was a burst of cold, the sensation of falling.  Then, the gentle push and pull of water.  A current gently circled his body and tail, gliding soothingly around him.  Lance breathed in deep, sighing as the tension bled out of his body at the sensation of being surrounded by water.  He faintly registered the sound of voices talking around him.  Lance wasn’t concerned.  Though he didn’t recognize the voices in his hazy state, an instinctual pull within him told him they were members of his pod, his family.  The peace of his family surrounding him and the pull of the water lulled Lance back into darkness.  Smiling, Lance let himself sink into the swirling arms of his old friend.

The next time Lance awoke he was aware that only part of his body was resting in the water.  The lights were bright even behind his eyelids, and he felt like he was trying to claw out of a deep sleep.  As awareness slowly came to him, Lance distinctly felt himself lying on a raised but comfortable surface, head and upper chest above water.  A soft, sponge-like material was lying behind his head like a pillow.  His scales and fins felt odd and heavy.  He registered that they seemed to be bandaged and that a salve had been placed on them.  His skin crawled slightly at the thought, but he pushed the feeling down.

Lance turned his head to the sound of voices.  That’s when his brain caught up to the fact that not only was he transformed, which felt heavenly he couldn’t deny, but there were also people in the room with him.  Oh quiznack, his teammates.  Lance tried to crack open his eyes to see who was talking, but was blinded almost immediately and snapped them shut again, groaning softly.

“-ance?  Lance, are you waking up?”

Maybe he could pretend to be asleep or dead or something.  Anything so he wouldn’t have to face his friends like this.

There was an annoyed huff above him.  “You’re not getting out of this, Lance.  We need to check if you’re ok.”  Lance groaned.  That was Allura, and from the sound of her tone he’d be much better off doing as she said.

Lance cracked one eye open and then the other, the blurry figure of Allura’s face swimming in front of his eyes before finally steadying and solidifying.  She shot him a warm smile as soon as she saw him awake.  “Sorry, ‘Llura.  Lights.”  He croaked, coughing violently.  The phlegm coating his throat where his gills were was making it hard to speak.

“Oh!”  Allura’s eyes widened.  “One moment Lance!”  She disappeared from view and Lance blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision more.  He seemed to be lying in a tub of water that was being filtered to mimic currents.  His bed was a raised piece of flooring that had been padded to make him more comfortable.  The lights around him dimmed slightly and he felt himself relax.

He shot her a shy smile in return, conscious of his tail and fins on prominent display.  “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem at all my boy!”  Coran quickly bounced into view.  Lance didn’t miss the heavy bags under his eyes or the relieved undertone in his bright grin and began to relax further.  Maybe it would be ok.

“What happened?”

Coran’s smile faltered.  “You caught a virus on Vellugher.  The infection had taken a firm hold and you were hemorrhaging by the time we found you.”

Lance smiled weakly.  “So, not a space cold then?”

Coran chuckled softly, leaning over to ruffle Lance’s hair in such a fatherly gesture that a sense of longing pulled at Lance’s gut before he quickly dismissed it.  He couldn’t go home, not yet.  “No,”  Coran murmured, smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I guess not.”

Lance squinted at Coran, then frowned.  “It’s not your fault, Coran.”

Coran blinked at him in surprise.  A laugh bubbled out of him, more genuine than the one before.  “You never cease to amaze me, my boy.”  This time his grin reached his eyes, making them dance in the light.

Lance smirked at both of them, leaning back with his hands behind his head, before deciding that was too exhausting and resting them back down by his sides.  “Well, I am the best and most amazing paladin here.”

Allura rolled her eyes but Lance detected a hint of fondness in them and his heart soared.  Maybe, things would just go back to normal.  Maybe, they weren’t mad.  They might even- they might even accept him.

Coran’s expression turned serious for a moment.  He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened up.  Lance sobered immediately, fear flickering through him for a moment.  “I do have to apologize though, Lance.  I had to coat and wrap all of your scales and fins in order to treat them.  I do hope you’ll forgive me for touching them without your permission.  I know how improper and violating it is, but your health was at stake and I couldn’t wait for you to awaken.  I promise I did not touch your gills.  I made sure to give you an injection of medicine to help clear them up until you could handle cleaning them yourself.”

Lance gaped at Coran through his speech.  He couldn’t believe it.  Objectively, Lance knew that Coran had experience with species similar to him, but he wasn’t expecting the older altean to understand his people’s conventions and boundaries so well.  That Coran thought to show Lance, who knew he had only barely outgrown being a youngling, such respect and kindness was too much.  His eyes welled up.  “Thank you.”  He gasped through the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.  He leaned up towards Coran, arms outstretched.  Coran smiled-- warm, kind, and full-- and stepped forward, allowing Lance to pull him down into as tight a hug as his weakened muscles could handle.

Lance let go when his arms started shaking too much to maintain his grip, but he didn’t pull away fully.  Coran seemed to understand and gently placed his hand over Lance’s, even as he softly pressed Lance back down into his bed.

Allura smiled at the exchange.  She moved towards Lance, drawing his eyes from Coran to hers.  “The other paladins will be glad to know you’ve woken up.”  Lance flinched in alarm and his eyes darted to the door and then away, shoulders tensing.  He bit his lip, looking down as his eyes glossed over with more tears.  “Do they-”  He stopped, gulping before he continued in a whisper, refusing to look at Allura or Coran.  “Do they hate me?  For, for hiding this from them?”  His voice was so small Allura could barely hear him.  “They’re afraid of me… aren’t they?”

“Oh no, Lance.  Do not think that.”  Allura came up to his other side.  “They’ve been so worried.  They wanted to wait here the whole time for you to wake up.  They nearly did.”  She laughed lightly.  “It took me forever to get them to go back to their rooms for a few hours rest.  That’s why they’re not here right now.  It’s pretty late.”  Allura smirked.  “That, and I figured their concern and questions would be too overwhelming.”  Lance flashed her a grateful look.

She smiled down at him, soft and kind.  “We don’t hate you, Lance.”  She squeezed his shoulder, mindful of the bandages.  “None of us could ever hate you.  And they’re not afraid of you either.  They blame themselves more than anything.  For you getting sick, for letting it get this bad, and that you felt so afraid to tell them about this.”  Lance flinched guiltily.

Allura sighed at the motion.  “Oh, asteráki.”  She murmured, turning to card her fingers gently through his hair.  “Do not be afraid.  They have already accepted you.”

Lance felt a warmth spread through his veins as more of the medicine Coran was giving him kicked in and he drifted off, altean lullabies and soft hands humming through him as he slept.

**********

“-oh man, Lance you wouldn’t believe it.  You had to have been there, buddy.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Keith react like that.”  A booming laugh accompanied the words.  “Not that Kaltenecker was too happy about the whole thing either.  Don’t worry though, Pidge got it all on video and even backed up the files cause Keith tried to delete them.  Whoo, now that’s another good story-”

Lance smiled as he heard the rambling.  Hunk.  He was still lying on the makeshift bed in the tank, the water gently lapping against him.  He could feel less bandages and Lance surmised that a few days had passed since he’d woken up and spoken to Coran and Allura.  The thought was disconcerting, but Lance had been close to death from what Coran told him.  So he supposed it was understandable.

Lance shifted slightly as Hunk continued to ramble on.  He was debating how much longer to lay there just listening to his best friend.  He was not looking forward to the conversation they’d have once Hunk realized he was awake.  The decision, however, was made for him when he twisted a little too far and let out a pained yelp, eyes flying open.  He hunched over and gripped his side, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Lance!”  Hunk leaned over him, panicky.  “Oh my gosh, are you ok?”  His hands flitted above Lance in quick motions, wanting to touch but unsure how welcome it would be, and not wanting to cause any more damage.

Lance hissed out a breath through his clenched teeth and gingerly lifting his hand to prod lightly at his side.  He smiled placatingly up at his best friend, straightening slowly.  “I’m ok.  It was just a little twinge.”

Hunk sagged in relief, “Jeez man, you really gave me a scare there!  I was worried something else had hurt you, or the- the bleeding had started up again or something.”  Hunk let his hands fall, but his eyes scanned every inch of Lance, scrutinizing him for any further injuries.  Lance squirmed under the intense gaze.

He smiled a little unsurely up at Hunk, suddenly feeling completely exposed.  “N-no it’s all good.  Uh, at least, Coran said everything was starting to heal up nicely.  I can move around a bit easier now and the pain has gone down some!”  He trailed off.

Hunk smiled shyly at him.  “That’s great Lance.  I’m really happy to hear that, honest!  But, I just,”  Hunk sucked in a deep breath fidgeting with his hands.  “Lance, why didn’t you tell me?”  Hunk looked so forlorn and Lance’s heart squeezed.  He hated that he had put that expression on his best friend’s face.

Lance reached his hands over, earnestly grabbing Hunk’s.  “I wanted to buddy, believe me!  In all my life you were the first person I’d ever met that I actually wanted to tell about this.  But come on Hunk, you know how you are.”  Lance let go of Hunk’s hands and started gesturing wildly, desperate to get the wounded pout off of his friend’s face.  “You read people’s diaries for goodness sake!  I know you’d never have hurt me or intentionally told anyone, but how could I take that chance when it meant my pod- I mean, my family could have been put in serious danger!”  He pleaded fervently with Hunk whose composure was quickly cracking.  “Please, please Hunk.  You’re my best friend in the whole world, and I’m so sorry for hurting you.”  Tears slid down Lance’s cheeks and Hunk sniffed, tears of his own falling in sync.

“Oh, Lance.”  Hunk leaned over and pulled a hiccupping Lance into his arms in a swift and tight bear hug.  “Man, you know when you guys cry I start crying.”  Lance choked out a watery laugh.  “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”  He pulled back and looked down at his buddy with a wide grin.  “You were just trying to protect your family.  And I can admit, wholeheartedly and unashamedly, that I am in fact, a snoop.  And a completely unrepentant one at that.”  Lance burst into laughter.  Hunk was grinning fully now as he looked at Lance.  He was hunched over and wheezing, arms wrapped around his stomach and tears streaming down his face, this time from happiness.  Hunk smirked.  “Aside from the mice, we all know I’m the best source for gossip in this ship.”

Lance snickered, teasing as he calmed himself and waggled his eyebrows at his friend.  “Not like there’s much competition what with only a few people being on the ship, but sure.”  He snickered into his hands.

Hunk pretended to look affronted.  He held the expression for a moment, and then they were both dissolving into fits of giggles.  They smiled happily at each other, slightly breathless from their giggling.  Lance looked into Hunk’s eyes, gaze bright and open.  “Thank you.”  He breathed, warmth flooding his voice.

Hunk grinned.  “Scooch over.”

“What?  Wait, Hunk!”  Lance flailed as Hunk climbed over the edge of the tank and waded in next to him.  “Oh my gosh, you’re getting all wet!”

Hunk shrugged, “Eh, the water’s really warm and besides, I miss cuddling with my best bro.”

Lance’s eyes glazed over and teared up.  His lip wobbled, “Hermano.”

Hunk pulled himself up onto the bed with a grin and maneuvered so he was sitting behind Lance.  Once he was comfortable he reached out and pulled Lance back between his legs so they could hug and rest easier.  Lance immediately sank into Hunk’s warm embrace, turning his torso around so he could slip his arms around his friend.  He pressed his face into Hunk’s chest.  “Thanks man.”

Hunk hummed happily, carding his fingers through Lance’s hair.  “Don’t mention it.  What are brothers for?  Now, where was I... ?  Oh yeah!  So anyways, Keith was-”

Brothers.  Lance’s heart swelled.  He turned his head into Hunk’s chest more, pressing his face against him to hide his broad grin.  Lance sank down contentedly, listening to Hunk ramble on about things that had happened while he was out and cracking jokes with him.  As he lay there, he realized that for the first time since he’d joined the Garrison, Lance felt completely at home.

**********

Lance was still in his human form when Pidge turned up.  Coran wanted him to give his skin a chance to heal alongside his scales.  So he complied, carefully switching over earlier that morning once the rest of the bandages had been removed  This time he was laying on a cot near his water bed, back propped up against a mountain of pillows that Hunk had brought in for him.

She wandered in while he was attempting to read an altean book that Coran had brought him.  Their wacky space uncle meant well, but even with the pictures Lance couldn’t understand exactly what was going on.  He sighed, closing the book.  Figures.

“Wow, Lance.  Who knew that all it took to make you read willingly was a horrific illness and your own dramatic anime reveal arc.”

Lance perked up immediately, eyes quickly scanning the room until they landed on, “Pidge!”  He grinned lopsidedly at her and gestured for her to come closer, patting the side of his bed.  “Pull up a seat.”  He winked.

Pidge rolled her eyes walking towards him, then turned and grabbed a chair, placing it by his bed.  She smirked at him, sitting down.  “Thanks, I will.”

Lance pouted.  “Aww you’re no fun Pidge.”

“Noted.” She said drily, but the smirk in her eyes betrayed her.  Lance grinned back, relaxing against the pillows.  He was feeling better, but since he wasn’t quite at 100% Coran, and apparently Shiro as well though Lance had yet to see him, demanded that he not move around too much.  They didn’t want to chance aggravating his scales any further.  At that, Lance had quit complaining and consented to stay cooped up.

He stretched his arms, yawning leisurely.  “So Coran gave me the full rundown of my illness, cause he’s great like that.”  Pidge snorted.

“You already had to live through it once -- why would you want a description as well? That’s more Hunk’s and my alley.”

Lance smiled, turning onto his side to face Pidge fully.  “Mhmm.  Speaking of which, there is something I’m curious about that Coran couldn’t answer.”

“You, curious?  Heaven help us all.”

“I’m serious, Pidge.”  Lance huffed.  Pidge smirked at him, crossing her arms and waiting for Lance to continue.  “So, Coran said this thing normally takes a week to set in, right?”  Pidge nodded.  “So why was my, er, my-”

“Incubation period and subsequent reaction stages?”

Lance stared at Pidge, blinking.  She sighed and dropped her arms.  “You mean why was your onset and each stage of the illness that you went through heavily truncated, I mean, short compared to everyone else?”

Lance nodded enthusiastically, gesturing, or attempting to.  It was difficult to gesture fully with one of his arms partially pinned under his side, but Lance made do.  “Yeah, that.  Why did it hit so fast?”

Pidge furrowed her brow, tapping her chin as she leaned on her knees, thinking.  “Hmm, well I think it’s because you’re technically from an isolated ecosystem.  Earth is completely cut off from any other solar system in terms of contact, well, actually that's debatable but I digress.  So it makes sense that your body has no natural immunity to any illness even similar to the virus you caught.  It’s kind of like when the conquistadors and men like them came into new lands.  They would wipe out entire populations of people through disease alone, because the people who were native to the land had no natural immunities against things like smallpox.”

Lance scowled.  “Yeah, I know.”

Pidge nodded, sympathetic.  “I’d guess it’s kind of like that.  With no previous exposure or natural immunities, your body wasn’t prepared for the illness.  So when it hit, it hit you harder and faster than usual.  I’m not sure how much of that is sound, I’m not really a ‘medicine�� person.  But something like that would be my guess.”

Lance nodded contemplatively.  “Thanks, Pidge.”  They settled into a companionable silence for a moment, interrupted only by the occasional fidget from Pidge.  Lance hummed.  “So Pidge, are you-”

“You’re still you, right?”  Pidge blurted suddenly, then drew back, face burning red in embarrassment.  Lance gaped at her, eyes wide.  “I, I mean you look different sure, but what do I care about that.  Look at me.  I’m not exactly ‘standard girl material’.”  She scoffed, a glimmer of annoyance in her eyes that was gone as quickly as it had appeared.  Pidge paused, “But, it was so freaky seeing you upset like that.  We were all so worried.  And, Keith said you snapped your teeth at him.”

Lance’s soft confusion faded into hurt, then fear, and finally surprise, making Pidge wince.  “I don’t remember that.”  He murmured to himself.  Lance sighed and sank back into the pillows behind him.  “But then, there’s a lot from the past week that I don’t remember.”

Pidge bit her lip, guilty.  “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.  Just forget about it.”

“Ahh Pidgey no, it’s okay.”  Lance pushed himself up onto his elbows, one hand reaching out to grab Pidge’s wrist.  “Hey,”  He said softly, “Pidgey look at me.”

Pidge reluctantly drew her gaze up to meet Lance who grinned at her.  “It’s like how Keith is all weird and antisocial and has all these odd mannerisms that we all know are weird,”  Pidge snorted and Lance’s grin widened.  “Because he’s part Galra, but he’s still Keith.  It’s exactly like that.”  He shrugged.

Pidge huffed, embarrassed.  “I know that.  Look, it was dumb okay.”

“Yep!”  Lance interrupted brightly, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Quite dumb indeed Pidgeon, I thought you and Hunk were supposed to be the smart ones.”  His smile softened then, voice urgent and sincere, “Hey, I’m not going to leave you, okay?”

Pidge bit her lip once, then nodded.  She hesitated for a moment, then pulled herself up onto the bed.  Lance blinked in surprise but shifted slightly so she could be more comfortable.  “Tell anyone about this and you won’t have hot water for a year.”

Lance grinned.  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Pidgeon.”

Lance squawked as Pidge elbowed him in the side in response.  “Oi!  Don’t be mean to the invalid.”

Pidge just snorted and pulled out her data pad.  “Alright I’ve got questions and I want answers.”

Lance smirked.  “Fire away.”

Lance spent the next couple of hours answering as many questions about his biology and history as he could for Pidge, provided they weren’t too personal.  He closed his eyes with a smile; Pidge’s excited ramblings the last thing he heard before he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.