Their room reeks so strongly of peppermint that it makes Keith’s eyes sting. He blinks it away, slipping into the room as quickly as he can, minimizing the amount of light bleeding into the hallway. The lump of covers on their bed trembles slightly, and Keith’s heart breaks at the sight of it. He sets a glass of ice water on the bedside table, slipping out of his clothes in favour of a softer t-shirt and pyjama pants. He picks the cup back up and turns to the blanket lump, gently peeling the covers off his husband’s face. It’s wet, covered in tears, and his eyes are squeezed shut, fingers pressed deeply against them in an attempt to ease the pressure.
“Sit up,” he requests gently. Lance doesn’t move immediately, and Keith doesn’t push, gently stroking his forehead and untangling his hair. Lance leans in to the touch, relishing the cold of his fingers.
“It hurts,” he croaks, after several minutes. Finally he takes his hand away from his face, cracking open his bleary brown eyes.
Keith sighs. “I know, baby. But the water will help.”
“Okay.”
Keith squeezes his shoulder, then quickly crawls onto the mattress behind him, leaning against the headboard and helping Lance pull himself up so he’s leaning upright onto Keith’s chest. The change in altitude, however minuscule, make his breath hitch, and seconds later Keith feels something wet drip onto his arms, hears it drop steadily onto the duvet.
He winces. This one is…bad. He’s reminded, painfully, of the first time he ever witnessed Lance have an episode, hunched over a toilet bowl and shaking so bad Keith had been convinced he was seizing. The then-Blue Paladin had begged him, in between gags and heaves, not to tell anyone. Keith, who had only really known him for six months, six months of near-constant arguing broken up only by rare moments of true teamwork, who had barely considered them friends, had already been halfway out the door, Coran’s name on his tongue.
Keith had been scared shitless. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew enough to know that it was serious, that Lance was in real danger. His mind flashed to poisoning from a backstabbing ally, alien sickness a human immune system couldn’t fight off. A million different worst-case scenarios had rushed through his head, making Keith want to throw up himself.
But the terror in Lance’s eyes had scared him a thousand times more than whatever was wrong with him. So he had swallowed his fear, then, and kept his mouth shut, placing a tentative hand on Lance’s back as he vomited and carefully watched the door.
He doesn’t have to watch the door, anymore. There’s no more hiding.
But the fear has never left him.
“The meds aren’t doing anything,” Lance rasps. He’s drained the entire glass of water in seconds, body desperate for something to replenish all the sweat and tears and shaking effort of fighting off something that isn’t there.
“How long?”
“Third time.”
Keith tightens his arms around Lance’s waist, eyes closing in resigned disappointment. Third time — the meds have been ineffective for three consecutive attacks. It doesn’t work.
Fuck. They’d been hopeful about this one.
“We’ll talk to Coran.”
It had taken a year of Keith desperately trying to keep Lance’s secret — from the ‘real grown-ups’, as Lance called them — before they’d been caught. Usually Lance’s migraines were pretty predictable, warning signs obvious enough in advance that they could either find something to prevent it or get Lance somewhere he wouldn’t be disturbed.
But once they couldn’t manage it.
Neither of them could have predicted the bright, flashing lights of the planet the team was visiting. Nor did they know how badly that was going to hit Lance. One second he was fine, upright, laughing with Hunk, and then next the lights were flashing in and out like an ambulance and Lance’s eyes were rolling back into his head. He had come back as fast as he’d passed out, before he even hit the ground, but there was no mistaking the way he looked like someone had just taken a mallet to his skull, the way his palms were pressed, digging, into his eyes, the way he was obviously and clearly in pain.
Migraine has never been a large enough word.
Lance groans quietly. “I don’t — not right now.” He pushes himself forward slightly and then carefully spins around, so he’s no longer leaning against Keith but leaning into him, head buried into his neck. Keith moves his arms until he’s adjusted, then wraps them back around his waist, resting his head on top of Lance’s and just holding him, covering him, letting him know he’s there. “You know what he’s going to make me do.”
The team had wanted to push Lance into a pod immediately. Keith had been yelled at by five seperate people at the same time when he’d stood in between them and Lance, protective hand on his arm, and refused to move.
That’s when he thinks things clicked for the two of them, he thinks. Not when he found out for the first time, not when he promised to keep quiet, not when Lance stood by him and Black’s choice, not in the countless other times they’d fought and won together. But the time Keith had stood between him and their friends, the people who wanted them to be safe, and said without saying the words I am on your side. I will be on your side, even if I don’t agree, even if it’s the wrong one.
“It’ll help,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Lance’s temple. “I know it won’t make it go away, but you won’t feel it while it works it’s way. And who knows? Maybe this time it will fix something.”
“I doubt it.”
It hadn’t then, either. Lance had eventually agreed, battered, to a pod (“I can’t do it, Keith, I can’t, I’ll get stuck in there and suffocate and won’t even be awake to try and save myself —” “I’ll keep watch.” “What?” “The entire time. As long as it takes. I’ll stay awake and make sure you come out. I swear it, Lance.”), staying in cryosleep as the migraine worked it’s way through his body and the rest of them puzzled over his brain scans. They had even contacted the Olkari, the leading scientists in medicine besides the Alteans themselves, but no one in space is familiar enough with the human brain to find any miracles. And besides, from all angles, everything looked normal. Healthy, even, besides the pain. But obviously there was something wrong.
“That’s okay. We’ll just…sit here for a bit.” He knows that he should try to get Lance into a pod sooner rather than later. He can’t really sleep when he’s like this, so he’s just suffering, head pounding and nausea twisting his stomach, pain wrapped around his nerves. At least when he’s in the pod he’s in stasis. His migraines aren’t usually this bad — he can usually handle low lighting, can usually swallow the pain enough to smile and work and interact with the team; hell, usually the painkillers work — but when they are this bad, there are no other options. When they’re this bad, nothing does anything; not the water or an ice pack or the dark room or rest or peppermint or anything. (The peppermint always comes out, though, because Lance says it smells like healing. It smells like the times it /does/ work, smells like when he puts it on and the pain goes away. Keith will take burning eyes for that.)
For a while, the team put all their downtime into trying to figure out what they could do to fix things. Lance went through brain scans when he wasn’t hurting, when he was, when he was only hurting a little. He had so much blood drawn that he became anaemic again. Different ideas were tossed around and disproven three days later. He cycled through meds. The only thing that everyone could agree on, something that Lance already knew, was that the migraines started after the Sendak incident. Brain damage, of some kind. Once, carefully and kindly, Coran suggested that the pain might be psychosomatic. Keith and Shiro refused to talk to him for days, both remembering years of doctor’s visits that almost always ended with Well, Mr. Shirogane, have you considered that your problems may be more mental than physical?
It had been Lance’s scolding as much as Coran’s guilty face that had to two of them fixing things. Psychosomatic or not, Lance had reasoned, there’s something wrong, and what it is doesn’t really matter so long as it can be treated.
But it couldn’t. Be treated, that is. So long as it appears that Lance’s brain is just…attacking itself, sending off rapid fire pain signals for no reason, he just has to live with the constant pain of it, and the dread of the pod, the one fear Lance has never been able to fight off.
“I’ll watch,” Keith murmurs, lips pressed to Lance’s hair. He tightens his hold as Lance shudders.
He always has. It’s been eight years, in space, and Lance has been forced to enter a pod more times than he can count, for hours on end. But Keith has always stood there. He has always stood guard, watching the pod until he is bleary eyed, because he made a promise and he intends to keep it.
“Okay.” Lance exhales, long and slow. “As long as you’re with me, okay.”
“Always.”
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