A Little Death by AsterikaMay | 11.2k+ | Keith Whump | Canon-Compliant
“Aw,” the druid coos, “So much fire. So much rage in that trembling heart of yours. It’d be a shame if I simply quashed it, wouldn’t it?”
Keith stares straight at the druid. He bores his eyes into the shine of its face and looks his reflection dead in the eye. “Fuck—you.”
The druid tips its head all the way back till its face is far out of sight and it laughs. It shrills and twitches and ticks and shakes. “So much fire!” It shrieks. “So much fire and it’s—”
The druid reaches forward and wraps its long fingers around Keith’s face. They’re like icicles searing his skin with blinding cold. It might’ve drawn blood. He doesn’t know.
“—all gone.” The druid faces him again. “All gone.”
Keith shivers under the touch. He doesn’t understand. “What?”
-
A Blade mission goes astray when Keith has an unfortunate run-in with a druid. He falls sick soon after, and is handed into Voltron’s care until he recovers. While he’s there, he contemplates his place in the universe, the depth of his illness and its mysterious connection to Lance, and why he’s not getting better.
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So You Wanna Be Famous? (3050 words, in progress) by BlackIronRaven
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences (Might change to Mature later? Depends on how realism I feel like getting with the actual Band Stuff)
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Adam & Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron), Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Allura/Romelle (Voltron), Allura/Veronica (Voltron), Allura & Coran & Hunk & Keith & Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt & Shiro, Allura & Coran (Voltron), Adam/Shiro (Voltron)
Characters: Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Adam (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron), Shay (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Lotor (Voltron), Lotor's Generals (Voltron), Allura (Voltron), Coran (Voltron), Romelle (Voltron), Veronica (Voltron)
Additional Tags: klance, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, The full gang is here and they're all gay your honor, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, Bisexual Allura (Voltron), Trans Shay (Voltron), Modern Era, Disabled Shiro, Disabled Character, Autistic Keith (Voltron), emo band eraaaaaa, foster kid Keith
Series: Part 1 of The Paths of Stars
Summary:
"I think we should start a band," Shiro said.
Keith shot him a glance. "No thanks."
Nobody has an easy life. For Keith, it's been one screwball after another. After getting kicked out of Air Force training for improper behavior, he returns to his old foster brother Shiro in Detroit, Michigan. Frustrated with the state of the world, the pair starts writing. At first, it's just words, a way for them to work through their anger at the world around them - but neither of them could have predicted what their little passion project would lead to.
Summary: Keith + rejuvenation tea apparently = eight-year-old child who is understandably suspicious of Lance and his new surroundings and like his older counterpart also really seems to like knives. This is going to be a fun afternoon.
Timeline notes: season one or two
Warning notes: none
Read it on AO3 here! Or you can read it below. Feel free to leave a comment ♥
xxx
xxx
Lance tried not to stare.
Keith — or a small, kid-sized version of him that Lance was guessing was maybe six — had no such qualms, glaring at Lance and clenching a kitchen knife in a white-knuckled, shaking grip and the reason why Lance had not yet tried to approach as getting stabbed by a mini mullet was not how he’d seen his day going.
“Who are you?” Keith demanded, answering Lance’s question that the “rejuvenation tea” that apparently had very different effects on Galrans than humans and Alteans had not just shrunk Keith but turned him into a kid with his kid memories. “Where’s P-Pop?”
And despite the hot anger it was painfully clear that Keith was terrified and Lance felt his heart twist because no kid should ever sound that scared.
“Keith,” Lance spread his hands, “list—”
“How do you know my name?” Keith interrupted, only more freaked out.
Lance could try to weave a story with what little he knew — and he didn’t know much at all, did he, about his prickly teammate? — and make it convincing.
Or, given the fact even as a kid Keith was suspicious, on edge, and no doubt very dangerous with a knife even as a kid, he could try the truth.
It’d sound like a story anyway.
“I’m Lance. We’re friends,” Lance said. Or, well, close enough, and maybe this would be the thing that propelled them to that. “Teammates,” he said, as at least that was slightly more honest to their relationship. “You drank something that turned you into a little six-year—”
“I’m eight!” Keith protested hotly and Lance’s eyes widened.
Tiny kid.
He wisely chose not to say that.
“A little eight-year-old,” he smoothly corrected, “because we’re up in space and there’s lots of weird things up here.”
“Space?” Keith repeated with a small scowl. “That’s impossible. You’re,” he stabbed the knife in Lance’s direction, hand still trembling, “a liar. And, and a kidnapper.”
Ouch.
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Still, at least Keith was well briefed on stranger danger so Lance couldn’t really fault him. It did sound pretty out there.
And wait until he heard the rest.
“Am not,” Lance fired back, keeping his tone light. “We’re in space on a flying alien castle, friends with an alien princess and we pilot ships shaped like lions. Oh, and we eat goo.”
Keith gaped at him, the knife lowering ever so even as he shook his head in disbelief.
“I’ll show you,” Lance said with a smile. “Just put the knife down—” Keith’s grip tightened on it, “—or just don’t stab me with it,” Lance amended, “and follow me.”
And saying so he pivoted on his foot and walked slowly out of the kitchen.
A few seconds later hesitant footsteps followed and Lance grinned to himself.
“This doesn’t look like a castle,” Keith said as he followed Lance into the hallway, although his words were less angry and more unsure as he glanced at the smooth, chrome walls and teal lights and designs.
“Yeah, the inner hallways like this aren’t much,” Lance agreed, heading toward a corridor junction. “But,” he swept his arm out at a spot around the corner, “take a look at that view.”
Keith edged closer, keeping a wary distance from Lance, but turned in the direction indicated.
And Lance’s smile softened as Keith’s mouth dropped as he took in the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out into the vastness of space; stars studding the sky and a small planet visible in the distance.
The knife dropped a second later with a dull clatter as Keith took a stumbling step forward, pressing both hands up against the glass, all fear and suspicion replaced with awe.
“Space,” he whispered, shaking. “It’s, it’s really space.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Lance asked softly, garnering a mute nod.
And when Keith pulled his gaze from the window a few seconds later it was like looking at a different kid, a different Keith. There was a sparkle in his eye, a flush of excitement to his cheeks and he was no longer eyeing Lance like a threat.
“So,” he said, scuffing his toe, “if, if that’s really space and you’re really my friend,” to which Lance gave a small nod and he hoped that was so, “then… then this is real?”
“All of it,” Lance smiled and this he could handle until the effects of the tea wore off.
“And I’m… I’m a pilot? Of a spaceship?
“Not just a spaceship,” Lance wagged his finger. “You’re the pilot of the Red Lion, or Red as we call her for short. Say,” he grinned, as though the idea had just occurred to him, “do you want to meet her?”
Keith looked like he was about to faint as he squeaked out a, “Y-yes!”
Lance chuckled. “Then follow me.”
Keith didn’t follow though.
He walked step in step with Lance, questions about space, piloting, what did the goo taste like, what did aliens look like, peppering the air.
And this, Lance decided, was their best bonding moment yet.
xxx
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My father had a story for everything. How the seas churned foam to make islands, and how the waves pushed islands to form kingdoms. How the winds changed currents to keep her sailors safe, and how the stars mapped our routes in the skies. Where there was no story, there was always a song, and these were sung by the whole of our crew. In this way, I came to know the world. I knew how the White Lion came to the Kingdom of Altea, and how hot the fires of Daibazaal blazed. I knew which war birthed which monster, and how the titans of Voltron felled each one.
By the time I was fifteen, I knew by heart every story uttered or sung—every one, except for the story of how I came to be.
I knew little things, by way of gossip and hearsay, such as the name of the woman my father loved, and the place she was from. I learned I was named Keith for my grandfather, who was a woodsman before he turned into a werewolf and ran away for good. At least, that’s what the Captain said when I asked why in the seven seas I was given a name that had to do with the woods when we made a living as sailors—charming sailors, my father would say. I suspected I did, once upon a time, have a home in the woods somewhere, because I vaguely remembered a stonewall cottage with yellow and purple flowers. Whether it was a memory or the image I conjured up after years of listening to my father’s strange stories of goblins and faeries spiriting naughty children, I couldn’t say. But I did think it odd for someone who was supposed to have grown up at sea to know what a story meant by ‘a wind whistling through a thicket’ or ‘a soothing chorus of crickets ringing in the night.’
Though I didn’t know of all the things that came together to make me, I knew what I was now—who I was now: the lorekeeper aboard the White Lion, and a charming sailor.
And now, a prisoner.
Because the fires of Daibazaal blazed hot even at sea.
Change of Plans {Keith x Reader}{The Rockstar Series}
The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love.
Words: 11.4k
Summary: Now that Keith Kogane is a rockstar, it’s become very difficult to decipher whether someone likes him for him, or for his money. So, he’s decided to just stay as far away from love as possible.
Genre: mild angst, fluff
Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions! - I HAVE ONE PART LEFT OF THE ROCKSTAR SERIES WTF
---
Keith Kogane does not care about relationships. He promises.
They're pointless. He has a whole career to concentrate on, meaning he has zero time for anything besides his music. He has zero time for anyone else besides the fans and his band mates.
That's the bottom line.
This is what Keith tells interviewers. It's what he tells fans when they ask him if he's single. It's what he tells his mother when she asks him when she's going to get some grand-kids.
In reality, there's a deeper reasoning behind Keith's slight hostility towards the topic of love.
Being a rock star isn't as easy as some people make it out to be. Sure, he's living the dream, and he wouldn't trade it for anything, but there's a level to it that not many people see. They don't like to dwell on this particular level, because it dims the seemingly perfect life that apparently comes with being a rock star.
This level includes not knowing who loves you, and who just wants you for the fame and money.
Contrary to what the public think, Keith Kogane has been in a few relationships during his time in the spotlight. Of course he has. He's a growing boy, experiencing new things, learning from mistakes – some of his mistakes just happen to contain other people, people whom he trusted before finding out they'd maxed out his credit card, or got mad at him for not putting their relationship on Instagram yet.
Yes. Keith Kogane has trusted a few people in his life, but no longer.
He made the promise a few years back, when his music career was reaching a new peak. Whilst his band mates were busy getting into relationships, somehow managing to find people who actually like them, Keith sheltered himself from that side of things as best he could. It wasn't worth the heartbreak. It wasn't worth the anxiety, either, which is the main reason Keith has decided to dedicate his life entirely to the music.
“I'm married to my bass,” he tells Pidge. It's early morning, and Pidge has just crept into Keith's hotel room due to her boredom. She flops down on the sofa in the corner, watching Keith ruffle up the back of his hair to get his go-to look.
“Right, well, that's just sad sounding,” she replies. “Matt has this friend who I think would suit you perfectly.”
“I'm not interested.”
“Why not?” Keith opens his mouth to reply, but Pidge raises a finger to silence him. “And don't tell me you're married to your bass. It's a bad way to hide your loneliness.”
Keith rolls his eyes. “I'm not lonely. Why don't you understand that not everyone wants a significant other? Before you met your partner, you didn't even mention getting into a relationship.”
“Yeah, but then I fell in love. It's difficult to ignore a socially anxious bartender, Keith.”
Keith scoffs.
Pidge sighs, letting her arm flop over the edge of the sofa. “I just don't want you to be on your own, man. You're a good guy.”
“Thanks.”
“You've just got trust issues.”
“No, I do not.”
“Yes, you do. How else would you explain this isolation you've got going on?”
Keith frowns. It doesn't matter how many times he explains to Pidge he's not isolating himself – the girl will never understand. She's been in a relationship for nearly two years now, and to everyone's surprise, she's certainly head over heels. Pidge was once one of those people who Keith thought he would have by his side forever, joined in harmony by their lack of love lives and their lack of caring.
But alas, that is not meant to be. Keith can put up with it.
So why can't Pidge put up with his decision?
“Can we drop this conversation?” Keith asks. “I'll find someone when I find someone.” Yeah, right. “Besides, I'm perfectly happy being on my own.”
Pidge frowns. She doesn't believe him, but Keith doesn't care. He stands up from his chair and heads towards the snack table, picking up his black bass on the way. Behind him, he can feel Pidge's eyes burning holes into the back of his head, but it doesn't matter – he's made his point, and he plans to stick by it.
He isn't going to get himself hurt. Not if he can help it.
----
Apparently, Smokey Saturdays is a big deal.
You'd heard of them before, of course. The new rising rock group with the millions of fans, and the members who broke hearts. Lance McClain is their front-man, from what you've read. They're on tour for half the year. They perform in sold out venues, and have paparazzi snapping pictures of them from behind bushes when all they want to do is go out to eat.
And apparently, you're their new bus driver.
It's an embarrassing comparison, you have to admit, but you have to pay the bills somehow. You're broke, you've got a drivers licence and an abundance of free time – so why not? When you applied for the job, you didn't think you would actually get it – and yet here you are now, standing in front of a massive black bus with the words 'SMOKEY SATURDAYS' written in red down the side of it. Plastered amongst the red lettering is a picture of the four members, an action shot that captures the sweat-soaked, good looking faces of each of them.
You have to bite your tongue to disguise your laugh.
“They might decide to stay in the hotel rooms,” Bruce, the owner of the bus, explains as he waves his massive hand across the exterior of the vehicle. “But there's beds in there for them, the fridge is kept full, there's a lounge area. The whole heap.”
You nod. “Right.”
“You can just stay up the front. Your job is to get them from point A to point B in time for their shows – not difficult to understand, is it?”
“It is not.”
“So do you understand what you have to do?”
He's talking to you like you're five years old. You're too busy staring at the faces of Smokey Saturdays to call him out on it. So, you slowly nod, hoping that is a sufficient enough answer for him to understand that he does not need to explain this job to a person who has been doing it for nearly a year and a half now.
Bruce smiles, gives you a cheery thumbs up before he wades off in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with his so-called pride and joy – his tour bus.
You step inside. It's not like you have a particular fondness for vehicles – you certainly don't. Most of the time, you can't even tell one car brand from the other, let alone admire them for anything other than surface level stuff. You can appreciate a nice bonnet, can comment on how nice a cars wheels are, but that's about as deep as your love for vehicles really goes.
You honestly just needed the money, and this job showed up on Indeed.com, and you applied for it. They saw you had a drivers licence and seemed to think you were a suitable candidate for the job, and here you are a year and a half later, parading one of the worlds biggest rock bands around the country.
The interior of the bus is leather – already off to a bad start.
Behind the drivers bay is an entire house. That's really what it looks like; bunk beds, sofas, a toilet in the back, a tiny little kitchen area that is blocked off only with an old shower curtain that's on the verge of falling off. There's cups hung up on the wall, and you make a mental note to go over every single pot hole you come across, just to see if the cups hold.
And placed on the coffee table that is nailed into the floor is a Smokey Saturdays poster.
You walk over and pick it up. The poster is the four of them lounging around a music studio, Lance holding a microphone with his hair spiked up, Hunk leaning against a drum kit, Pidge lounging across a sofa with a bass pressed against her knees.
And then there's Keith, leaning against the door in the background with his head down and his bass leaning against his long, slim legs that are hidden beneath a pair of too-tight black skinny jeans. There's a rip in the knee, revealing a bit of pale skin. His black hair is falling in his eyes with the way his head is down, and you wonder if he still has a mullet.
Keith is attractive, you will fully admit.
You've never been the type to latch on to the boy-band-type. You like a celebrity more for their music than anything else, but you would be a liar or a fool to claim that Keith Kogane does not have a side of good looks to him. Though you don't know too much about him, you've seen the posters. You've seen the album covers. You've seen the screenshots taken from interviews, where he's casually gazing at the floor, tapping at his leg, lounging against the chair as Lance and Hunk and Pidge take the reigns; he's just got that casual aura about him, and adding that to the black clothes and the cheeky little smirk he wears when he gets a compliment – god, he knows how to make his audience go insane.
Not like you're part of his audience. You're just his fucking bus driver.
You head back to the drivers bay and sit down. Pulling the keys from your pocket, you set them on the dashboard before finally turning to the radio. There's an array of buttons, all of which you know the meaning of – but you immediately go for the radio. Of course, Bruce – being the kiss-up he is – has already put the Smokey Saturdays album inside, meaning it is Lance's voice that immediately blasts from the speakers.
You don't even bother turning it down. If Bruce was telling the truth, then Smokey Saturdays won't even be out of their photoshoot for another twenty minutes, meaning you have a glorious amount of time to just lean back and enjoy the ambience of your new travel-buddy.
You lean your head back against the leather seat, listening to Lance's melodic voice. Even though he's the front-man, you can't help but zone in on the bass guitar in the background, Pidge and Keith working in perfect sync, as they always seem to do. Hunk's drums pull the whole thing together.
They're actually quite good.
It doesn't take long for you to find yourself nodding along to the beat, letting the album play on Shuffle so you can get a taste for each of their songs. Though they call themselves a rock group – and there's definitely a rock element to each song – there's a wide range of emotions that hit you all at once. There's sad songs, slow songs, fast paced songs, songs that sound more electric than anything else.
It's quite a journey.
The fifth song is playing when someone clears their throat beside you.
Your eyes snap open. Your body lurches, fingers immediately slamming into the radios OFF button.
You spin round, and are met by those weird violet eyes that every teenage girl across the UK seems to be obsessed with.
Keith Kogane can not look any less rock star right now.
He's stood in the door of the bus, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. His eyes are downcast, though he flicks them up every now and then before looking away when he so much as makes a second of eye contact with you. His ankles are crossed, his shoulder pressed into the door frame, and his mullet is real.
His. Mullet. Is. Real.
“Hi,” you say. Your voice sounds flat. Good. Make him think you don't give a fuck, even though he's just caught you jamming out to one of his songs.
He smiles awkwardly, without teeth. “Hi.”
“I didn't expect you to be here for another twenty minutes.”
“Yeah. The others are getting their make up off.”
“Oh right.”
Keith gestures vaguely to his face. “I – uh – just kept mine on. I need a nap.”
You nod. Are you supposed to say something to that? Does he perhaps want you to give him the Grand Tour of the tour bus?
You stand up and gesture vaguely. “Well, go crazy.”
Keith nods. You two seem to be doing a lot of nodding. It's the only way you can communicate without thinking you're somehow messing up.
He stares at you for a second longer before shrugging and heading towards the bunk beds. Over his shoulder is a single rucksack, and you have the sudden urge to ask him how he's going to survive for the next five months with nothing but a small rucksack worth of belongings.
Then you watch him shrug his leather jacket off and get into bed wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and you think that maybe the answer isn't as difficult as you might have originally thought.
You hollow out your cheeks once he's pulled the curtain over his bed and disappeared from view – great. Your first day on the job and already you've embarrassed yourself. In front of Keith Kogane, to make matters worse. The nations god damn sweetheart.
You slump back in the drivers seat and grumble under your breath. He didn't even seem that nice. He just looked weirded out. Maybe he was just tired.
Or maybe he's an asshole.
You really, really don't want to be dealing with an asshole for the next five months.
-----
Keith is running late.
Yet again.
He tries to keep his schedule clear and concise, but he has learned that is impossible when you live the life that he does; nothing ever goes to plan, and that's something he needed to learn sooner rather than later.
He'd woken up a few minutes late, but god, did Lance really have to start screaming in his ear because of a tiny bit of oversleeping? Now, Keith struggles to shrug his leather jacket on with one hand, the other busy running through his mullet in his attempts to flatten it down, because there's no way in hell he's going to get time for the bathroom this morning.
“We're already here!” Lance yells through the bus. “Y/N, location!”
Keith frowns. Y/N?
“Canduke Studios!” a voice yells back. A voice Keith vaguely recognises.
He straps his belt buckle into place, snatches his bass guitar up and darts to the front of the bus, where his band mates are already lined up waiting for him.
“Took you long enough,” says Lance. “We've got an interview today, then sound check, then the show and then the meet-and-greet at the end.”
Keith nods, too busy fiddling with the straps of his guitar case to really pay much attention to whatever shit Lance is spewing this time – he goes over the schedule before every single show, as if that schedule has a chance of ever staying the same. Something will show up and change it completely. Keith just knows it.
The four of them march out of the bus and are immediately met by the screams of fans who have no doubt been waiting outside the studio for days. Word was going round on Twitter a few nights prior, and there was no doubt in Keith's mind that the dedicated people currently calling his name have suffered through the bad London weather and camped out just for him.
He feels a little bit guilty, considering the only thing he can really do to thank them is put on a great show and wave as he walks past.
One of the girls makes a grab for his leather jacket. Keith smiles at her, even as fear bubbles in his veins. A security guard magically appears at the side of him and swats the girl away, and Keith is forced to listen as she wails his name.
“It's a bit hectic out here today, isn't it?” Hunk asks, leaning close. Hunk always gets a little panicked in public situations – Keith loops his arm through his friends and tugs him close.
“It's okay.”
“You sure?” Hunk glances over his shoulder. “They look dangerous. Those barriers don't look like they're gonna hold.”
Keith follows Hunk's gaze and immediately winces, because the bigger man is right. Behind him, the girls are knocking at the metal barriers, arguing with security and police alike, looking like they're really not going to take 'no' for an answer this time. One of the girls catches Keith and Hunk looking back at her and immediately throws herself into the outstretched arms of a police officer, screaming their names.
Keith tugs Hunk a little harder. “It'll be fine.”
They enter the studio and are led down the hall to the room in which they'll be doing the interview. The interviewer is a tall man called Donny who has a thick Yorkshire accent; Keith decides then and there that he won't be participating too much in this interview, considering he has to stop and ask Donny to repeat himself every two seconds; Lance is the best with accents, so he'll leave him to it.
Keith sits down, puts his bass guitar behind him and digs inside his pockets. Hunk, Pidge and Lance go off to get their make-up done, but Keith's make up takes about two minutes, so there's no rush. He can calm down, cool off from the hectic morning he's already been subject to. He hates being woken up by Lance's overreactions, but it seems to be a more and more common occurrence recently. Keith can hardly blame the guy, of course – Lance was the one who set this whole thing up in the first place. He just wants the band to get bigger, and he doesn't want Keith oversleeping getting in the way of that.
Nonetheless, it's a bit annoying.
Keith searches for his phone in the pockets of his leather jacket. He finds his keys, a packet of gum, a picture of his dad and his dog Kosmo. He even finds a piece of string he'd tied around Pidge's finger once to see how long it would take till the lack of blood flow made her finger numb.
But no phone.
He groans. “Hey, Pidge?”
“Hm?” she calls back, lips clamped shut as the make-up artist applies some black lipstick.
“Did you see me lift my phone off the charger this morning?”
“Mate, I didn't see anything this morning. You think you're the only one Lance harassed?”
Keith sighs and stands up – alright then. This is fine. Just because nothing has gone quite to plan this morning, does not mean the rest of his day is being set up for disaster. He just needs to keep a positive attitude and take it one step at a time.
The first step, however, is him retrieving his phone from the bus.
He doesn't even ask his manager if he can leave. He just walks back down the halls of the studio, ignoring the awestruck glances of the people working around him, and strolls right out the front doors.
Sometimes Keith forgets he's a worldwide known musician.
The fans immediately start screaming, startling him out of whatever daze his lack of sleep and lack of positivity had driven him into. He jumps, looks up just in time to see the police basically crumble to the ground as the fans dart towards Keith in a frenzy.
It's a fucking mob if Keith has ever seen one.
His first reaction is just instinct – he runs. He runs and he runs and he's dodging hands and trying to remain so, so polite but holy shit someone's just tried to grab his hair, and holy shit they're going to trample each other, and holy shit he was so stupid for thinking this was a good idea.
He didn't even think.
He heads directly towards the bus, ignoring the fans screams. He loves his fans – he really does – but he doesn't love crowds. He doesn't love frenzies. He doesn't love the risk of being crushed beneath a bunch of people who love him so much that they're willing to risk everything just to get close to him.
He stampedes up the steps of the bus, hits the OPEN button and throws himself inside.
“CLOSE THE FUCKING DOORS!” he wails.
Your head shoots up, but you listen nonetheless. Keith has to give you props on your quick reflexes.
The doors slam shut just seconds before the fans ram into the glass.
He pulls the privacy curtain over and falls to the floor, trying to catch his breath before he passes out.
“Alright then.” You slowly stand up. “Should I – like – call the police or something?”
Keith waves a dismissive hand. “They'll tire themselves out.”
“Right.”
He looks up from the ground, trying for a smile, but he's certain he just looks scared. Your eyebrows shoot up – that's enough confirmation for Keith. He sighs and slumps back against the wall, running his hands through his hair.
“Sorry,” he says, but he isn't sure why.
You nod. Keith remembers you did that a lot yesterday.
“Do you mind if I stay in here for a little while?”
You gesture towards the lounge. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa es tu casa.”
“Right. Uh. Gracias.” Keith pushes himself from the ground and flops onto a sofa instead. You continue staring at him, hovering awkwardly in the drivers bay. He kind of wants to ask you to mind your business, but then he remembers that you've just played a big part in the reason he isn't currently crushed beneath the weight of about fifty people, so he bites his tongue.
Instead, he says, “So you just stay in this bus all day and wait for us to finish?”
“Something like that,” you reply. “It's all good, though. I read a lot.”
“Oh.”
You clear your throat. “And I – uh – listen to the radio sometimes, too.”
Keith nods, picking at a loose thread on the pillow beside him. “Yeah, I heard that yesterday. You were listening to our second album.”
“Was I?”
“I think so.” He points at his head. “They get muddled up sometimes.”
“I'm sure that's a sign of dementia.”
Keith's lip twitches. “Fuck, I hope not.”
It goes silent. It's kind of awkward. Keith shifts on the sofa, bites his lower lip, looks at the floor because what else is someone supposed to do when they're stuck on a tour bus with an absolute stranger? What kind of things are you even meant to talk about in this situation?
You lean against the drivers bay and narrow your eyes. “Are you not gonna get in a shit ton of trouble if you don't get to your interview?”
Keith shrugs. “They'll put my safety first, I think.”
“You don't sound so sure.”
“No, no. Pidge and Hunk will definitely put my safety first – Lance might try and stab me when he gets back, but he'll come round eventually.” Keith pauses. “Hopefully.”
You slowly walk into the lounge. Keith stiffens on the sofa, suddenly afraid of you sitting beside him, but you instead take a seat across from him. He admires the way you so casually lounge against the cushions, propping your head on your hand, looking at him like he's a person and not just a rock star.
“How long is it gonna take for that crowd to clear out?”
Keith frowns. “It usually takes about. . . ten minutes, fifteen minutes. Depends how many police are on the scene.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Depends on how many police are left. I'm pretty sure poor Officer Baldy's broken his leg.”
Keith winces, and before he can think better of it, he leans over and yanks at your hand, tugging you away from the window. You slump back against the sofa, an amused grin now forming on your face.
Keith groans. “Don't do that.”
“I was just having a look. They don't care about me.”
“They'll get your picture, and then it's over for all of us.”
“Oh, yes. Scandalous. Who would have thought that Smokey Saturday's bus driver would be in the tour bus! I wonder what they've been doing this whole time!”
Keith gives you a blank look. “Ha.”
You grin. “So we're just gonna stay in here until the police come and get you?”
“Pretty much.”
“Awfully boring.”
“Better than getting trampled.”
You pause.
Keith raises a brow.
You roll your eyes. “Okay, I guess so.”
“You're not one of them teenagers who love the idea of death, are you?”
You guffaw, placing a clawed hand over your heart. “First of all, I'm an adult. Second, there's nothing wrong with being prepared for death. It's when you wish it upon yourself that it becomes an issue.”
“Was that meant to be philosophical?”
“I took psychology in university.”
Keith raises a brow. “And now you're a bus driver.”
You shrug. “Gotta pay the bills somehow.”
There's a little sad note to your voice when you say this, and Keith doesn't want to dwell on it, because he barely even knows who you are, but huh. It makes him feel something. He looks at you, and he genuinely thinks he kind of wants the best for you – just because you've shown him this ounce of normalcy for a few minutes.
He pulls his feet up onto the sofa, swinging one arm behind his head. “Did you want to do something with psychology, then?”
You start, clearly not expecting Keith to dwell further on the fun little fact you'd thrown into the conversation earlier. However, Keith feels like it would be a disservice to let this opportunity go to waste – the opportunity to get to know you a little better.
“I guess,” you reply. “I mean, I left university not even knowing what I wanted to do, so I don't really know. I think I just wanted to – like – survive.”
Keith nods. “A good goal to have.”
“I definitely didn't want to be a bus driver.”
He glances at you. “Do you not like your job?”
You shrug. “It's meh.”
Keith doesn't really understand that. His job isn't meh. He's never had a meh job before, because he's been blessed with the life he's always dreamed of. Nonetheless, he's seen people like you before, people who take what they can get. They settle for the bare minimum for the rest of their lives, not even taking into consideration that perhaps there's something better for them out there, something more.
Keith would have been one of those people if Lance hadn't dragged him into his makeshift band when he was only seventeen years old. Keith would have been rotting away in some rickety old house, just Kosmo there to keep him company.
But no. Keith is living his dreams, travelling the world, performing on stage every single night with three of his four best friends.
He smiles.
A pillow hits him in the face.
Keith yelps, throwing the pillow down to glare daggers in your direction.
You blink. “You were smiling at nothing.”
“Did you really have to do that?”
“I thought you were having a stroke, Keith.”
He narrows his eyes. “So you threw a pillow at me?”
You raise your hands in mock surrender. “I took psychology, not medicine.” There's a pause, and then, “When are you performing?”
“The show starts at eight,” Keith replies. He glances at the clock hung on the wall, immediately winces when he sees what time it is; the interview would have definitely started by now, meaning Lance is probably sitting there with that awkward, strained smile on his face, trying not to completely lose his head over the fact that Keith is nowhere to be seen.
Already Keith can picture the scolding he's going to get when his other band mates get back. There's going to be very little mercy shown tonight.
“You're doing it again.”
Keith's eyes snap up. “What?”
“That thing.” You gesture to Keith's face. “You're zoning out again.”
“Sorry.”
“It's not a bad thing. I just – you know. . . There's two of us in here. It would be nice if you could share your thoughts so I'm not left thinking you're going to kill me.”
Keith knows he should laugh – that was a joke. Definitely a joke, but Keith can't bring himself to feel anything other than pure disappointment. Disappointment towards himself, because he promised himself he would put his career first, and yet here he is, letting his fans down again.
He hates when his thoughts get like this. In the back of his mind, he knows he's not the one to blame. He can hardly help it if there's a dangerously large swarm of people outside the tour bus. He can hardly help the fact that he won't be able to move without the risk of getting trampled.
But still. He doesn't want to make the fans sad. He should be sat in that studio now, talking about his celebrity crushes and his plans for the next album – not sat here with a stranger.
You shift, and suddenly you're sat beside him. You keep your distance, though you lean forward in your attempts to catch his eye. Keith bites his lip and looks away; he doesn't know how good your analysis of other people is. He doesn't want to run the risk of you seeing his guilt.
“You feel guilty.”
Keith silently curses.
“Hey, that's not cool,” you continue, shifting a little bit closer to him. “None of this is your fault, dude.”
“I know that,” Keith grumbles, because lying is so much easier than sounding like a complete wimp.
And maybe its your psychology degree that makes you so good at picking up on deceit, but you don't let the subject drop as easily as Keith would like. “I'm not just saying that to – like – get in your pants or anything. I'm not like that.”
Keith's eyes widen. “I never said-”
“I mean, I know you're a big rock star and you have the nice hair, and you dress in all black, but I'm being serious when I say none of this is your fault. You can't help that them fans went batshit crazy.”
“Lance isn't gonna see it like that.”
“Lance can suck a dick.” Your eyes widen. Even Keith swings round, an amused grin bursting to the surface before he can even fully comprehend it.
You shake your head. “Please don't tell him or Bruce I said that.”
Keith snickers. “I won't.”
“You know what I'm trying to say though, right?”
Keith pauses. “You were trying to be comforting, weren't you?”
“I tried my very best.”
“Well, it worked.” Keith shrugs. “A little, I guess.”
You grin. “Good. Now, how about we play a game of Monopoly whilst we wait for the police to get their shit together?”
----
Keith is surprisingly good at Monopoly.
He's also surprisingly competitive.
He sits on the other side of the coffee table, legs folded beneath him, his head in his hands as he gazes out over the tiny plastic empire he's been building for the past ten minutes. His lower lip is raw from the abuse his teeth have given it. You're fairly certain you can see steam rising from the top of his head.
“I don't want to sell my property,” he mumbles.
“It's an important move to make.”
“I know. I know that. It's just . . . . god, that's 50k per turn that I'm losing. I don't know if I can afford that.”
You slap your hand against the table. “What the fuck do you mean? Your bank account is bloody thriving right now! You have six other properties!”
“But this is my best one!” Keith raises a hand. “You know what, you're just trying to distract me. Shut up and let me decide-”
“No. No, you're taking far too long, and it isn't fair. Give me the dice.”
Keith's eyes shoot up. He snatches the die from the middle of the table and presses it into his chest. “You're not allowed your go until I've made up my mind.”
“Then make up your mind!”
“Don't fucking rush me!”
“Keith Kogane, I swear to god, I have properties to look after as well, and I'm three steps away from Go, so if you-”
“Do you think real estate is a joke?”
You flip the Monopoly board.
Keith cries out as the pieces slap him in the face and crumble in his lap. Paper money litters the tour bus floor. The Chest cards disappear beneath the nailed down sofas.
You stand up, trailing your hands through your hair. “I had to. I had to. You gave me no choice.”
Keith raises his hands above his head, his jaw open. He can't break his eyes away from the wreckage of his plastic village. “Y/N...”
“You gave me no choice!” you exclaim, desperate to defend yourself. “I had properties to care for as well, Keith, and you were fully prepared to sit there and make me watch them crash and burn!”
Keith stood up. “You're a murderer. An actual murderer.”
You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. “Give me a break.”
“Another round,” he demands. “I want another round right now. I want my houses back.”
“You're not getting your houses back. I'm not playing another round with you.”
“Why? Scared I'm gonna take the lead again?”
“No! I'm not scared of anything.”
Keith rolls his eyes. “Then you'll play another round.”
“No. Neither of you are gonna be playing another round.”
And suddenly, you can hear a pin drop.
You know who it is before you've even turned around. You continue to stare at Keith, but his eyes have long since flicked away from you, darting over to the now open door of the bus where Lance and no doubt everyone else stands waiting for you to notice them.
You slowly turn around, flashing Lance a smile that he does not return. Behind him, Hunk and Pidge are awkwardly scratching the back of their necks. You're fairly certain they're trying to blend in with the walls or something, as they are making it exceptionally clear they do not want to be here whilst Lance scolds Keith.
Because he is definitely going to scold Keith, if his face is anything to go by. Furrowed brows, flared nostrils, tanned arms folded over his chest.
“This is what you were doing whilst we were in that studio trying to come up with an excuse as to why you weren't with us?” Lance says. He's keeping his voice quiet, but you can hear the waver in his tone, the way he's trying to keep himself as calm as possible.
“There was a mob,” replies Keith. “Y/N and I thought we might as well play a bit of Monopoly while we wait for the police to sort it out.”
“The police sorted it out fifteen minutes ago, Keith,” Pidge mumbles.
Keith pauses. “What?”
“The mob was controlled fifteen minutes ago,” Lance confirms. “We were waiting for you to come out of the bus and join us, but it looks like you had more important things on your mind.” Lance raises a brow, points between you and Keith. “So how long has this been going on?”
You splutter. “What?”
Keith waves his hand in the air, stepping forward. He pushes Lance back a little bit, and you can just barely make out the amused grin forming on Lance's face at the sight of Keith's suddenly flustered state. “No. No, don't even start. You've got this twisted.”
“Wait.” Lance pops his head around Keith's shoulder. “You two aren't together?”
Hunk snickers. “You seem awfully close.”
“You're acting like a bunch of ten year olds,” Keith growls. “Look, I'm sorry I missed the interview – it was a one-time thing. I swear. But the only thing we can do now is move on, get to sound check and put on the best damn show to kick off the tour. Right?”
“You know I have the bunk above yours, right?” says Lance. “If you two want to get it on, I expect you to go into the hotel to do it.”
Your stomach curls. Quickly, you slip past Keith and his band mates and make your way back to the drivers bay, no longer wanting to be part of this conversation; had the crowd really been controlled fifteen minutes ago? How had neither you nor Keith noticed that?
You slump down in the drivers seat and turn the radio on. The band will be ready to move in a few minutes, so at least you'll have something to keep your mind occupied whilst they're out there teasing Keith over something that honestly isn't worth teasing him about; you two are just friends.
In fact, even the word friends seems like a bit of a stretch. He's a rock star, and you're a bus driver – you are on two separate planets.
You just happened to play a game of Monopoly together to pass the time. Where's the harm in that?
---
“You told me you didn't plan on getting into a relationship.”
“Shut up, Pidge. It's been two weeks.”
“Yeah, two weeks where you and Y/N have barely stopped talking. I've never seen you this chatty with anyone.”
Keith rolls his eyes; his band mates are so immature sometimes. Yes, he loves each of them more than words will ever be able to explain, but there continuous insistence over Keith's love life is starting to get under his skin.
He made a promise, both to himself and to his fans, that he would not be in a relationship any time soon. He doesn't have time for a relationship. He isn't really in the correct mindset for a relationship right now. And yes, he can't deny that you're nice, and your personality clicks with his almost perfectly, and you make him laugh more than anybody has ever done before-
But that's not enough. That doesn't change the fact he's currently on tour. That doesn't change the fact he barely has time for himself, let alone another person.
He plucks at the string of his bass. “You're all a bunch of nosy bastards.”
Pidge pushes herself up onto her knees. She's sat on the sofa across from Keith, the two of them being the only ones currently occupying the hotel room. Hunk and Lance decided to stay on the bus; the longer Keith is stuck in this room with Pidge, the more he's starting to see the sense in their decision.
“Tell me this,” she says.
“No.”
“Do you like this person?”
Keith pauses.
Pidge leans forward. “Well?”
“We get along,” Keith admits. He's treading on thin ice here. He doesn't want these rumours to continue. “We have. . . good conversations.”
“Mm.” Pidge slowly leans back, keeping her eyes firm on Keith. It makes him uncomfortable. “I hope you know you're blushing.”
Keith looks away. “It's hot in here.”
“It really isn't.”
“Can you just drop it?” Keith snaps. “I swear to god if things get awkward between me and Y/N because you lot can't mind your own business-”
“You just cherish their friendship so much-”
“Yes!” The word bursts from him before he can stop it, and he knows exactly what it sounds like, and there's really no coming back from it, but he means it. He really does mean it. It's been two weeks since you and Keith started talking, two weeks of tour, two weeks of him sitting up the front of the bus with you, eating Strawberry Laces straight out of the bag as you and him share stories of times neither of you will ever be able to relate to. He cherishes those moments, after shows when you meet him at the doors of the bus and ask him how it all went, and he wishes wishes wishes he could just ask you to go to the next show so you can see for yourself, but he never invites you because what if it sounds like he's asking you out?
Pidge goes silent. So does Keith, unwilling to take the confession back but even more unwilling to dwell on it.
Pidge clears her throat. “Oh. Right then. Sorry. I didn't mean. . . . You know I love you, right? You're like my brother.”
Keith mutters something under his breath.
“I just want you to be happy, that's all. I get worried when you. . . when you get that attitude, you know? The fuck the world attitude you seem to favour nowadays. You may think it's cool, but it's just worrying sometimes.”
Keith shrugs, slumping further down in his seat. He plucks another low string on his bass guitar, cringes at how out of tune it is.
“But Y/N looks like they make you happy,” she continues. “And I promise, none of us are going to get in the way of that. At least, not on purpose.” She smiles sheepishly. “Who knows? Maybe they like you back.”
Keith groans. “I don't-”
Pidge raises a hand, silencing him. “I wasn't trying to start anything. I'm just saying.”
Keith lets the subject drop after that. He stays curled up on the love seat whilst Pidge crawls into her bed and goes to sleep – she's always been good at falling asleep fast. Though she has a habit of pulling all-nighters, she's definitely not an insomniac.
Keith isn't an insomniac, either. He's just an over-thinker, and that's the only thing that keeps him awake. He lowers the amplifier to it's lowest volume and sits up for another few hours, gazing out the windows because he refuses to close the curtains just yet – he can see the bus parked outside, you no doubt sleeping in one of the bunk beds at the back. Keith hates the fact that's where his mind goes, but he doesn't try fighting it off – it's too late for that. His brain can't handle that kind of denial at this time of night.
So, he lets himself think, and think, and think, until the sun is peeking up over the horizon and suddenly his eight hours of potential sleep has dwindled to three hours, and then two. He finally falls asleep, knowing he's meant to wake up in an hour and a half, but not really minding, because at least he'll get to see you when he finally rises.
-----
“'Keith Kogane talks about staying single in latest interview with Rolling Stones!'” you announce as soon as Keith steps foot into the drivers bay. You've been waiting on him for the past hour and a half, flicking idly through one of the magazines Bruce provided for you in his last care package. Of course, the majority of it includes Smokey Saturday merch and magazines – you once would have complained, but this particular issue of Rolling Stones is one you're quite interested in.
Keith freezes in the door. He's sweating, a fluffy towel draped over his shoulders. He narrows his eyes when he sees you, to which you simply raise a brow and wave a hand, urging him to explain.
He shrugs. “I want to stay single. Where did you get that?” He snatches a Strawberry Lace out of the packet you have opened on the dashboard.
“Bruce sent it to me,” you reply. “That's a bit of a sad headline, isn't it?” You cup your ear. “If you listen closely, you can make out the sound of millions of hearts shattering-”
Keith snatches the magazine out of your hand and slumps down on the seat next to you. “Gimme that.”
“Have you not seen it yet?”
“I don't really make it a priority to read these things any more. They just put me in a bad mood.” He shows you the picture they used for the article; it's Keith leaning against his amplifier, his head down in his usual, mysterious fashion, hair in his face. If you didn't know of him, you wouldn't even know it was Keith in the picture, considering they hardly ever show anything more than his famous black locks draped over his forehead. “Do you see that picture? That was my least favourite picture we took, and they chose it to be the one everyone sees when they open the article.”
“Hunk said he was holding back a sneeze in the picture they used for him.”
Keith scoffs. “Hunk always looks like that. I, on the other hand, have the potential to look good.”
“Well....”
Keith shoots you a glare. You raise your hands in mock surrender.
“Yes, you're right. Fabulous. You look fabulous.” Keith grunts and looks back down at the magazine. Slowly, you lean in. “Is there a particular reason you want to stay single?”
The question is a risky one. Your feelings for Keith have undeniably grown these past few weeks, but you've successfully managed to squash them down into nothing. However, reading that article left you no other choice but to just ask – just ask. Just get the answer from him, and if he says it's true, and he gives you a valid reason for his feelings, then you'll back away. You'll be able to tell yourself there's absolutely no hope and move on before things get even deeper.
Keith chews his tongue. He looks like he's thinking, eyes never leaving the glossy paper. His jaw ticks.
“Has anyone ever used you for your money?”
You flinch back. That certainly wasn't the response you'd been expecting. “Uh....”
“Not even just your money,” he hastens to add. “You're gorgeous. Has anyone used you for your looks? Or maybe they've seen something you have that they don't, and they use you to get to it?”
“Uh....”
“It's not a good feeling.” He closes the magazine and sets it on the dashboard, his boots following suit. Usually you'd scold him from putting his feet up like that, but you're at a loss for words at the moment. “It really puts a damper on the whole experience of falling in love. I don't even wanna risk it any more.”
You pause. “Someone used you for money?”
“Multiple people have used me for money,” he confirms. “Money, fame, to get one of the others. It's just. . . happened too many times. I'm not really keen on risking it again.”
“How is that a good way to live life?” you ask before you can think better of it.
You know it's none of your business. Keith doesn't have to explain himself to you, and you certainly have no right thinking you have a say in whatever plans Keith has for his future.
Keith looks at you, raising a brow. “It's the safe way of living life.”
“Are you not lonely?”
“No. I have my band mates. I have my fans.”
“Yeah. Okay.” You nod. You understand that – not everyone needs a romantic partner to feel accompanied in life, but there's a difference between comfortably going through life without an interest in love, and avoiding it because of a bad experience.
“I don't know why you're chastising me,” he says suddenly. “I never see you with anybody. You just sit in this bus all day and melt.”
You should probably be offended.
“I'll have you know, I don't actually have a partner at the minute, but it's not because I've got trust issues.”
“I haven't got trust issues.”
“So what would you call it?”
“Self care.”
“You're scared of getting hurt. You think every person you meet is out to get you.”
Keith rolls his eyes. “Your psychology major is showing again.”
“I'm serious!”
“So am I!”
“I think you'd make a great boyfriend.”
You wince. Okay. Shit. You didn't think that one through at all.
Keith's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before you're standing up and stretching. Your arms very nearly hit off the overhead light, and your lower back cracks painfully with how quickly you twist. “Okay! I actually have some errands to do right now, so if you don't mind, I've had enough of your company for one day.”
Keith doesn't respond, simply shifts his legs so you can squeeze past him. You give him one final smile – anything to play off whatever mess you've just made – before stumbling down the steps of the bus and marching across the road, fanning yourself the entire way to the corner shop.
No. That did not just happen. You did not just say those words to Keith fucking Kogane.
Things like that only ever happen in movies, right? People don't actually blurt out cringy confessions like that, because most people in real life have a thing called common sense. Most people in real life have a thing called self awareness. Most people in real life have this thing where they can tell when someone likes them back, and Keith certainly wasn't giving off those vibes.
So why did you feel the need to say something so stupid?
You bump your head against the shelf of ramen noodles. How are you ever meant to go back to that bus and face him now? How are you ever meant to cover this up and make it seem like an innocent slip of the tongue?
It seems impossible. You've bloody doomed yourself.
----
Keith stares into space.
Fuck.
So this is it then. This is what it feels like when someone's plans get thrown out the window because of a single mishap. This is what happens when every single promise you make to yourself is suddenly broken, because you've just realised that those feelings you've been hiding away can no longer be ignored.
Keith actually has to deal with his emotions.
That's not something he's particularly good at.
Your words echo in his ears. You'd make a great boyfriend.
The thing is, Keith hears that almost every day, or at least a variety of that sentence. He reads it on Twitter, on his Instagram – hell, even people in real life will often come up to him and confess that they believe he would indeed be the perfect candidate for them, that their personalities match so well according to the Buzzfeed quiz they took the night before.
Keith is usually so quick to ignore those kinds of confessions, but hearing it from you. . . It feels real, somehow, more than an in-the-moment fan confession that usually just leaves him feeling uncomfortable and uncertain how to respond.
He actually feels as if he could respond.
He closes his eyes, digging the balls of his palms into the sockets as if that alone could help dispel the feelings bubbling to the surface. They were previously hidden behind some kind of trap door, but your confession opened the latch. Your confession is the reason he's feeling anything at all. You're the reason he isn't able to hold back any longer.
A knock sounds on the drivers bay. Keith doesn't look up.
“Where did Y/N go?” Lance asks. “And what's up with you?”
Keith spins round and stands up, already grabbing his leather jacket. “Did you see where they went?”
Lance presses his hands into Keith's shoulders. “Woah, dude. What's going on? Is everything okay?”
“Everything's fine. I just need to know where Y/N went.”
“I don't know,” says Lance, before raising a brow. “But we have an interview in ten minutes. You didn't forget again, did you?”
Keith falters. Fuck. Now is really not the time to fill his schedule with pointless interviews.
He bites his lower lip and glares down at the floor. Lance chuckles.
“Y/N got you a little distracted?”
“Do I have to do this interview? Will it really be that bad if I just don't show up to this one?”
Lance frowns. “You didn't show up to the one in Canduke Studios. People are gonna start getting suspicious.”
Lance is right, of course, and Keith knows this. Nonetheless, he looks out the window towards the road in which you'd just run through, away from Keith and his silence, away from Keith and the confession that is teetering on the edge of his tongue.
But Keith has other priorities. He has a job. He has duties that he can't just abandon because he's had an epiphany that maybe – just maybe – feeling things for other people isn't such a bad thing.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods. Lance grins, swinging his arms round Keith's shoulders before leading him down the steps of the bus towards the studios.
---
Do the lights really have to be that bright?
Does there really have to be twenty people staring at him right now?
Does he really need this much make up on his face?
Keith dabs his forehead with a tissue and scowls when his foundation comes off with it. Now he's going to look like an absolute idiot when the camera turns to him.
It's been rolling for a number of minutes now, but Keith has done what Keith does best and hidden himself in the background. Hunk and Lance are sat in front of him; Pidge had thankfully taken the seat behind Lance, meaning Keith could easily hide his form behind Hunk's build. If he's lucky, you won't even be able to properly see him.
That is, until he gets addressed, which really doesn't take long. News of the mob from a few weeks ago still has not died down, and Keith is growing tired of the questions asking him if he's okay, if he's recovered from such a scarring event. The amount of times Keith has laughed it all and said it was no big deal is uncountable at this point.
“So, Keith,” the interviewer says. He's an elderly man, grey haired with circular glasses. He doesn't know the first thing about Smokey Saturdays, and perhaps that is why not a single question about their music has been asked. “You were recently part of the Rolling Stones interview we were talking about with Lance; your article caught the eye of quite a few people.”
He waits. Keith pauses; is he meant to fill in the gap here?
“I saw that.”
The interviewer nods. “Tell me how you manage that. You know, the whole wanting to stay single thing. It must be pretty difficult when you have thousands of people throwing themselves at you every single day. Do you never look in the crowd and think you know what, I like the look of that one?”
Pidge snickers. Lance and Hunk are biting their lower lips to keep their own laughter at bay.
Keith kicks the bottom of Hunk's seat as subtly as he can before replying. “Nah, that's not really my thing.”
“No? So you were serious when you said you don't want a relationship?”
Keith opens his mouth to say yes, that's exactly what he meant, but his words falter. He remembers you, and suddenly he doesn't really know how to respond, which is weird because he's been trained for this. He spent weeks with his publicist, trying to perfect his responses to questions like this, going through media training that left his mind numb and his entire life feeling like a lie.
How could you just come around and undo all of that?
Keith doesn't know, but he doesn't have time to dwell on the specifics. The interviewer is expecting an answer. Keith can't just stare into space, he can't just stay silent, he can't just-
“I mean, I wouldn't mind a relationship. Like, I'm not against the idea.”
Pidge nearly falls from her seat.
Keith barrels on, gripping his arm rests so tight he's certain he's got no nails left. “When I did that interview, I was in a place where relationships just weren't the top of my priority list – and they still aren't. But I was a little bit angry at the fact I couldn't find the time to dedicate to someone else. I was a little angry at the fact I couldn't live a proper, adult life that includes things like falling in love, and one-night-stands and all that bullshit.” Keith shrugs. “But I think I realise now that you shouldn't make decisions like that on a whim. All it takes is finding the right person to change your mind.”
The interviewer blinks. The whole room goes quiet. Pidge is breathing so heavily that Keith genuinely contemplates sprinting back to the bus to retrieve her inhaler.
You might not even be watching the interview, which is the funny thing. Keith has just poured his heart and soul out – as best as Keith Kogane really can – and the only people who will hear it is the entire world, but not the person he wants.
He bites his lips and slumps back in the uncomfortable directors chair. “So yeah.”
“Wow,” the interviewer says. “It sounds like you've found someone special, Keith. Are we correct in assuming you've fallen in love?”
“No.”
The interviewer frowns. “So that all just. . . . came from the heart?”
Keith nods. It's the best he can do. He thinks he's going to throw up.
Lance sits up. “Okay, anyway! Did you know, Larry, that we actually have a brand new EP coming out at the end of the year...”
---
You stare at the TV.
You're crying.
It's so stupid. This whole thing is so god damn stupid. Why are you being so emotional? What right did you have to sit here and cry over something as stupid as heartbreak?
You push a pillow against your face, letting the tears sink into the fabric. Maybe you're just being overly emotional because of earlier on – you'd already eaten two cups of ramen to try and soothe your anxiety and regret, but it clearly wasn't enough. You'd then decided to just say fuck it – this was basically your bus. You can sit in the lounge if you want to. You can put your feet up on the coffee table if you want to and nobody is allowed to tell you otherwise.
So that's how you've ended up in tears, watching Smokey Saturdays live on the Larry Newman show.
And it really is live. Keith really said all of that on live television.
You turn it off once Lance starts going on about the new EP; you've heard it all before, considering it's all he talks about. Plus, after hearing Keith talk like that, you're a little bit jarred to say the very least.
You finish up your third cup of ramen and place the empty cup on the sideboard, ready to be taken to the bin when you next pass one. You pace the bus for a little while, because that's all you can think to do – there really is nothing else. Keith said it before – you just sit on this bus and melt, wait until they're finished living their lives so you can get on with your own. Apparently, all your life currently consists of is driving a world famous band around.
And the thing is, you don't even mind.
That's the crazy part. Once upon a time, you would have felt complete shame and embarrassment when you had to tell people this was your job, but now it's just. . . . a thing. You enjoy it. You can sit up front, listen to music, eat Strawberry Laces.
You can talk to Keith.
You close your eyes. You don't want to admit that that's a bonus, because it just sounds so sad. Your life has never been perfect, and you're still wasting your degree, and your parents would be shaking their head at you right now, but you're happy. You're genuinely, utterly happy.
Despite what the tears pouring from your eyes may suggest.
You hear the band making their way to the bus shortly after seven pm. It's dark now. The street lights are on, and when you look out the window, you nearly choke on your own tongue because Keith looks so good, even though his head is down and he's walking with a determined march in his step that you're not stupid enough to be oblivious to – you know exactly why he's walking like that. You know exactly what he plans to do for the rest of the night.
You tuck yourself into the drivers bay, hoping and praying he'll just walk past.
The doors of the bus open and the band walks in. Lance, Hunk and Pidge all yell a little “Hello Y/N!” over their shoulders before marching off to their designated bunks. Keith, on the other hand, pulls open your privacy curtain and says, “Can we talk?”
“Do we have to?”
“Can we go outside? Do you need my coat?”
“Is it cold?”
“A little bit.”
You snatch his leather jacket out of his hands and follow him down the steps of the bus. You might as well get this over with. The sooner, the better.
You shrug his jacket over your shoulders. The two of you stand on the pavement, the glow of the street lights illuminating his pale skin and his black hair, those violet eyes burning into the crown of your head as you make it a priority to keep your own eyes on the floor.
He sighs. “Did you watch the interview?”
“A bit of it.”
“Did you see the important part?”
“Yeah. Hunk balancing that tooth pick on his eyelash-”
“You know what I mean.” Keith pauses. “You saw it, right?”
You bite your bottom lip. That's really the only confirmation Keith needs.
He inhales shakily, scrubbing a hand against the back of his neck as if he's nervous. Him! As if he has anything to be nervous about.
“Sooo...,” he drawls. “I – uh – just want you to know that I changed my mind.”
“I gathered that.”
“And the only reason I changed my mind was because I met you and realised that missing out on this chance really isn't something I like the idea of.”
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out once his words settle.
Your eyes snap up, jaw opening and closing, words on the brink of your tongue but not quite making it that far. Keith grins down at you, a smile you've never seen on his face before – he almost looks excited. Perhaps if you pay extra close attention, you'll be able to see him jumping up and down on the balls of his feet.
You take a single step back. “Wait, what?”
“I like you. A lot. More than – More than I think I have a right to, considering I've been going on for months about how I don't want a relationship.” He hollows out his cheeks. “I'm so sorry you had to put up with that.”
“Keith-”
“And I get it if you don't like me back. I'm not – I'm not one of those celebrities who thinks everyone should be honoured to be liked by me, because that's such a – a douche thing to do, but I just can't sit in that bus with you and pretend you're not the only person in my life right now outside of the band who makes me feel completely normal.”
This is happening so fast. He's talking so fast. Your heart is beating so fast.
“So – uh – yeah. Yeah.” He waves a hand as if to say Now that that's over. “Basically, the interview explained it all. I was a bit vague, but it was all about you, really. Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Anyway, it really is cold out here. We should probably get back-”
“You like me back?”
Keith blinks. “Yah.”
“Keith. I don't even . . . . You said all that about me?” It shouldn't be such a surprise; at the end of the day, you and Keith are trapped in a bus together for a good portion of the day. You two get along like best friends. He brightens your day, so why is it so hard to believe that you brighten his?
Nonetheless, your heart is beating at a million miles per hour and your smile is forming so fast you can't even think of stopping it. Keith looks at you, eyes tracing every inch of your face before his own smile appears, slightly lop sided and forever cheeky, but so, so perfect.
He cups your face. “You're smiling. That's a good thing, right?” He tilts your head side to side, pokes at the corner of your lip. “Right?”
“Right.” And then you throw your arms over his shoulders and pull him into you. The kiss is a little bit unpractised, and Keith stumbles a little bit, but then your back is pressed against a lamp post and his hand is on your waist, and your hand is trailing through his hair, and for once, nothing really seems out of place, even though everything is out of place and this is the most bizarre thing you've ever done in your life.
Keith laughs against your mouth. It's such an uncharacteristic thing for him to do that you're nearly convinced to pull away, but he presses his fingers deeper into the flesh of your waist and that idea quickly slips from your mind.
He pulls away first, only when he needs air. You could have gone for another minute, at least, but you'll tell him that another time.
He groans, bumping his forehead against yours. “Holy shit.”
“Romantic.”
“I'm sorry for being such a depressing bitch a few days ago.” His voice has dropped to a mumble. “I was just. . . so scared of getting hurt again.”
You stroke your thumb along his jaw line. He closes his eyes, nuzzles into your touch. “You don't need to apologise for that, Keith. But – like – just so you know, I don't want you for your money. I actually think you're quite a decent bloke.” You twirl your finger in his mullet. “And you've got a nice bit of hair, too.”
Keith pinches your waist. “I actually think you have a really nice bus, and you listen to our music.”
“Not all the time!”
“Every time you turn on that radio, there's a Smokey Saturdays album playing.”
“Bruce put that there.”
Keith pulls away and laces his fingers with yours. “Right. That's the excuse you're using now?”
“I actually hate your music.”
Keith drags you towards the bus. You stumble after him. “Mhm.”
i have no excuse for the wait except that im an idiot who took this school year too lightly yeet
-- -- --
Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.
then i’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday
~ Just One Yesterday, Fall Out Boy
-- -- --
You wake up from a deep, dreamless sleep, disoriented and shivering despite the multiple layers you have on and thick comforter stacked upon you. It takes a moment before the events of the previous night rush back into your mind and cloud your thoughts, and you throw an arm over your face, inhaling deeply.
A huge weight has fallen off your shoulders. Last night, you didn't realise as much, your tired 3 A.M. mind already struggling to focus with the fact that Keith--who had been deathly sick only hours before--was up and about and sitting at your kitchen table and eating chinese takeout. But now that you had the quiet of the early morning to yourself you could feel the knots in your shoulders loosen and the lead seep out of your limbs.
You slowly shift your legs out of bed, still slightly dazed. Sunlight peeks out through the cracks in the shutters covering your window, and you cast a look at the alarm clock sitting on your nightstand. It's barely 7 A.M. And it's also a Saturday. While that doesn't matter much in terms of noise–a city is a city, after all, and this one certainly is never quiet–your neighbours' kids aren't allowed out of bed before nine on Saturdays, which gives you at least two small hours of peace and quiet.
You stagger to the bathroom and let the hot shower water beat down your stiff muscles, trying to draw out the permanent chill that seems to have settled deep into your bones. It works a little bit, but when you get out of the steamy little cell and wrap a towel around your torso you can feel it trickle back into the pit of your stomach, like an icy worm that's decided to make your body its home. It's more of a discomfort than a true pain, though, so you decide to ignore it.
Your hair is still damp when you pull an extra thick sweater over your head, stick your feet in warm socks and tiptoe your way over to the living room.
Keith is still asleep. You don't blame him–he's still recovering, even though he already looks so much better than the previous night. The colour is back in his cheeks. The dark circles and the hollowness under his eyes have started to fade away. He's still thin, and he doesn't smell too good, but you decide against waking him just yet.
In the kitchen, you put on the kettle and pull open the fridge in search of something to eat. The unfinished boxes of chinese sit in front, half-open from when you hastily stowed them away. You pull one out, sniff it, then shrug as you grab for a spoon.
The kitchen windowsill is probably not the spot a lot of people would pick to lounge on, an early Saturday morning. But you've always liked to watch the sun rise over the tall buildings, and the soft orange glow you're treated with today is worth waking up so early for. You rest your face on the knee you've pulled up beside you as you shovel another spoonful of rice into your mouth.
The orange slowly fades out into yellow, then into blue. It's soothing to watch, and you find yourself slow your breathing and close your eyes as the city wakes up beneath you. Noises of starting cars and motorbikes drift up to your window, and chattering fills the street. People exit their homes, throwing delightful glances up at the sunny sky; unexpected after the heavy rain of the previous night.
You finish your takeout, do some chores around the house. Change your bedsheets. Prepare a change of clothes for when Keith finally wakes up. Open the windows to let in some fresh air. Prepare a cup of tea and claim back your spot on the windowsill. It's a peaceful morning, and the air doesn't feel quite as heavy as usual.
And then there's a rustling in the room beside you, and a crash as–you assume–Keith tumbles off your sofa and hits the ground. A faint groan floats past the kitchen doorway and you try to hide your grin. A couple of seconds later a very dishevelled-looking Keith stumbles into the kitchen.
"Morning," you tell him, rolling your shoulders once so they won't go stiff against the windowsill. He nods at you, dark eyes bleary. "Feel better?"
He sniffs. "I don't feel like I just got struck by lightning and dragged behind a racecar over an especially rocky road. So I guess that's improvement."
You blow on the hot tea in your hands. "I'm glad. Would have hated to have gone through all that trouble for nothing. You're quite the guest, you know."
Keith winces at the words, despite your light tone. For some reason, his frown and pained expression tug at your stomach. "But I don't mind it," you add hurriedly. "I mean–it was my own choice to take you in. I very well could not have done that. But–but I did." Shut up, shut up, shut up, you shouted internally.
The corners of Keith's mouth lift ever so slightly. "Lucky for me."
"Lucky for you," you agree with a grin.
It's silent for a while, and in the sunlight, you can clearly see how thin Keith really is. His shirt hangs from his frame in a shapeless lump of cloth, his trousers sagging and almost slipping from his bony hips. While he does look better–the life has returned to his eyes–he still doesn't look good, and the sight of him makes your guts twist. You point to the fridge. "There's leftovers from yesterday. Grab whatever you want–but be careful not to eat too much. I don't want you puking all over my kitchen."
But Keith has already found the other chinese box, and you show him which drawers contain cutlery and in which cupboard are stashed the glasses. He scarfs down the rice in ten minutes flat, and you shake your head in silent judgement. "I'm going to find a way to make you pay back everything you'll cost me, food-wise. You're in debt, starting today."
He gives you a shy grin, but his attention is quickly taken up once more by the food in front of him. You quietly sip your tea, staring out of the window, occasionally glancing at the angel sitting at your kitchen table.
That's when it truly hits you how much of an idiot you're being.
Last night, it had been late. Five days of nothing on your mind but the thought of trying to keep him alive, and finally finding a way to do so, had left you shaky and dazed. Seeing him up and about after getting used to the sound of his ragged, unsteady breathing floating through your apartment had been a shock.
But now the full weight of what you'd done–and what you hadn't done–crashes into you, and you realise you have absolutely no idea how to feel. The air charges with tension, and the angel leans back in his seat. He looks about as uncomfortable as you feel. Your mind whirls with thoughts, all seeming to want something different–the part of you that's curious where this whole situation would lead and is whispering to you to let him stay; the part of you that's still a loyal soldier to the Below and is screaming at you to turn him in; the part of you that wants nothing to do with any of this and is growling to throw him back out on the street. You shake your head, downing the last of your tea and hopping off the counter.
"Take a shower when you're done with that," you mutter. "I have to get back to work soon. My co-workers are gonna ask questions and I need to be prepared."
Keith nods. Your phone is already in your hands and you fire off a quick text to the shelter's manager to inform him you'd be in this afternoon. You don't know Anthony that well–he mostly keeps to the side and handles potential adopters. You prefer to stay with the animals. Almost immediately you receive a reply: he says he's delighted that you've decided to return so soon after taking your unexpected leave. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the barely-veiled passive-aggressiveness.
"Oh, yeah." You turn and point at Keith with your phone. "You can stay for as long as you need to, like, get your bearings and feel somewhat okay again, but then I'm kicking you out. I don't know if you have any idea of how much of a risk I'm taking here, but–"
"I get it," he cuts you off, and you can tell he means it. He needs to work on concealing his emotions, you think off-handedly. He's an open book. It's distracting. "Thank you. Seriously."
The tension builds until it's almost tangible. You shake your head, trying to shake the dizziness away. "It's–yeah. My pleasure, or whatever. I'm locking the door behind me." He gives a brief incline of his head to show he understands. "All right then. Later, I guess. Make–make sure you've showered. You kind of smell," you say apologetically. "No offence."
"None taken," he laughs. "You're right, anyway."
You make a gesture that's in between a nod and a headshake, then make a blind grab for your coat and your scarf before pulling the door closed behind you and locking it.
The shelter's lights are on, and its illuminated windows stand out starkly in the dim grimness of the gloomy street. It doesn't rain, for once, but grey clouds hang overhead and block the sun, the little light that makes it past them flimsy and thin. You pull the door closed behind you. The little bell above the doorway rings once, softly, and barking immediately pipes up from the next room over. You smile.
"Hey, loves," you mutter to each animal as you pass their cages, stopping here and there and sticking your fingers through the bars to give a furry face a pat, or to scratch a scaly butt, or to stroke a feathered head. "I missed you guys."
"They missed you too, I think," comes a quiet voice from behind you. You crouch and open a cage, plucking out a small cat and scritching it behind the ears. "They've been rather unruly in the days you weren't here. Restless, you know."
"Hi, Tony."
"Y/N." He inclines his head. "Did you have a nice leave?" It's a question purely out of politeness, you know, because he's your employer and he's supposed to be polite. As far as employers go, Tony really isn't the worst of them. But you can't shake the feeling that he's fishing for something.
"I did. I've been busy," you say cautiously, not taking your eyes off of the kitten you're cradling. "Sorry for it being so unexpected."
"Oh, not at all," Tony replies smoothly, sailing over to where you sit and leaning on the wall behind you, "We've managed. It was your week off, anyway, and just because you've insisted on working in your free time before doesn't mean that you always will." But it doesn't take amazing detective skills to hear the suspicious edge to his voice.
"That's right," you say, maybe a little too sharply. You can almost smell Tony's raised eyebrow behind you. "Sorry. I've just–I've been a little on edge, lately. I'll–" You scramble up, depositing the kitten back in its cage and dusting fur off your t-shirt. "I'll be in the back." You have the weird urge to salute, but you manage to suppress it. He's already suspicious, you remind yourself. Don't make it worse by acting weird.
It is a shame you can't spend more time with the animals, but you're not the only one who decided to come in today–it's actually quite crowded for a Saturday–so you get storage room duty and instead spend your afternoon putting away boxes of food and medicine and cleaning products. Emmie, one of your co-workers, sticks her head around the corner of your door at the end of the day.
"Hey. We're gonna go get milkshakes, wanna come?"
Your back screams when you push off the chair, eager for an excuse to cut your day short. "You're a godsend." The expression is actually used exclusively as an insult in the Below, but you find you like the Middle Ground version better. "Let me just grab my shoes, I'll be right there."
Hopping on one foot as you finish tying your laces, you join Emmie, Nirina, Adam and Zach as they stride out the door, Emmie and Zach's arms linked. In the back of your mind you recognise that's strange: Emmie and Zach can't stand each other. A smile curls the corners of your lips. You did miss quite a lot this past week, didn't you?
"We're going to this new place a few blocks down," Emmie shouts over her shoulder. You try to chat with Nirina for a bit, but she's more silent than usual, barely saying a word, and eventually she retreats to walk next to Adam behind you. When you don't focus on it, a black, vaguely animal-shaped shadow seems to sit on her shoulder, but when you look directly at it nothing's there.
Something isn't right here.
The feeling creeps into your very bones, making the hairs on your neck stand on edge and your shoulder blades tingle. The sense that you're being watched, and more–as you realise that with Nirina and Adam behind you and Emmie and Zach in front of you, it almost feels like you're being escorted. Guarded.
"Hey, Em," you call. Your hand creeps towards your pocket, but with a start you remember you left your knife at home. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "What's the place we're going called?"
Emmie turns around and flashes you a fanged grin. Your blood turns to ice. "So Above, So Below." And then she pounces--and pushes you straight through the pavement. You don't even have time to scream.
You lose all sense of direction. Up is down and left is right as you fall, fall, fall through a black hole, Emmie's nails still digging into your shoulders, though you're sure if you actually opened your eyes you'd see they're claws. You try to tug yourself loose, but her grip immediately tightens. You hiss when you feel her talons draw blood.
"No getting away, Y/N dear," she giggles into your ear.
Well, at least you know what she–and the others too, by the sound of it–is. Only Bountyhunters can get to the Below or the Above without using one of the doors or passages, instead creating their own temporary ones. You've travelled by Bounty Tunnel before. It's not a memory you cherish. The only thing you can do is close your eyes and hope it'll be over soon.
When you finally make contact, all the air is knocked out of you and for a moment you see nothing but black spots dancing in front of your eyes. Then you suck in a scorching breath and blink, and the familiar stark white ceiling of the Offices comes into view. You groan, and when you try to sit up, your hands catch in ashy grey feathers: your wings have popped. You flush, already feeling Haggar's disapproving scowl digging into your back. How unprofessional, she'd mumble.
Haggar has always hated your guts–even back when you were still loyal to the Below.
Emmie–except she looks nothing like Emmie anymore–tosses her long dark ponytail over her shoulder and sighs. "That was almost too easy. We were told you'd be a challenge."
"I haven't been feeling well," you reply, voice icy as you stand up and shake out your wings. You don't miss the way Emmie's expression sours and suppress a smirk. Bounties don't have wings, and they'll never stop being salty about it. "Also, four against one? That seems a little unfair, even for Management." You pause. "I'm assuming you got hired by Management."
"Of course we got hired by Management, demon," Zach snarls. He runs his fingers through his hair and glares at you, his fangs growing by the second and soon touching his chin. And then his face begins to change, his jaw softening (though not by much), his eyes growing more cat-like, his lips plumping. You frown, because you know this face. You know her.
Zethrid grins, fangs shining in the white LED light. "Long time no see, Y/N." You give a sarcastic wave.
"Yes, Y/N," comes an icy voice from behind you. Your shoulders tense, and your feathers puff involuntarily. "Long time no see indeed."
Haggar glides out of her office doors, and you feel all the stony calm and resistance leave you in one fell swoop. Her yellow eyes bore into yours, and it takes every ounce of willpower inside you not to look away. She nods her head, once. "My office, Y/N. Now."
"You're so dead," mutters Zethrid as you pass her.
"When I get out of here, you're the first person whose throat I'll slit," you hiss in return.
Haggar slumps in her seat and plucks her looking glass from its stand, making it levitate over her hand and glaring like she has a personal vendetta against it. "If it were up to me, I would already have you burning and hanging from the Grand Hall ceiling," she says, vanishing the mirror in a cloud of smoke. You try to ignore the pang of fear stabbing into your chest. You're gonna be fine, you tell yourself. You're going to be okay. But you find it hard to believe the words.
"But–" the mirror reappears in her other hand– "a certain Prince insisted on keeping you alive." She whirls the looking glass around and it floats in front of your face. Prince Lotor of the Below looks at you with a scrutinising gaze, as if gauging how much you'd be worth on the night market.
"Y/N," he says in a clear voice. You nod, then quickly incline your head in a slight bow. Watch your tongue, Y/N. Watch. Your. Tongue. "No need for that." Lotor snaps his fingers, and you look up again, eyes fixed on the rim of the looking glass, determined not to meet Lotor's. You're afraid of what you might see.
It's silent for a moment, and you keep your mouth shut for as long as you can, but you eventually break. "Forgive me, Lord, but–"
"Shut up." It takes all of your willpower not to cock your head and narrow your eyes in indignation. Lotor leans forward, elbows perched on his desk and fingertips pressed together. His cold gaze is calculating and cruel, and your entire body reels with disgust and hatred. "I didn't keep you alive because I care about what happens to you. Because I don't," he clarifies with a raised eyebrow, and this time you can't keep the grimly sarcastic smile at bay. "I kept you alive because I need you to do a job."
"With all due respect, sir, I don't think I'm the right person for any job." You try to keep your voice light and your fists unclenched, but it's a harder task than you want to admit.
"Told him so," Haggar mutters from behind the mirror. You can tell she thoroughly disagrees with being used as a TV-stand. "There are so much more competent candidates for this assignment who actually want to prove themselves and their loyalty to us." You have the feeling she's talking directly to Lotor now. "But no, you just had to get the one rogue who'll do everything in their power to get out from this–"
"Enough," Lotor says coolly, and Haggar clamps her jaw shut, though her eyes flash with murder. You don't know who she wants to kill more at the moment: you or Lotor. "Y/N will do the job, and they'll do it without complaining."
"You sound awfully sure." You've since given up on trying to be respectful. Lotor might be the Prince of the Below, but you had wriggled yourself out of more difficult situations than these before. You're already carefully plotting an escape.
Because the mistake most people make when they see you is that they underestimate you. They think they have you pinned down, and then they loosen their hold and up till now, that has always worked out in your favour–you know how to manipulate people and you know how to get out of the Below. You know every single of the dozens and dozens of passageways leading out onto Middle Ground, and from there on you know how to hide. You've done it before, and managed to keep off their radar for quite a while.
In fact, the only reason they caught you now was because you had been too preoccupied with a certain angel to keep your thoughts straight. A mistake, and one you won't be making again.
"I am sure," Lotor's clear voice cuts through your thoughts and pulls you back to the present. "There's a contract on the desk. Sign it, and we'll give you the details."
You can't stop the startled laugh that bursts past your lips. "A Blank Contract? You expect me to sign a Blank Contract?"
Lotor merely cocks his head and smiles that lazy smile of his.
And then the little looking glass shatters and you yelp, taking a step backwards in surprise, feeling your muscles tense. "I do," his voice says from behind you, and you whirl around just in time to see Lotor sail into Haggar's office.
Haggar gives a sharp sigh and brushes shattered glass off her uniform. "Do you always have to do that? Those mirrors are expensive, you know. I'm gonna have you pay for them if you insist on making a dramatic entrance every time."
Lotor ignores her, his gaze fixed on you. He waves his hand, and a piece of paper appears between his fingers. It's mostly blank, save for one thickly outlined black square with an inscription you can't read from where you stand, but you know what they say: Candidate's signature. "I'm not signing." But your voice has a tremor to it, and you suddenly feel a lot smaller as Lotor strides towards you. It was a lot easier to disrespect the Prince of the Below through a looking glass.
His eyes flash with irritation. "You will." Somehow, those two words hold more threat to them than all the insults the Bounties threw at you earlier.
But you set your jaw and clench your fists. "I'd rather die. I'm. Not. Signing." You had vowed to not ever help the Below in any way, shape or form again. It wasn't worth it.
"Told you so," Haggar sing-songs from behind her desk, a maniacal glint to her eye. "Just take one of the actually competent ones. Let me string them up."
Lotor gives a sharp sigh. "Touch them and I'll be stringing you up." Haggar pouts and crosses her arms. He turns to you, and the coolness in his eyes sends shivers up your spine. The realisation hits you like a freight train. He's done something. He knows something. He would never be this sure of himself if he didn't have an absolutely airtight plan.
Then Lotor waves his hand again, and another mirror you hadn't noticed before–a looking glass spanning from the floor to the ceiling, partially hidden by a black curtain–lights up, and the image you see has all the colour drain from your face and your heart skip a beat.
Allura is tied to a chair and breathing hard, her nurse's scrubs hanging crookedly, torn and dirty. A nasty cut spans from her cheekbone to her eyebrow, and blood runs down the side of her face. Tears mix with the grime and blood smearing her cheeks. Behind her stand Emmie and Zethrid the Bountyhunters, crazed smiles painted upon both their faces.
As soon as she sees you, Allura lets out a strangled cry that is muffled by the gag strung over her mouth. Her eyes widen, and you rush forward, stopping just short of the mirror's surface, afraid to break it. Your shaking fingertips hover just shy of the surface before you pull them back to your chest. Tears threaten to spill past your eyes, so you push them down and try to take a breath.
"Is this real?" You know how hallucinations work. You know how powerful illusions can be, and you know exactly how useful of a tool they can be in manipluation. It's a tool you've used yourself.
"Maybe. Maybe not," says Lotor's soft voice. His breath washes over the side of your face, and you can feel sick rise in your throat. All compusure is lost. It's all or nothing now. Thoughts muddle and get mixed up in your mind until all you can focus on is Allura, terrified and hurt, sitting in front of you yet separated by a thin sheet of glass and who knows how many miles.
A crazy thought of Maybe I can free her pops up, but you beat it down immediately again. You don't know where she is. You don't know if this is even real. Lotor would immediately order her killed if you attempted anything remotely similar to a breakout. Then kill Lotor, a ragged voice in your mind screams.
"Come, come, no rash decisions now," Lotor says as if he just read your thoughts. His hands ghost over your shoulders, sliding down until they reach your elbows. He gently forces them to your sides, and you don't even have the strength in you to resist. A fresh stream of tears runs down Allura's cheeks, and she weakly thrashes against her bonds, and in the end, that's what yanks you out of your stupor.
Your chin snaps up. "So you'll let her go if I sign the contract?"
Lotor rolls his eyes. "Look whose wits have returned to them." He lets go of your elbows and takes a step toward the mirror, hands clasped behind his back and his hungry gaze raking across Allura's form. She looks up at him with a mix of hatred and fear in her eyes. She's given up struggling against the ropes, but her jaw is set, and her eyes are steely; terrified, but determined. Her gaze flicks back to you and she gives the tiniest shake of her head.
Lotor reels back and laughs, the sound booming within the office walls. He shakes his head, still chuckling, his long silvery hair swishing behind him as he stalks back to the desk and swoops up the contract. "Feisty. I like that. Doesn't have the slightest clue of what's going on but still tells you to not do the thing you obviously don't want to do." He flashes you a fanged grin that makes your blood run cold. "I just might pay her a visit later myself."
"That's Middle Ground, my Prince," you manage through gritted teeth. "I'll find and kill you before you even have a chance to knock on her door."
"That's some confidence you've got right there, Y/N. Keep it for the job."
"I haven't signed your contract yet."
Lotor cocks his head and his grin widens. "Yet being the keyword here."
You turn back to the mirror, scanning Allura for any sign that she might not be real, looking for something that might hint that her image is off. Something. Anything. But your manic brain is running in circles, looking for loopholes that might not even be there, and you know you're not making sense, because the chance that she's just an illusion is there, but on the off-chance that she isn't, that she actually is in danger–
You would never forgive yourself if she were to get hurt and you could have put a stop to it.
"It's possible," you breathe, your hands curling to fists. "It's possible that none of this is real."
Lotor nods as if your words are perfectly reasonable. "True." There's a beat of silence, and his feverish eyes bore into yours. "But are you willing to take that risk?"
Anyone else–any proper demon–would have laughed in his face and torn the contract to shreds, watching gleefully as Allura got tortured in front of their eyes. But you had left behind your demon ways a good while ago, and you had always been a rotten pupil anyway. So you bite your tongue and snatch the contract and pen from Lotor's waiting fingers, scribbling your signature down hard enough that you pierce the paper.
"See, I knew you'd come around in the end!" He claps his hands in delight and throws a triumphant glance Haggar's way. "I told you so."
"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles, waving a hand as if to dismiss his words. She gives you a slightly disapppointed stare. "I was rooting for you, kiddo. Show some spine next time."
You fight the tears threatening to spill and slap the now-signed contract back onto the desk. "All right. Details, Lotor. What's the assignment?"
His eyes flash. Business; there's something he knows. "We received word that one of the Above's most prized angels has just gone rogue." He starts pacing, and your eyes keep finding Allura's behind him–but she looks at you with pity and something that's almost disappointment, and you have to look away before you break down completely. "It came out of nowhere, too: stellar record, followed orders without a second thought. A great soldier." You don't miss the punch behind the words.
"And you want me to do, what, kill him?" That wouldn't be too hard. At least, you think. Your mind is still a bit muddy, but something ugly and twisted inside you is still desperate for Management's approval. Still eager to prove yourself. I can be a good soldier too.
"Oh no, no," Lotor says with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I just want you to find him and bring him in. It shouldn't be that hard to do–after all, who better to track a rogue than another rogue themselves?"
There's still something else. Something he isn't telling you. Sure, you're good at what you do–at what you used to do–but was it worth going through all the trouble just to get you to sign the stupid contract? As much as you loathed to do it, you silently had to agree with Haggar on this one. There were so many young demons scrambling for their chance to prove themselves and their worth–why not let them take this assignment?
"That–that's it?"
Lotor cocks a brow. "I mean, unless you wanted more work, I guess that's it.'
You give a cautious nod. "Okay. So what do we know about this guy?"
"Not much. My sources weren't able to provide very recent information–"
"Get better sources."
"–But what they do know is that this particular angel has been off the map for years. Quite like you," he adds as he raises his other eyebrow. You roll your eyes. "He's impossible to find, quite hard to track, and a very skilled fighter. Rumour has it he's scouring your city's streets at the moment."
You resist a frown. If this guy has been prowling your streets and you haven't noticed, something is definitely amiss. Might just be that you've been preoccupied with Keith and everything that happened around him, but if this has been going on for as long as Lotor is implying it has... this just might prove an actual challenge.
The old feeling of excitement and anticipation starts to run through your very bones again, and you hate the way it makes you feel–energised. As if you can handle anything thrown your way. Ready. It's a feeling you haven't known in years, and one you haven't missed, though now that it courses through your veins again there's no point in denying that you're enjoying it. The thrill of the chase.
But then Lotor speaks the name of the angel you're supposed to bring in, and everything falls into place, only to shatter into a million pieces a split second after.
You see his lips move. Hear the words spoken, though they take a moment to get processed, and when they do they leave behind an emptiness that has you stare at him, too dumbfounded and untrusting of yourself to speak.
It can't be. This must be the universe's idea of a cruel joke. The very guy you'd risked everything for–the very angel that had caused your distractedness and is the reason you were here in the first place–is the same rogue angel about whom you had just signed a contract.
The crushing weight of it settles on your shoulders. All five days of you struggling to keep him breathing, for nothing. The weird excursion to Coran's shop, for nothing. The goddamn chinese takeout you'd bought for him, for fucking nothing.
But somehow you manage to keep your face straight, and Lotor hadn't been watching you as he said it, instead gazing intently at something over your head, so you can only hope he hasn't noticed the lurch in your expression at the mention of Keith Kogane.
"All right." You're almost shocked at how steady your voice is. "Okay. I've agreed. You got what you want. Now, free Allura." Even though your voice is pretty steady, you curl your hands into fists to hide their shaking.
Lotor doesn't move for a moment, and you seriously begin to think he's having a seizure until he snaps his fingers and Emmie lunges forward.
In her hand is a knife, and she plunges it into Allura's chest without a second of hesitation.
You rush toward the mirror, a strangled "No!" ripped from your throat. Your fingers claw at the smooth glass surface and you watch her slump, blood gushing from the wound and staining her scrubs a dark crimson. Your knees buckle, and your eyes stay glued to her form as she convulses, coughs up blood twice, then goes limp. Her head falls back...
And snaps back up, and you lurch back with a startled cry. Allura's eyes have gone red and are shining with mania. Her skin turns the colour of wet ash, and her hair falls out of its updo and cascades down her shoulders, tendrils black and writhing as if they have a mind of their own...
Demon.
Shapeshifter.
Your breathing comes in short and shallow rasps as the full realisation of things settles in. Allura was never in danger. You were right all along. If only you had put your foot down. If only you hadn't let your feelings cloud your mind.
It doesn't matter now. You signed a contract–and there's no going back from that.
Lotor fingers through the file that bears your signature in black ink. Slowly, the words explaining just what you signed start to appear on the sheets, snaking their way along the curves of the paper as if written in by an invisible hand. A steel fist clenches around your heart, and you struggle to stand up, your muscles turned to jelly. The surface of the mirror has gone black again.
A shaking hand comes up to cover your mouth, and your teeth clench down on your lower lip so hard that they draw blood. Lotor flicks his wrist, and the contract disappears. The fingers of your free hand twitch as if they wanted to grab at the file. You level your gaze with Lotor's, and evidently your years of training finally paid off in the end, because in his eyes you can see how passive your expression is. You'd be a good poker player, your fleeting mind thinks randomly. The only thing giving away your current emotions is the hand mindlessly tugging at your bottom lip, and the fact that your breathing is still rather fast.
"Now," Lotor drawls in his honey-coated voice–sugary sweet, sticky, suffocating–and snakes an arm around your shoulders, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"
And you know you should keep your mouth shut, because he is the Prince of the Below, and Haggar has already expressed her desire to string you up and set you on fire in the Grand Hall for every new recruit to see–but on the other hand, you just signed a contract, and that makes you technically untouchable until Lotor has reason to believe you won't be able to complete the task set out for you.
The very foundation of a plan starts coming together in your mind. You jut up your chin and break free from his grasp. "So do I get assignment-issue gear? A blade? A gun, maybe? If this angel is as good as you make him out to be, perhaps I should need some more useful weapons than your average kitchen knife."
Lotor scrutinises you for a moment, then waves his hand. A set of gleaming double blades appear on Haggar's desk, along with their sheaths and long black gloves. Haggar huffs with an indignant mutter of Sure, use my desk as your summoning surface. Don't mind at all. You ignore her and lift an eyebrow. "That's all you're going to give me?"
"If you're as good as you say, this is all you will need," Lotor replies in that smooth tone of his. His eyes glint; he's gotten what he wanted. He's already won.
But that's fine. Lotor may have won this battle, and you need to make him feel like he has, but in the end you'll do everything in your power to win the war. And Lotor just handed you the weapons that just might be able to get you there.
"Fine," you mutter, snatching up the knives, pointedly refusing to strap them to your back like is procedure, instead securing the harnesses to your thighs as a small act of defiance. Irritation flashes in his eyes. "I'll report to you how often?"
"No reports," Lotor says with a wave of his hand. "We don't want to make any potential spies of the Above suspicious. Just make sure you find him, and when you do..." He tosses you a little disk about the size of a large coin, and you startle at how heavy it is. It's pleasantly warm to the touch, and you have a creeping suspicion as to what it is that is only confirmed with Lotor's next words. "Portal pass. Use it wisely."
You turn the pass over and over in your hands, the familiar weight of the knives at your thighs comforting and seeming to pull you down to the ground at the same time. "Is that–will that be all?" Risky words, risky questions–you're going out on a limb and assume Lotor won't have you hanged for running your mouth: he did just pretend to torture your best friend to coerce a signature out of you, so you suppose he has to give you some slack.
He sails to a halt in front of you, face so close his nose almost touches yours, and you have to stop yourself from recoiling. His expression is cold, his gaze calculating–and the smile that creeps up his lips sends shivers up our spine. "Yes. I think that will be all." He raises a brow and throws a glance Haggar's way, which you find comical as he didn't seem to give a solid fuck about her opinions when he used her office as his personal torture chamber.
Haggar shrugs. "I still think we should string them up and burn them to a crisp."
"Yes, Haggar, I know. Why did I even bother." He gives you a lazy flick of his hand, but you've already turned and your hand is resting on the doorknob, when something occurs to you and you cast a look at him over your shoulder.
"My Prince?" The title feels like hot oil searing down your throat, but you expect the words you're about to say require this small bit of courtesy. He raises a brow and nods. "I'm going to kill the Bounties that brought me here." Your voice sounds oddly bored.
Lotor chuckles. "They're no demons. They don't have a place in the Below." It's like his gaze issues a challenge, and a fresh wave of loathing for this Prince washes over your being. "Go right ahead."
You flash a cold smile and slam the door shut.
– – –
You wipe your blades with some wet wipes and discard them in the trashcan beside you when they get too filthy with blood (the store clerk barely looked up when you came in and purchased a single packet of wet wipes and a duffel bag–apparently the average cashier sees weirder stuff than a maniac with bloodied hunting knives the size of their forearms slamming a pack of wet wipes on the counter on a daily basis). Emmie, Adam, Zethrid and Nirina's bodies have long since turned to dust, and you have to work to keep your breathing steady and to stop your eyes from glowing red as the phone wedged between your ear and your shoulder rings.
Allura picks up on the fourth ring. "'Sup?"
It was just a check. Just to make sure. But if Allura truly did just get tortured, you have a feeling she wouldn't pick up a phone call with a simple 'Sup?
"Hey. How was your day?" Your speech comes out slightly slurred, and Allura laughs on the other side of the line.
"Fine. Work, you know. Routine." You can almost hear the grin on her face as she says, "And you? Weren't you supposed to be at work too, today?"
Work. Work feels like such a long time ago--when it was in reality only a couple of hours back. You nod slowly, though it's more to convince yourself than anything else. "Yeah. I was. Some co-workers and I went to get smoothies afterwards. To welcome me back," you joke.
"Did they pay?"
"Yeah."
"Good for you. Free milkshake. I'm jealous."
You laugh, but it feels hollow in your chest. "Hey--I need to run now, but I'll call you later, okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Sweet of you to check in, Y/N."
You eye the gleaming blade, running a finger along its razor-sharp edge. "No problem."
After you hang up, you sit back against the wall digging into your back, forcing down the pumping feeling in your limbs.
It's something you've missed, and you can't deny it. The absolute exhilaration you feel when your blades make contact, the thrumming of adrenaline in your veins as you dodge to avoid the blows that four individual enemies are throwing at you. The fear in Zethrid's eyes when she realises she is the only one left standing, and the life seeping from her eyes as you slit her throat.
It doesn't make you feel good, exactly–especially now that the thrill of the moment has worn off and you just feel tired and there's an ache that has burrowed itself deep into your bones–but there's no replicating the rush of power that courses through your very being when you're the one in control.
When the blades of death are yours to wield.
The knives are now securely stored in your new black duffel, and you try and figure out how you're going to pull off bringing two huge knives home without rousing suspicion from Keith. You internally debate whether you shouldn't just find a safe space to stash the duffel until you need it. There are quite a few nooks and crannies you know no one in their right mind would look, but then again, this was a big city. There were plenty of creepier people prawling these streets than the occasional demon.
And then you pass a gym, and an idea sparks in your head.
After casually shoplifting a bunch of sportswear from the nearest Nike store, you return to the gym with the knives in your bag hidden by the copious amounts of t-shirts and trainers stacked on top of them. You get a locker and stuff the bag inside before making your way outside again, smiling at the desk guy as you leisurely stroll out of the gym. The guy narrows his eyes at you–your clothes are still slightly torn and dirty, and you're pretty sure you have a bruise forming on the right side of your cheek, but you don't pay him any mind. He works at a gym. He's seen stranger than you.
But the closer you get to your apartment, the heavier the portal pass starts to feel in your pocket, and the more insecure your steps become. The sun hangs low over the city skyline, but hasn't completely started to set yet, and soft golden light washes over the streets, making them look... wrong. Bleak. Colour in a place where colour shouldn't be. You had just killed in these streets, and nobody noticed.
The thought makes you feel kind of sorry for the Bounties. They would be missed by no one.
You're still lost in thought when you almost hit a door and you snap back to reality. Your feet had carried you all the way up to your apartment. You blinked hard, rubbed a hand over your face and fumbled for your keys.
"Hey. It's me. Did you burn the house down while I was gone?"
Keith looks up from where he sits on an armchair–your armchair, but you understand he wouldn't want to spend another minute on the couch he spent five days on, hallucinating out of his mind–and grins, and your heart does a leap. And then he frowns, and you freeze, and your immediate thought is Oh fuck, he's found me out, he knows everything, he's going to call the other angels and he's going to kill me–
But the words he speaks are soft with concern. "What happened to your face?" And it takes all of your willpower not to break down right then and there.
He puts down the book he was reading and walks over to you, eyebrows knotted with worry, and reaches out to touch your forehead. Only then does he seem to realise how close to you he's standing, and he quickly pulls his fingers back to his chest. They're red with blood. "Let's get that disinfected, yeah?"
Before you can answer, he's already started towards your kitchen. You blink, still stunned, before following him like you're in a daze. He looks over his shoulder and points to a kitchen chair. You plop down, and it's when the weight is taken off your legs that the exhaustion comes crashing into you at breakneck speed, and it takes all your strength not to plunk your head down on the kitchen table and just pass out.
"Where do you keep your first aid kit?"
You vaguely point to a cabinet below the sink, and moments later Keith plops the kit down beside you on the table and plucks out a wad of cotton and disinfecting spray. You don't even feel it sting when he gently dabs at the cut on your forehead and cheekbone. His eyes are firmly trained on the cotton, his dark brows furrowed–there's a little crease between them that your foggy self finds most endearing–and he's chewing absent-mindedly on his bottom lip.
With a shock, you realise this is the closest you've been to him. Ever. This is the first time you can properly study his face, and you can always blame your muddy mind later if he brings up how blatantly you were staring at him, so you let yourself drink in every feature of his face. You find yourself drawn to his eyes most; they're a stunning deep violet, the colour of the sky at twilight, when the sun has just set and the last rays of light streak the heavens with purple. Most of all, they're soft with concern and simultaneously fierce with a kind of fire you haven't seen on him before.
"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself.
Keith's eyes briefly flicker to yours, and he gives an awkward shrug before going back to gently rubbing at your wounds. "It's none of my business. You haven't asked me about what I was doing on Middle Ground in the first place, and I won't stick my nose into what doesn't concern me." But the words sound like he's reciting them; like a lesson he learned at school. You can see in his eyes that he is in fact curious, but also that he isn't going to press further. How very angelic of him.
You purse your lips, fingering the portal pass in your jacket pocket.
Your mind is a jumble of thoughts, like someone took all your emotions and threw them in a blender. Every moment you spend with Keith in your kitchen–how is it you always end up in the kitchen?–you grow more sure that you can't turn him in. But the contract pulls at your insides, and you know that if you keep ignoring its contents it will keep gnawing at you until you can't take it anymore and snap.
The contract is the contract. Binding and eternal.
"Keith."
His hand freezes, and you carefully guide it to the table, gently forcing him to put down the cotton. "Thank you, really. But I'm okay. I promise."
He nods. Slowly. "Okay."
And oh, how you want to wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips against his, but that would make things a thousand times more complicated than they already are–
Your breath leaves you in one fell swoop. It's the exhaustion talking, you firmly tell yourself, before you yank your fingers back and stand. You're a bit wobbly, but you manage. Keith wisely doesn't attempt to help you, but you can feel his eyes boring into your back as you make your way to your bedroom.
You change. You brush your teeth. You splash some water in your face to clear your head. Everything happens in a haze, your mind too tired to think about anything at all.
But then your eye falls on a piece of paper resting on your pillow. You frown and pick it up, and your eyes widen when you recognise your own scraggly handwriting littering the little parchment card. A hand flies up to your mouth to muffle your startled scream, and you drop the card as if it just burned your fingertips, though your eyes stay glued to its surface.
The words I want Keith to be okay stare back up at you, and with every passing second your breathing gets quicker and more ragged. Your fingers tingle, and as you draw a tentative breath you sink down onto the mattress. Your fingers tingle, but they tingle with warmth, and the feeling is not unpleasant.
Where Keith's own skin brushed yours, the chill that had seeped into your very core and had burrowed there for days, leaving you in a constant state of stiff cold, dissipated. The feeling is so weirdly foreign after having only felt cold for days that you dumbly stare out into nothingness, trying to shake the heat out of your hand. It doesn't work. It feels good, and you want more of it.
For a moment, the contract leaves your mind, replaced by Keith's eyes, the way he'd looked up at you, all softness and worry; the gentleness of his fingers as they cleaned the shallow cuts on your face. You close your eyes and lean back, the little parchment card on the floor seeming to beg for your attention. You never knew paper could be this loud.
For just a moment, you allow yourself to think of Keith and not just see an angel–but something more.
