AN: An anon on tumblr kind of off-handedly mentioned that they would like me to write a Shiro sickfic, and I promptly pooped out this first chapter in two days. Ugh, I'm predictable. I am too impatient to wait to post until I finish the story, so here you go. I do expect it to be shortish, though. For once.

Title from Orchestrated Love Song by Burlap to Cashmere.


Shiro kept himself upright through the entire, interminable ceremony. Lance had no idea how he did it. Every time he glanced at Shiro's face, he kept expecting to see a crack. A grimace, a bead of sweat on his temple, a tremble in his hands. Nothing. Only the flush in Shiro's cheeks gave away that he was anything less than perfectly healthy, and the Haptoxians would have no idea what that signified.

As soon as the morning exaltation to the sun was over, Lance hustled over to Shiro's side and hovered anxiously, ready for Shiro to lean on him if he needed to. Shiro made no such move, holding himself up with dignified steadiness, though he moved more slowly than usual.

Once they were back in their diplomat's quarters, though, Shiro collapsed into a chair and doubled over, heaving for breath. He started to cough, and then he couldn't stop. Lance flailed for a few moments, searching around for some cough drops or tea or anything, really, but there was nothing. He ended up perching on the arm of Shiro's chair, carefully rubbing his upper back in big, round circles.

"There you go," he said as gently and calmly as he could. "It's okay. You're okay. Let it out. Everything is going to be okay."

Shiro shook his head, still coughing and hacking up a storm. Lance frowned, but he couldn't disagree. This sickness had hit Shiro with all the subtlety and grace of a monsoon, with no warning at all, and it was draining him like pouring water from a bucket. They didn't even know what it was.

So far it seemed like nothing more than a bad cold, but they were on an alien planet, for corn's sake. It could be anything. These could be the first symptoms of some kind of space plague. When Shiro first started feeling bad, he had tried to keep Lance at a distance in case he caught it too, but it had been two days and Lance wasn't feeling a thing. And of course Lance had ignored all of Shiro's warnings to stay away, so he really ought to be showing some symptoms by now, if he would at all.

No, this was probably yet another sign of the universe having it out for Shiro at all times. Seriously, this guy had been through so much horror and pain that it made Lance sick just to contemplate it. And one consequence of all the stress and torture Shiro had suffered was a depressed immune system, apparently. Which just figured.

After a few moments, Shiro held out a hand and waved it in the air. Lance stared at it for a moment, not sure what he was driving at, and Shiro continued to cough. "Lance...please..." Quiznak, his voice was strained.

Lance started. "Ah! Got it." He jumped up from the chair and hustled over to the dresser-like contraption, where he had found some cloths the other day that could be used like handkerchiefs. He brought one back to Shiro, who held it in both hands and began to spit into it between coughs.

Lance tried to get a glimpse-he had learned from over a decade of dealing with sick siblings and other relatives that the color of mucus could be important-but Shiro was trying to be discreet, for the moment. Well, Lance would just have a peek at it when Shiro tired, then. The guy was going to run out of energy even for coughing any moment now, Lance could tell.

And yeah, there he went. Shiro suddenly fell limp and slumped back in the chair, eyes fluttering closed, the hand holding the cloth falling still on the arm of the chair. Lance reached out for the cloth and gently tugged on it, but Shiro opened one eye and looked at him. "Still...need it."

Lance grimaced. "Right. I'll get you a new one."

He went back to the dresser and retrieved a clean cloth. This time Shiro let him exchange it. Lance stood there for a moment holding the used cloth in his hands.

"Shiro..."

Shiro opened both eyes this time to meet his gaze. His mouth was grim, but he didn't speak. They had already had this conversation more than once.

Still, Lance winced and went on. "I really think we should tell the Haptoxians that you're sick with something. They might have medicine that can help."

"No." Shiro's voice was awful, raspy and congested. "We don't have time."

Lance looked away to the window, where the reddish yellow sun shone bright above the horizon. The Sun Festival was only three planetary rotations in the Haptoxian solar cycle, and it was the only time when their culture permitted major changes in their political system. Like, for instance, allying with an intergalactic military force from the depths of legend.

Lance knew this opportunity was limited time only. It was why he and Shiro had been dropped off here while the others had to deal with a fire in another galaxy. The hope had been that Shiro, as the commander of Voltron itself, would be acceptable to the Haptoxians as a negotiating figure in Allura's place, while Lance could back him up with his social skills. Over the past year and a half, Lance had developed a lot as a diplomat, to the point that Allura relied on him often during tricky meetings with other cultures. As long as Lance could hold back his urge to flirt with all and sundry, he was quite persuasive, if he did say so himself.

So why couldn't he convince Shiro to ask for help?

"Lance." A sigh, gentle and constrained. Lance looked back to Shiro, unconsciously twisting the cloth in his hands. "I'll be fine. It's just a cough and a fever. One more day, and we'll be in the clear."

Lance swallowed, then nodded. He turned his back to Shiro, then opened the cloth and looked at the mucus. It was light yellow. Okay. Could be worse.

"Lance. Buddy." Shiro sounded so tired. He must have thought Lance had turned his back on him figuratively as well as literally. "Just put up with me for a little while longer. Please? I need your help."

Lance stiffened, his shoulders going straight. He wadded up the cloth and tossed it aside, then turned to Shiro with a determined smile. "Okay, then. I got this."

He strode over to Shiro and bent down to pull his arm over his shoulder. "If that's what you want, you got it, boss. But you gotta listen to me if you want my help, okay? First thing, you have to rest as much as you can whenever you don't have to be in public."

Shiro blew out a breath and gave Lance a grateful smile. "Okay. I hear you. You're in charge as long as I'm this out of it, at least in private."

Lance levered Shiro to his feet and led him over to the bed. At least their quarters were nicely furnished. The beds were large and clean, with fresh sheets changed daily. He set Shiro down on the edge of the mattress, then started helping him slide out of his formal jacket.

Shiro let himself be guided, let Lance do the work, and at his gesture, he sank back into the bed with a sigh. Lance arranged a sheet around him, fluffed pillows at his back, then went for water. There was a pitcher on a table by the door, a bowl with fruit. Lance came back with an earthenware cup cool with condensation and set it in Shiro's hands.

Shiro drank, slow. Lance sat on the edge of the bed and watched his face. It was strange to have Shiro so acquiescent, but at the same time, it wasn't. Shiro was tired, and he trusted Lance. Had trusted him for a long time. Lance remembered a time when that hadn't been quite so true. Not that Shiro didn't trust Lance, exactly, in those first months, but he had felt compelled to be the leader, the caretaker, in charge of himself and others at all times. Now, after months and battles and heartbreak and tears, Shiro had the fortitude to let go a little.

Just when he was sick. Or injured. Or strung out on quintessence. Or any of another dozen things that had happened to take Shiro's control away and force him to rely on his teammates.

Shiro still didn't like it, of course. The others were younger than him, and it grated at Shiro that they couldn't just be young. Couldn't be kids, couldn't be students and cadets, letting the adults make the decisions and fight the battles and face the enemies. But that choice had vanished with the floor that fell beneath them in that cavern back on earth, and now they were all soldiers in a never-ending war. If Shiro couldn't trust them to care for himself, how could he trust them to defend the universe? So he did.

Shiro drank as much water as he could, then grimaced in discomfort and lowered the cup to his lap. "You okay?" Lance asked. "Be honest."

A smile, gossamer-thin. Shiro had promised to let Lance be in charge, so now he was forced to answer. "It's...sloshing," he admitted.

"Your stomach? Nausea?"

"Not bad. Just uncomfortable. I don't feel like throwing up. Just don't want to drink anymore."

Lance reached out and trailed the tips of his fingers over Shiro's forehead. The fever might be worse. Shiro's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened to look at him steadily under the frail shade of his fingers. "You have a headache?" Lance asked. He drew his hand back and let it rest in his lap, unwilling to push too far.

"Small one."

Lance blew out a breath and gave Shiro his best reproachful face. He had learned it from Hunk, so he knew it was powerful.

"...Moderate one," Shiro amended.

Lance hummed. He went back to the bowl of fruit and sniffed around until he found one that smelled tangy, almost sour, which told him it probably had asorbic acid and therefore Vitamin C. He brought it to Shiro along with a knife and held the fruit in front of Shiro's face, about half a foot away. "Does that smell good to you? Like, abnormally so?"

Shiro eyed it askance for a moment, then looked up at Lance. "It does, actually."

Lance nodded in satisfaction. "Your body knows what it needs." He sat down on the edge of the bed and started slicing the fruit into manageable pieces. Pinkish-orange juice stained his fingers, welling out from the fresh cuts, but the flesh was firm enough to hold together, like a not-quite-ripe peach. He tested a small bite for himself and found the skin a little chewy, but not difficult to get through. So he didn't bother to peel it, just held a few wedges out in his hand for Shiro to take.

"Let's see if your stomach can handle that. If not, I can try making it into a juice or something, maybe cut it with some water so it's not too strong."

Shiro held out his hand, hovering uncertainly over the fruit wedges for a moment, then took one between thumb and forefinger. "It really does smell good," he murmured, not quite believing. He bit off a chunk and chewed. Lance watched his face.

Then Shiro smiled, broader and more lovely than before, and leaned back into the pillows. "Yeah. That's good." It might have been Lance's imagination, but he sounded less congested than before. With just one bite of fruit.

Definitely Lance's imagination. His stupid, hopeful imagination. He'd been scolded enough times for letting it run away him, but somehow he could never stop it.

Still, Lance held out his handful of fruit wedges with a touch more urgency. "Eat as much as you want. I know you barely touched anything at breakfast. 'Starve a cold' is just a myth, man."

Shiro chuckled softly and did as requested. He finished most of the fruit before he waved off the remaining slices. Lance went back to the fruit bowl and found another one like it, plus a small plate, and brought it all over to set on Shiro's bedside table along with the pitcher and the earthenware cup. "Okay, that's pretty good. Try to get some rest, okay? If you feel like it, eat and drink."

Shiro had already been sinking into the pillows, eyes drifting shut, but at this his eyes widened again. "What are you going to do?"

Lance gave him a smile as confident and easy as he could make it. "Just gonna go check out the market."

Shiro sighed. "You're going to look for the Haptoxian equivalent of a pharmacy, aren't you?"

"I'll be discreet," Lance promised. "I'll act like I'm just curious, or better yet, asking questions for my scientist friends who aren't here to check things out for themselves. You know I've gotten a lot better at this subterfuge thing, Shiro."

"I know," Shiro said. "I'm glad you're here with me, Lance."

Lance's heart lurched in his chest. It meant a lot to hear Shiro say that, in that serious tone of voice. It wasn't one of Shiro's pep talks or encouragements, meant to prop up the team's spirits when they started to fail. Shiro was good at those, but this wasn't it. He said it because he meant it, that was all. Because it was true.

"Yeah, okay," Lance said after a moment, voice a touch shaky with emotion. Hopefully Shiro was too feverish to notice. "I'll be back soon, okay? You rest. I've got this."

"Okay." Shiro's eyes fell all the way shut even before Lance made it to the door. He paused there for a moment, watching Shiro sleep, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, listening to the low, phlegmy wheeze in his breath. Then he slipped out into the hall, careful to make nary a sound.