A/N: Posting as a one-shot for now. I may continue this later.

They've taken him — they've taken him again — and he needs to — needs to — Memories well up, of bruises forming as he is shoved to his knees, of the bitter metallic taste of begging for their lives, but he shoves them down. He can't breathe. His armor is caved into his chest, crushing his ribs, Galra jeers are pressing down on him from all sides, and Shiro can't breathe. With every shallow gasp, pain sears through his chest and crowds out his vision. He needs to, to think — His hand glows, but he cannot move it.

As he clings to the precipice between losing consciousness and going berserk, the steady stream of Lance's murmuring in his ear is a thin thread of reality keeping him anchored. "C'mon, Shiro, stay with me. I've got you, man. Hang in there." Lance's voice is swollen with worry. He struggles to balance Shiro's weight across his shoulders. "I've got you. Stay with me."

One of the indistinct Galra voices says something, and Lance's body jerks, jolting Shiro's chest plate. A fresh burst of agony stutters the fragile pattern of Shiro's breathing. Lance swallows down a grinding sound in his throat and says, "Hold — hold on, Shiro — "

They stop abruptly, Lance going stiff under Shiro's arm. Zarkon's presence blooms in Shiro's mind, as intrusive and suffocating as the fear that's surging up his throat. Shiro is half-blind with pain, but he can feel the ancient paladin turning his attention on them, deliberate, condescending. He thrashes against rising despair — he must, for his own sake, for Lance's — but the emperor chuckles, and a bone-deep shudder scatters Shiro's resistance.

"Champion," Zarkon says —

"Look, I know you must've been just dying to meet me," Lance cuts in blithely. "Blue Paladin, pretty much the best pilot on Team Voltron — but this guy is heavy as a rock and honestly it'd be great if we could skip the gloating."

Panic bolts through the thick fear smothering Shiro's mind. His fingers twitch, then squeeze into Lance's shoulder in warning. Lance ignores him. "I mean, huzzah for you, you got us," he drawls. "But it's not like anything you say here is going to make a difference to us."

Lance, Shiro tries to say, but the effort of drawing enough air to speak dizzies him, and he briefly whites out.

He recovers to the sound of Lance saying, " — ive if you want — " before a dull thump cuts him off. Lance staggers beneath Shiro. "Want," he pants out determinedly, "a rat's chance in hell of getting at Blue." The sound repeats. Groaning under his breath, Lance grits out, "Just, shit, just hurry the fuck up with it then."

"Leave him," booms Zarkon, a command to someone Shiro can't see. There's a stretch of silence. At last, Zarkon says, "I could use a pilot with that nerve. Serve me, and I might even allow you to remain a paladin."

"Gee, let me think about it," Lance says. "No."

Zarkon scoffs, unsurprised. "Very well. Paladins are easier to acquire than you seem to think." The malicious amusement in his tone thickens. "The Blue Lion has always been particularly receptive to new pilots." Shiro feels the force of Zarkon's attention on his mind diminish. "Remove them."

Hands reach out to grip Shiro's arms, but Lance fiercely shrugs them off. Blackness creeps up and overtakes Shiro as Lance carries him away.

Lance is muttering again when Shiro comes around. " — most there, Shiro, you're gonna be okay. I just gotta get this thing off you, all right, man? That's right, just hold onto me." Shiro is wedged in a corner, his hips pinned in place by Lance's, his upper body sagging against Lance's chest. Lance cranes backwards, trying to keep Shiro upright while his hands are busy fiddling with something at Shiro's side.

"Y'know, my life might be easier if you were less Dorito-shaped," Lance wheezes. With a grunt, he gives a sharp tug, and suddenly the terrible constriction around Shiro's chest lets up. Shiro gasps, and the relief of having enough air almost overwhelms the pain of his cracked ribs. "Yeah — easy, just — let's get you settled," Lance says. His hand slides in over Shiro's back, pushing the armor out of the way, and he eases Shiro to the ground.

Shiro begins to shake as Lance reaches around him to tug on the zipper of his flight suit and peel it away from his skin. Lance hesitates, then brushes Shiro's forelock away from his face. "You look awful," he says lightly. "And this looks nasty. Must hurt like a bitch."

The incongruity between Lance's tone and the situation tugs at Shiro's attention, pulling him away from the horror eating away at the edges of his thoughts. His eyes come into focus on Lance's face, then rove down to glance at his own bare chest. The area where his armor caved is marked by abrasions and a massive bruise. The skin is swelling and tender. "I don't know what the first aid for broken ribs is," Lance is saying. "What should I do?"

Shiro closes his eyes. Sounds fill the darkness behind his lids: distant screams and the roaring of spectators, and closer, blunt force slamming into flesh, the snap of bones.

"Shiro," Lance says.

"Not much you can do," Shiro whispers hoarsely. "Just need… rest, not to move, as much as possible."

"Gotcha." Carefully, Lance pulls Shiro's suit back up. "Should we lay you down, or is sitting up better?"

"Don't know. We could try…?"

As Lance carefully maneuvers Shiro around, Shiro takes notice of their surroundings. They're locked in a small cell, proportioned to hold a single Galran prisoner. It's just long enough for one of them to lie down, too narrow for both of them to do so comfortably. Lance is forced to kneel awkwardly over him as he gently lowers Shiro to the ground. As Shiro's back settles against the cool metal, breathing suddenly becomes more difficult. "Wait," Shiro gasps, clutching Lance's forearm. Fire flares through his lungs.

"Shit shit shit, sorry, shit, I'm sorry, Shiro," Lance swears. He tries to find another position where Shiro can lie comfortably, with little luck. At last, Lance shucks his own armor, slides behind Shiro's back, and has Shiro recline against him. Shiro lets his head rest against Lance's collarbone and breathes in deep. It's painful, but bearable.

"And now for the waiting part, I guess," Lance says. "Can you be bored and scared at the same time?"

Shiro nearly laughs, out of reflex. "Mmm," is all he says. Crushing black terror is still nibbling at the edges of his awareness, but he's tired, worn out from pain and concentrating on responding to Lance. Exhaustion numbs the fear, for now.

He means to tell Lance to get some rest, but drifts into unconsciousness before he can form the words.

As best Lance can tell, Shiro has fallen asleep. He shifts his legs to hold Shiro more securely and thumps his head back against the wall. Keith was right: Shiro wouldn't be able to make it through this on his own. Keith tried to backpedal when he realized that the thought had broadcast through the paladins' link, but Lance, the only one in a position to act, ignored the others' outcry. He's even more sure of the snap decision now. The raw terror in Shiro's eyes has shaken him. Lance's never seen something that could break Shiro's indomitable composure come so close to the surface.

He's frightened for himself, too, as much because he can't really imagine what's going to happen as because he has an idea of how bad it's going to be. He's signed a blank check on his life for the chance he might be able to help Shiro survive being a Galran prisoner for a second time. "Come save us soon, guys," he murmurs to the absent paladins.

He'd like to pray, but deep in an alien dungeon, spinning through the emptiness of space, an incomprehensible distance from home and family and church, he can't find that place inside himself where he usually feels God. What he does sense, dimly, is his connection to his Lion. He imagines that he can feel Blue stir at the touch of his thoughts. Help me, he calls to her. Help me protect Shiro until the others can get us out.