Lance woke with a jolt, blinking away sleep and peering into the indiscernible darkness around him. His whole world shook, and it took him a groggy, dizzying moment to realize the rhythmic hum he heard was the hover engine of the transport vehicle propelling them swiftly down the road. Through the midnight-dim windows, he could see a thick forest of trees blurring past on either side, distorted even further by droplets of rain brushing apart and sliding sideways as they hit the outer surface of the transport.

If the position of the Moon was anything to go by on this planet, they were headed due East. Right. He'd forgotten. They were on the road to...actually, he didn't know where. Which was strange. Say what you would about his master, but the man usually allowed Lance time to recover from a job before carting him off to his next one. The miserly man wouldn't dream of risking his exhausted healer leaving costly mistakes in his wake, after all.

The last thing Lance could remember, though, was collapsing after a particularly gruelling healing session in a countryside village that had been infected with plague. He didn't normally let himself get so depleted when he was working a healing, but the pained, desperate eyes of the villagers had compelled him to push himself to his limits for just one more patient until they'd begun to blur together into one massive, sickly organism through which his magic struggled frantically to heal. Had he even finished what his master had contracted him out to do? What if he'd made a mistake? He shivered, dread rising like acid from the pit of his stomach. He'd been a shaking, barely coherent mess toward the end there, that much he did remember.

But no, his master would never allow that.

"Boy," Lance jumped at the bark of a voice in his ear and looked up into the baleful face of his master, who loomed above him as if summoned - demon that he must be - by Lance's mere thoughts. Iverson. Despite Lance's own considerable height, the older man towered over him, and was padded to nearly twice Lance's bulk in pure muscle. Not that it twas hard to outbulk Lance's lanky build, anyway, no thanks to his minimal rations. Judging from the barely contained violence in the man's eyes, this was not the first time he'd tried to get his attention.

Lance started again when he realized he was doing nothing but staring up blankly. He shrank back unconsciously. "Yes, master Iverson?" he asked as evenly as he could manage, the cloudiness of his drowsiness quickly burned away by pulse-thumping nerves.

"I said ready yourself for another healing," Iverson said, surprising Lance by ignoring his infraction, however slight, and getting straight to the point. "We've been contracted for an emergency healing in T minus five."

"An emergency healing?" Lance felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over and settle on top of his already mounting fears. There was no way he could perform the level of healing any emergency would call for. Not so soon after a session like the one he'd just had. "But I…" he smothered the protest at a withering look from Iverson.

"Do I need to do it myself?" Iverson asked meaningfully, pressing a finger to an intricate, twisting tattoo on the back of his left hand. Lance felt an answering twist in his gut at the gesture, his breath gone from his lungs. He clenched his own gloved left hand hard enough to bruise.

Then shook his head mutely.

Iverson returned his right hand to his side. "Good." He said, satisfied. And Lance set to work.

Closing his eyes against the outside world and his master's distracting menace, Lance reached deep into his core where his magic lie. It was ridiculous, he knew, and Iverson had told him enough times, but, in his mind's eye, his magic was a living, feline thing. Finicky and temperamental as its analogous animal at times. But just as soothing and calming as he imagined a physical feline could be. Still, it was an inseparable part of him. It took more coaxing than it would have if he'd been fully recovered, but Lance was relieved to feel that his reserves weren't nearly as shallow as he'd been afraid they were. Maybe, if he was lucky, the emergency wouldn't be too emergent, and he'd be able to pull this off somehow. Or perhaps he could stretch his reserves long enough to stabilize whoever needed his abilities, then return after some rest to finish the job.

He could hardly believe Iverson had agreed to an emergency healing at all. He'd seen first hand how little Iverson cared for the healing needs of those without much coin to spend. If he'd agreed to this healing, it had to be for someone important. And Iverson knew it would be risky with how recently and extensively Lance had healed the plagued villagers, so it would have to be someone disgustingly important. Or filthy rich. The more Lance thought about it, the more he was sure this wasn't going to end well.

He gasped at a sting of pain in this left hand, heart plummeting, only to realize he'd dug the nails of his right hand hard enough into the thin glove of his left to break skin. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needed to get a grip, or he'd wind up endangering his already slim chances of fulfilling his duty today.

He concentrated on the steady thrum of his magic now running through his veins. When he was younger, he used to imagine the feeling was the deep rumble of a purr. Now he knew better, of course, but the idea still comforted him.

Lance was so focused internally that he wasn't prepared when their transport slammed to a halt, throwing him against his seatbelt. Years ago, the action would've broken his hold on his magic, but long practice helped him cling to it now. He looked up at his master, who nodded permission before he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached to open the door.

Stinging cold rain assaulted him when the transport door slid open. The wind whipped it into a frothing frenzy that flew almost horizontally into the passenger compartment of their transport. In a matter of moments, Lance's front half was as soaked as it would've been if he'd laid down under a waterfall. For one wild, ridiculous moment, he couldn't help but revel in it.

"Move!" Iverson's harsh voice cut through the howling wind and rain, and his boot sent Lance sprawling out of the transport and into the squelching mud outside. Iverson stalked out past him, not even stopping to make sure Lance followed. His eyes were fixed on the 3D map projected above his wrist. Lance scrambled to follow him, pulling his legs away from the suction of the mud and doing his best to wipe away the sopping mess now covering his forearms with the help of the torrent around them.

It was rough going, and Lance wasn't sure how Iverson was making look so easy, but soon enough they came upon a metal cabin nestled in the trees off the road a ways. The building was small, almost like a shack, and most likely only had enough space for one decent sized room inside. "'Knock exactly seven times…"' his master read aloud from the comm message now projecting from his wrist. He sounded doubtful. Lance didn't blame him, this whole situation was doubtful if you asked him. Not that anyone ever would. But it was becoming clear that their current contractors were both desperate and paranoid.

After a moment of consideration, though, his master knocked loud enough to be heard even over the constant roar of the weather.

Almost before the last knock was finished, the door cracked open, a line of light extending out into the darkness outside. Lance caught sight of a grim faced, strong-jawed man peering out at them, a tuft of white hair hanging limply over his brow. His features were hard to make out with the light glaring out from behind him. "Are you the the healer?" He asked Iverson, voice steady despite the tension in his posture.

"We are," Iverson replied, and the man quickly opened the door more widely to allow them entry.

"Follow me," he said, "She doesn't-I don't think we have a lot of time."

And they did, Lance feeling spurred to move forward by the barely-there tremor in his last words. Iverson no doubt spurred by the usual no-nonsense complete-the-job-at-all-costs way he went about everything.

The man pulled aside a carpet on the floor, and Lance gasped at the sight of a hidden trap door underneath. The man glanced at him, as if just now noting his presence, then heaved open the door with one hand. From the way the door groaned and made the floor vibrate when it opened, it must've weighed a ton, but the man made it look easy. He pulled out a portable light, illuminating a stairway that led deep underground.

"Careful down here," the man said as he led them down the steps, "There's no guardrail."

Despite his words, he set a brisk pace. Clearly his desire to reach the injured party outweighed his own caution. Iverson followed equally as fast, and Lance didn't dare go slower. The steps took them down to a small hallway with multiple doors, these ones vertical. The man placed his hand to a scanner to the right of one of the doors. After a short moment, it emitted a soft beeping sound and Lance heard the locking mechanism disengage.

"In here," the stranger said, holding the door open for Iverson and Lance. Lance stepped in beside his master and stopped short at the sight of a group of people standing around a lavishly appointed bed. It wasn't the first time he'd stepped into the bedroom of a wealthy personage on the brink of death, surrounded by anxious (and some less-than-anxious) relatives and friends. But the familiar tableau felt out of place in this secretive basement in the middle of the woods.

Four people stood around the bed, faces turned up at their intrusion. One small and light-skinned, another tall and red-haired. Another, large and bulky, but looking the most soft around the edges. They all wore expressions as grim as their guide into the basement, all with varying degrees of despair mingled with fear. The last of them, Lance noted, looked more angry than anything. His fists were clenched and shaking at this sides, his dark hair and brows shadowing his eyes. The expression made Lance's insides twist with familiar unease.

The thing that scared him the most, though, was the hope in their expressions.

"Please, she's in the bed," their guide stepped around them, "I'll show you where she was hurt."

Lance might've stayed rooted in place if his master hadn't given him a not so subtle push forward, and he followed to the bed. As they stepped forward, Lance was finally able to see what his previous vantage point hadn't revealed. A woman dressed in elegant robes lay passed out in the bed, long white hair made lank by illness splayed out around her face. Sweat glistened on her brow and her face hollow and haggard looking. Her was ragged and seemed to take great effort even in sleep. Lance could feel his hopes for success dwindling.

Already, with his magic gathered close to the surface, he could feel the angry hot sensation of an injury emanating from her stomach beneath the covers. Lance knelt by the bed and reached toward it without thinking. He felt his own stomach sinking as he let his consciousness delve further from himself and into detecting the woman's ailment.

The wound was days old, at least, and he could feel attempts to treat it in the threads holding her skin together, a horribly old-fashioned and painful way to try and close a wound. The only way Lance could imagine someone attempting such a treatment was in the most dire of circumstances. The attempt to heal her hadn't been enough, unfortunately. Whether through neglect or pure bad luck, the wound had festered, and sickness had set in. He could feel its grotesque tendrils seeping from the wound and into the rest of the her body. He couldn't detect a single untainted particle of her body.

"What are you doing?" Abruptly, Lance felt his hand pulled away from the woman's stomach, and he had to blink to keep from stumbling backward. It could only have been moments since he'd reached forward and touched the woman's stomach, but he already knew all he needed to know. He realized with a start that it was the angry-looking man.

"Keith," their guide said in warning to the angry-looking man, who immediately let go of Lance.

"I'm-I was…" Lance stammered, trying to focus on the angry man despite the constant throbbing of the woman's wound in the periphery of his consciousness. He was just glad the woman was asleep. If she was awake, she would've been in agony.

"He was just assessing her," his master cut in, his voice patronizingly calming. No doubt he thought he sounded sincere, though. "He operates through touch."

"You're not the healer, then?" the man with the white tuft of hair asked his master, sounding surprised.

"Wait, are you a dark magic based healer?" the smaller person to Lance's left asked, "I've heard stories but I never thought...:"

"No, I'm not the healer," Iverson said, used to the question by now, "This one is," he indicated Lance, "And yes, his abilities are based in dark magic, but you need not fear any malicious subterfuge on his part, I keep him in check." He tapped the tattoo on the back of his left hand, showing it to the others, and Lance suppressed a shudder.

The others gaped at Iverson in confusion, but the smaller one looked anything but comforted by the proof of Iverson's control over his powers. He wondered if this group even knew what it did. It wasn't exactly common knowledge, as it was rarely used. Death was usually the punishment for what Lance had done. The small one's eyes were narrowed as he studied the tattoo, concerned.

"Shiro," he said, "Are we sure this is a good idea?"

"We're the last people who should be judging those with magic," their guide, Shiro apparently, replied to him, and Lance glanced back up in surprise.

"No, that's not what I mean," the smaller one said, "That tattoo, it-" his words were cut off at a moan from the woman on the bed. Lance winced at the flare emanating from her wound. Everyone in the room turned toward her, color draining from their faces.

"I'm not too picky about how he does it, as long as it saves Allura," the larger one piped up, his voice tight with anxiety. Lance could feel roiling nausea radiating off the man. He was surprised he didn't look more of a wreck with how he was apparently feeling.

"Hunk's right," Keith said, apparently over his initial suspicion of Lance if it meant saving the woman, "Beggars can't be choosers, and we've tried everything else."

The small one sat, shooting an inexplicably angry expression in Iverson's direction, and Lance's brows furrowed in confusion. Finally, he spoke, but it sounded like the words were being pried like festering teeth from his mouth, "Fine. I don't like this, but for Allura's sake…" he trailed off, eyes landing on the convalescent woman.

"Please, young man," the red haired man spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly gentle as he looked at Lance, "Will you save her?"

His eyes reminded him of the desperate parents in the village they'd just visited, and Lance felt the tug on his heartstrings. "Yes," his stupid mouth said before he could think better of it. "I mean," he amended, trying to mitigate the damage he'd just done, "I'll do my best."

"He'll do it," Iverson said, eyes narrowed at Lance, "He knows the price of failure."

"Your best is all we can ask for," the older man said, pulling Lance's gaze back toward him, and nodded at Lance encouragingly. Lance took strength from the show of faith, however misplaced and turned back to the injured woman.

He pulled away the covers and placed both hands on her abdomen this time and closed his eyes. It was easy to fall back into the vividness of his magical senses. Sometimes, rebelliously, he wondered how something so helpful and comforting could be evil. But he knew those thoughts were just the magic trying to twist him, so he ignored them.

First he set about easing her pain. A relaxed body was always easier to treat, after all. He let the cool, soothing presence of his magic seep from this fingertips and into the source of her pain. It spread from the wound to the rest of her body, much like the illness had, until it reached all the way to her toes, and he could feel her relaxing, even in unconsciousness, at the relief from pain. He felt in the tightness of her muscles that she had been in pain for quite some time. Briefly, he wondered how or why she had endured so long to reach this crisis point.

He didn't relieve the constant ache permeating her entire body, he simply didn't have the magic to waste. Instead, once he'd brought her pain down to a more manageable level, he steeled himself to attack the source of her illness. Unlike the coaxing of the body through its natural healing process that he usually would do for a wound, treating this illness required an offensive strategy on his part.

Before he could even start on the wound, he needed to eradicate any remains of the illness. He was just afraid he didn't have enough in him to manage even that.

He spent a brief moment focusing himself, breathing in and out deeply, until he had his sights fixated solely on the affliction. Aiming carefully at the illness alone, he sent in a burst of power. He felt the woman's back arch beneath him but couldn't afford to lose his concentration, the illness was already fighting back with a vengeance. He set about creating walls around the the wound, cutting the disease off from the rest of the body so he could focus his attention at its core.

The illness writhed violently against Lance's barriers, and he could almost imagine it was a screeching, poisonous snake, his own magic roaring its defiance in response. It was much stronger than Lance had expected, rending cracks in his barriers almost faster than he could repair them. For a long, heartstopping moment, it was all he could do to hold them up against the illness's onslaught. The woman was letting out small whimpers of pain and he silently apologized for his shoddy work.

After awhile, though, Lance began to sense it tiring. He took the first opportunity he saw to launch his own offensive, pouring more energy than was wise into one unavoidable burst. He paused, breath bated, to see if it had worked. To his horror, the illness, while clearly damaged, was still moving within his barriers. It's attempts to break them were weaker, but so were the barriers themselves. Panicking, Lance pulled all his now dangerously low reserves into reinforcing the barriers.

Distantly, he could feel that he was panting, sweat mixing with the chill of the rainwater soaked through his clothing to his bones.

He racked his brain for what he should do, afraid that if he launched another attack, the barriers would weaken too much to prevent a breach, but knowing that inaction for too long would most likely lead to their collapse anyway. Nothing for it, then, he just had to make this last shot count.

Swallowing hard and fighting to control his now shaking limbs, he pooled the remainder of his reserves to his fingertips, scraping up the last dredges of his magic. When he finally had enough, he pulled the magic of the barriers back into his fingertips too. The illness immediately tried to rush to its freedom, almost gleeful. Without waiting to think about just how bad an idea this was, Lance let his magic loose with everything he had.

There was nowhere for the illness to escape to now, its severed tendrils already dying away, and its core consumed by Lance's magic. He shoved everything he had into cleansing the woman's body, making it uninhabitable for the illness. He'd swear he heard its dying screeches of terror, before, finally, its struggles died down, withering to nothing. Lance finally allowed himself to relax his assault, his vision dimming as he struggled to retain consciousness. Which was a mistake.

Before he could force his now exhausted magic to react, the illness slipped in, gliding on the magical connection Lance had formed with the woman and straight into his own body. His whole being convulsed with revulsion at the invasion. Never in his years of healing had an illness behaved in this way. The only thing that ever tried to counter him was- Lance stopped short, feeling like an idiot.

Poison. It was poison, not an illness. Some poisons, especially magical ones, behaved an awful lot like illnesses, and like it was his first time healing, Lance hadn't even thought to double check. Already, he could feel it burrowing into him, working to replicate itself. Not as fast as it would have before his attack on it, but certainly with determination. Fortunately for Lance, his magic worked as a natural defense against just this sort of thing.

Unfortunately for him, his magic was all but gone now.

He barely felt himself slip off the edge of the bed to the floor. The last thing he sensed before he lost consciousness was the sound of voices raised in alarm around him.

To Coran's everlasting shame, the first thing he did when the healer fell to the floor was rush to Allura's side. "Princess," he said smoothing away her hair from her face, surprised at how much cooler her brow already was. No more fever? Her cheeks were flush with healthy color he hadn't seen there in days and her breathing was even and deep. It was unbelievable how much better she was in a matter of minutes. After weeks of attempts to help her with no results. It was nothing short of miraculous. A commotion to his side reminded him of just who he had to thank for saving his charge.

"Hey, I was checking on him!" Pidge protested, "You can't just pick him up like that!"

He turned to see the large man, Iverson according to his earlier communications with them, bending down to throw the unconscious healer over his shoulder. He didn't take particular care with the young man, who let out a small moan. He could see the young man was shivering, though whether it was from the cold of his soaked garments or the exertion of performing miracles was beyond Coran's expertise. Perhaps a bit of both.

"I trust you'll send the other half of your payment to the account as we discussed," the man said without a hint of particular worry. He didn't seem concerned that his charge was clearly the worse for the wear.

Coran felt his jaw drop, and noted the similarly incredulous expressions of his fellows. Even Keith looked nonplussed, his eyes drifting to the young man, then back up to Iverson with a scowl.

"What about him?" Hunk said, pointing to the young healer, his brows creased with concern, "He doesn't look so good."

Iverson glanced to the young man on his shoulders. "He'll be fine."

"He doesn't look fine," Pidge's voice was acid, "He needs to be cared for, not thrown over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes."

"His current state is his own fault," Iverson said, shrugging, "The boy failed to take necessary precautions and is suffering the consequences. It's none of your concern," he turned to Coran, "What is your concern is making sure I receive my payment. I'd hate for word of your location to reach unfriendly ears."

Coran reigned in his building anger, struggling to keep hold of his sense of reason. "With all due respect, sir, with the weather being what it is, might it be better to allow him to recover here before you're on your way?"

"Yes," Shiro said from his side, sharing a meaningful look with Coran, "It's the least we can do for what you've done for us."

Coran kept his expression perfectly civil. Pidge looked ready to argue, but at a look from Shiro, kept silent. Keith stared intently, hand to the blade at his side. Hunk was wringing his hands, clearly preparing himself for the worst.

Iverson eyed them all, as if gauging just how much of a threat they were, then relaxed his posture. "I could do with a proper night's sleep," he said with false friendliness, all previous intensity gone.

"Great," Shiro said, "You can use mine. We unfortunately don't have any spare rooms." Coran kept his face neutral at Shiro's blatant lie. They most certainly did have a spare room. Two of them, actually. He was silently relieved when none of the others contradicted him, though. I'll keep an eye on him, Shiro's expression said. "I have a couch for the healer. I don't mind the floor."

Iverson laughed as he followed Shiro out into the hall and toward Shiro's room. "Kind of you, but I'm former Garrison; I can handle the couch and the boy prefers the floor…" Coran heard the man say before the door closed behind the two.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to let them stay the night?" Keith asked, arms crossed from Allura's bedside. "It's bad enough we let strangers in here in the first place."

"That young man saved Allura's life," Coran said, and he couldn't keep the scolding tone from creeping into his voice, "Shiro was right when he said it was the least we could do."

Looking properly chastised, Keith let out a huff and turned to check on Allura. He pulled up her bandages to check on the wound, his eyes narrowing. "Some healer," he said in disgust, turning to head out the door, "She's still wounded! I should've known that 'magic healer' crap was bulshit."

Hunk stopped Keith before he could leave. "Wait, Keith-"

"Let me go!" Keith said, struggling, "I have to warn Shiro!"

Pidge was already at Allura's side checking beneath the bandages for herself with a worried expression on her face. "Do you really think…was he just acting?"

Coran felt the blood drain from his face, rushing to Allura's side. He hadn't thought to check her wound. Had he let himself be fooled? But no, he'd seen the difference afterward. The dramatic change was undeniable. As was the way the young man's hands had glowed with a cool blue light, the energy seeming to drain out of him with each passing moment before he'd collapsed.

"Hold on for just a tick!" Coran shouted, loud enough to startle everyone into silence. "Take a closer look. Allura was at death's door moments ago. Look at her now."

Pidge did as she was told, and Keith reluctantly turned to do the same, Hunk following suit. "Her fever's gone, and the wound is clean now. We all know it wasn't really the wound that was killing her, but the poison. And it looks like the effects have been cured."

"You're right," Pidge said, running a hand through her hair, "I guess I just- after what happened with Nyma, my mind immediately…."

"It's quite alright," Coran said soothingly, "Even I was worried for a moment there."

"He needs to finish the job," Keith said, hanging stubbornly onto his anger, though Coran could see straight through the act to the haunted look in his eyes. "We can't risk the injury getting infected on the way back to the castle. It's weeks of dangerous travel away from here. And we paid them for a full healing, not half-assed work."

Hunk fidgetted. "I would feel better if she was healed all the way before we went back." he said, looking at Coran.

Coran sighed, thinking of the sad state the healer had been left in after curing the effects of the poison, then thinking of the miserable, soul-destroying weeks of watching Allura slowly waste away before his eyes. "Perhaps….something can be arranged. We would need to ask the him directly if he could manage another healing."

"He did look pretty bad," Hunk said, sounding guilty.

"Whatever we do, it can wait till morning," Coran said, "We're all tired. I think we should get some rest and confront this issue head on in the morning."

None of them looked especially happy at the thought, but no one objected. It was a testament to just how tired they all were. "I'll stay here," Coran said, "You three head to your rooms."

With lingering worried looks in Allura's direction, the three of them left, and Coran settled into the chair beside Allura's bed, his head a swirling mixture of unhappy thoughts. It was a long time before he slept.

Shiro couldn't sleep, the sounds of the young healer's whimpers from the floor impossible to ignore. On the couch, Iverson snored. Correction: Apparently it was possible for some people to ignore. He'd tried to convince the man to let the Allura's savior sleep on the bed, but he had started to grow irritated at Shiro's insistence, and so he'd decided not to push it. He was afraid that if he did, the mercenary man would take enough offense to leave, young man in tow. At the very least, he'd managed a change of clothes for him.

Shiro jumped at a gasp from the floor, followed by heavy panting, then a groan. Shiro sat up, leaning over the bed to look down at the trembling mess below. He was gripping his stomach, his face tight with pain. He turned, as though trying to find a comfortable position, then stopped cold, eyes widening as they met Shiro's.

"I-what? Where…?" He murmured, before shuddering and curling in around his stomach.

"What's wrong?" Shiro whispered, glancing over at Iverson, who still snored in the corner. The healer glanced in the same direction, shoulders hunching, and looked back at Shiro, shaking his head.

"Come on," Shiro coaxed gently, "That man will sleep through an explosion." To Shiro's surprise, the young man's mouth twitched minutely at that, eyes dancing for the barest moment. "Tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

The healer shot one more nervous glance at Iverson. "The poison," he paused and gritted his chattering teeth for a moment, "It's taking its revenge on me."

Shiro's eyes widened, "Does this happen every time you heal?"

"Not-not usually," He ground out, "Was stupid. I'll be f-fine. My magic will-will take care of it."

Shiro finally slipped off his bed to the young man's side, chest tightening, "What can I do to help?"

For a moment, the young man eyed him with pain-filled eyes, a glint of hope in his expression. Then he glanced back at Iverson and his eyes clouded. "No." he said, "Nothing you can- oh god" he choked down a whimper, his eyes shut tight against an apparent surge of pain.

Shiro reached out to him then, all concerns about how this Iverson would react pushed aside by his fear for the healer. To his surprise, the healer leaned into the touch, gripping his shirt with trembling fingers as his muscles spasmed. Shiro rubbed soothing circles in his back, wishing there was something more he could do. The young man's skin was feverish, the shirt Shiro had lent him damp with sweat. He looked as bad as Allura had at her worst.

It took a moment for Shiro to notice the pull of something at his magic, and he started, pulling back to look at the young man. The tugging was insistent, almost begging, but not forceful. Like a hungry mewling kitten. If he put up even a minimal effort to guard his magic, the tugging would stop, he knew.

"Sorry," the healer whispered, and there were tears at the corners of his eyes, "I'm sorry. I just…"

Then Shiro understood. It was the strange healer's magic pulling at his own. He marvelled at how similar to the Paladin magic it felt. Wasn't it supposed to be dark magic? But, this was how he could help, something he could do. After weeks of hopelessness, it was almost a relief. He didn't even have to think about it, he just pushed, offering up his own magic to the healer without hesitation.

The young man took it in greedily, as if Shiro's magic was water in an otherwise barren desert. It was so sudden that Shiro had a moment of fear that he'd made another awful, too-trusting mistake. His limbs started to feel weak, as if he'd just ran for an hour or more, but the young man's expression smoothed out ever-so-slightly. Then healer looked up at him, and his eyes widened in horror. Abruptly the pulling on his magic stopped, and the healer jerked away from him, shoving a burst of magic back into him.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," he murmured, still shivering. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking..."

"It's okay," Shiro said as the young man gripped his midsection, which clearly still pained him. "It's alright. I'm happy to give what I can to help."

"No, you don't-you don't understand," he said, "I could've-I might've-" He couldn't seem to finish, and just shook his head in mute horror. Just then another spasm wracked his body and the young man curled up on his side with another whimper.

Shiro tried to push more of his magic toward the healer, but a barrier now lay between their magic now. "Please. Don't." He said through chattering teeth, and Shiro didn't know what else to do but respect his wishes.

Feeling helpless to do anything else, he scooped the younger man up and placed him on the bed. Iverson be damned, he wasn't going to let him sleep on the floor in his current condition. The guy seemed too out of it by this point to protest, and his shivers seemed to lessen after Shiro placed a thick comforter over him. He stood, watching the healer until he seemed to settle back into a fitful sleep, and thought uncharitable thoughts toward the man still snoring on the couch.

He was too tired to know how exactly, but he was going to do something about this. It wasn't right, the way Iverson treated the healer, and he couldn't live with himself if he let it go on. For now, though, he needed his strength. He could already feel the weight of several sleepless nights weighing him down. So resolved, he settled on the floor near the bed, facing his body to Iverson, and fell asleep.

AN: Hi guys! And thank you for reading my fic! This is an idea I've had that I'm pretty excited about exploring. I hope you guys enjoyed and are interested in exploring this with me. This may get a bit dark, but tbh I prefer happy endings so...

Please let me know what you think, I live for feedback. Good or critical.

Also, I'm lame and I have no idea what to call this at this point. Any suggestions are more than welcome and will be credited in the summary if used.

Thanks again and see you next chapter (hopefully)!