Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Blade base was nothing like the Castle of Lions. It was sterile, efficient, and lacked the warmth of familiar voices. There was no hum of background chatter, no lingering scent of Hunk’s cooking, no playful arguments between Lance and Pidge echoing down the halls. Here, everything had purpose—every step, every breath, every motion calculated to serve the cause.

It was exactly what Keith needed.

He fell into the routine easily. Training began early, drills running one after another with little time for rest. Meals were quick, consumed with the same precision as everything else. Orders were clear, expectations rigid. There was no room for doubt or uncertainty.

There was no coddling, no checking in or hovering, and no one worried about him. He hated when people worried. He had been okay his whole life without anyone but Shiro, how had given him an opportunity, but Keith himself had done all of the work. 

He didn't really want to think about Shiro right now. Leaving felt good, felt right, but he still couldn't help but feel like the older man thought he was running. He and Shiro hadn't parted on bad terms per say but there was definitely tension between them, a sort of live energy that hummed underneath his skin like a live wire whenever he was even in a room with the other man. He loved Shiro, he really did, and he was grateful the older man's recovery was going well, but he invoked some other, more intense feelings that he wasn't really ready to dip into right now. Or maybe ever. 

Here, he didn't have to worry about any of that; he was simply a soldier. Here, he could be big and no one gave a shit if he had an off day, or he was injured. No one treated him like a little kid. No one expected him to be fragile. It was somehow crushing and freeing at the same time, as long as he willed himself to forget soft touches, fingers carding through his hair and the warmth that the Blade base lacked by design. 

It was ridiculously easy not to be little and Keith wondered why he hadn't thought to do this sooner. Galra didn't have classifications, and it was like living in a world where Littles didn't exist. It was nice, if a little lonely sometimes. The only reminders he had that he was Little at all was the pacifier crammed into the bottom of his duffel bag and bunny, who was shoved into his pillow case. He didn't bring any protection because that tended to spiral into dependency, though he could admit he missed wearing something on longer missions where he was waiting in stillness for awhile.

He originally had wanted to bring nothing at all with him, but he was so weak for Bunny. The thought of her all alone on the castleship—no. It was a stuffed animal. A thing. It didn't have thoughts or feelings, that was a childish way to think. She—it was here to take the edge off so he could satisfy the biological urges that came with his body, that was all.

He was doing fine.

The first few days passed in a blur of mission briefings, combat training, and strategy sessions. He kept busy, made sure he was always moving, always occupied. Every time his thoughts started to drift—toward the castle, toward Shiro—he pushed forward, sharpening his focus and directing strong feelings at his colleagues when he sparred.

He didn’t need to be small here.

There was no room for it.

And, for a while, it worked.

His uniform stayed crisp, his steps never faltered, his control remained intact. No slipping. No moments of hesitation. No need.

Until at night, alone in his quarters, when exhaustion settled into his bones and he began to want.

There was no reason for Keith to want.

He had done well in training, earning a rare nod of approval from Kolivan. He should feel proud. He should feel accomplished.

Instead, he felt…lonely. There was no one to share his achievements with, no pat on the back of even a smile for a job well done. He didn't need these things, yes, but it couldn't stop the traitorous part of his brain from being disappointed when they didn't happen. It reminded him of his first few months at the Garrison, head down, ignoring Shiro's attempts to bond but even then, someone was actively praising and giving him positive feedback.

People here weren't unkind, just…curt. He had relationships with people here, yes, but teams were often chosen with different people, so there was no one he was particularly close to. There was no soft hum of Shiro’s voice reminding him to rest, no weight of a warm blanket being tucked around his shoulders, no quiet reassurance that everything was okay.

Keith exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. No.

He was fine.

This was what he wanted.

He just had to keep it together.

So he shoved the feeling he didn't want to name down, down, down, buried it deep, and focused on the mission ahead.

Tomorrow, he’d be even better.

—

The mission was simple—retrieve intel from a Galran outpost and get out undetected. Easy. Probably.

Keith moved like a shadow, slipping through corridors with practiced efficiency. He willed his heartbeat to stay steady even when he barely ducked behind a wall in time to avoid a passing patrol. The Blades had trained him well—that and his instincts were honed to avoid danger, and every step was calculated, every breath measured. There was no room for error.  

And yet, he almost died.  

Twice.  

First, when a sentry passed too close and Keith had to press himself into a dark corner, holding so still he thought he wouldnt get enough air from the small micro-breathes as he willed his chest to stop expanding and contacting. If the soldier had turned his head a fraction more, Keith would have had no choice but to fight—outnumbered, and probably dead on the ground. Instead, the moment passed, and Keith forced himself forward, dismissing the spike of adrenaline as irrelevant. Couldn't think about that. Fear in that kind of frenzy would get him killed here.

Then again, during extraction, fear wasnt exactly going to protect him when a stray shot from a patrolling drone barely missed his side. His body moved on instinct, flipping out of the way, taking cover before returning fire. His blade found its mark, arm swinging in a desperate arc and silencing the drone before it could sound the alarm, cracking into the metal and wiring underneath. He squeezed his eyes shut. Close call. Nothing more. Fuck.

Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking-

Kolivan barely spared him a glance when he limped into the debriefing room, still smelling of smoke and blood. “Report,” was all he said.

So Keith gave it.

His voice was steady, detached. He listed the objectives he’d completed, the risks he’d encountered, the intel he’d retrieved. His shoulder ached, his body thrummed with exhaustion, but he didn’t waver.

Kolivan nodded, pausing to flit his eyes over Keith where recruits were lined up, waiting to report while covered in soot and gore and sinew. “Adequate.”

That was all. Dismissed. Fucking done. No concern. No lingering worry.

Keith didn’t know why that felt good, but it did; it felt so good and he was a good soldier, a number, a comrade amongst the ranks.

It also felt bad and he cursed himself for being so double sided. Because no one scolded him for recklessness, no one fussed over him, and no one even considered wrapping him in a crushing embrace, whispering reassurances that he was safe, that he was okay.  And maybe that was the best part, even if it felt like no one cared. He didn't need anyone.

It made his body ache in that deep, bone-deep way that only came from pushing himself too far and he welcomed it with open arms. It meant he was doing something right, that he had value here, he was useful, for once.

He barely managed to kick off his boots before collapsing onto his bunk with a huff, feeling the sweat crusted on his forehead as he debated whether or not he wanted a shower. Nah. Fuck a shower. He exhaled slowly, letting the exhaustion pull him under without bothering to even pull up the covers.

One good thing was that here, he didn’t have to think.

Didn’t have to feel.

Just sleep.

—

The discomfort registered first.

A damp, clinging, cloying sensation against his legs, cool where something had soaked into the sheets. Blood? His brow furrowed before his mind fully caught up, still groggy with sleep. Something was wrong.

Then it hit him, brain finally firing as it came online.

Keith’s breath stuttered.

No.

His body went rigid as reality set in, horror creeping up his spine. The sheets were wet. His sheets. His bunk. His stomach twisted violently.

No, no, no. Not here. Not now. Why did he have to ruin everything?

He wanted to throw up as he stood, hands yanking the blanket back to assess the damage. The dim lighting didn’t hide the ugly truth. The dark patch spread across the sheets, stark against the fabric, the unmistakable proof of what had happened as the smell of ammonia stung in his nostrils.

His cheeks stung and his face burned. How humiliating.

This hadn’t happened in weeks . He’d been fine. He’d been keeping it together.

Why now?

His jaw clenched as frustration warred with humiliation. He wasn’t supposed to need pull-ups anymore. He wasn’t supposed to be dealing with this at all. He was done with that part of himself. He was a soldier, a Blade—he couldn’t afford to be anything less.

For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing hard, fists clenched in the sheets. The sharp, automatic part of his brain wanted to rationalize it. He was exhausted. Pushed too hard. His body was just reacting to stress. It didn’t mean anything.

For the first time since arriving at the Blade base, he wanted to crawl under the covers and pretend none of this had happened. He wanted someone else to fix it. He wanted—

No.

He shut the thought down before it could take root.

He didn’t need help.

Didn’t need that .

He ripped the sheets off the bed with a sharp pull, breath coming short and fast. The cool air against his damp skin made him shudder, made everything feel worse. He needed to get rid of the evidence. Now. Before anyone found out.

The wet sheets hit the floor in a crumpled heap. His sleep clothes followed, stripped off with frantic efficiency. He shoved everything into the bottom of the cleaning unit, burying the shame beneath the rest of the laundry.

Gone. Handled. Fixed.

His breath still hadn’t evened out.

Keith braced his hands on the empty bed, eyes shut tight. He could still feel it—the lingering, cloying sensation of vulnerability clinging to his skin. He hated it.

The Blades saw him as capable, independent, strong. Not a Little who couldn’t make it through a wet bed without whining for help. Not someone who needed so much.

This—this was a fluke. A mistake. He’d trained too hard for this to happen. He’d pushed himself too far to let his body betray him now.

His stomach twisted.

The thought felt too familiar. Like an old wound reopening. He didn't want this, he didn't want to think this way and he didn't want to be this way. He didn't know how many times that he wished he had been born different—but some things never changed.

Keith straightened, forcing his breathing steady. His body was exhausted, but he would keep going. He had to. He pulled a fresh set of clothes on with rigid movements, rolling his shoulders, grounding himself in the act of getting dressed, of reasserting control.

His bunk was bare now, mattress exposed and cold. He grabbed a spare set of sheets from the storage compartment, his movements stiff, mechanical. The lingering feeling clung to him—something heavy, something shameful, something that made his fingers tremble as he stretched the fabric tight over the mattress.

By the time he finished, the room looked exactly as it had the night before. No sign of weakness. No trace of the accident.

It never happened.

Keith inhaled slowly, exhaled.

Tomorrow, he’d be better.

Everything was fine.

—

It didn't happen the next evening  or the evening after that and Keith breathed a sign of relief because it was just a one-off accident, a fluke. 

The second time it happened, nearly a week later, Keith barely managed to swallow down the frustrated growl building in his throat.  

He woke up with that same awful dampness, the cold, clinging sensation that made his stomach churn. His fingers dug into the sheets as he forced himself upright, breath sharp and ragged.  

No. No, no, no.  

This wasn’t supposed to happen again.  

He’d been doing fine. Nearly seven full days of being big , of keeping control, of proving—to himself, to everyone—that he could handle this, at least three days since his last accident. He was not a child . He belonged here.  

And now this.  

Irritation flared hot and fast, sharp enough to make his hands shake as he ripped the blankets away. He shoved them into a bundle with more force than necessary, heart pounding as he moved. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t.  

His breath came short and fast as his mind scrambled for an explanation. Maybe it was the stress of back-to-back missions. Maybe it was the strict discipline of the Blade schedule, the constant pressure to perform. Maybe his body just hadn’t fully adjusted to this new life yet.

His thoughts kept circling, looping back around to the same frustrating truth: He thought he was past this.  

He had to be past this.  

Keith clenched his jaw, tossing the wet sheets with a little too much force. His soaked sleep clothes followed. He worked quickly, efficiently, replacing everything like nothing had happened.  

Like this wasn’t eating him alive.  

The first time, he could almost justify it—he’d been exhausted, wrecked from the mission, running on fumes. A mistake. An accident.  

But twice?  

Twice meant that something was well on its way to becoming a pattern. He needed something to curb his body's…demands. He breathed out a shaky sigh as he crouched down and rummaged through his duffel bag, rooting until he found Bunny. He gave her a brief squeeze and buried his nose in her, breathing in the scent of baby powder, and the wax of crayons, and spilled juice and—

What was he doing?!

His body wasn’t supposed to do this anymore—he felt like an addict, coming down from something, unable to go cold turkey. Well, that shit ended here and now. He could make it without a stupid (the thought hurt) stuffed animal. 

What would hugging a plush rabbit or sucking on a piece of plastic do for him in the long run? Might as well just drop it for now.

Gritting his teeth, Keith forced himself to move. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt as he shoved the soiled fabric into the bottom of the cleaning unit again, piling his other laundry on top to bury the evidence.

The mattress was cold against his bare skin as he sat there for a second, his breath ragged.

He hated this.

Hated the loss of control. Hated that this part of him refused to stay buried. Hated that, for the second time, some deep, useless part of him wanted help.

The cloying, clinging feeling was worse this time.

His muscles tensed as the thought formed, unbidden: I want Bubba.

A sharp shake of his head cut the thought off before it could make him want. No.

The memory surfaced before he could shove it down—Shiro, steady and unbothered, handling everything with calm efficiency. Fingers running through his hair. Being scooped up into warm arms. How he was hugged, and kissed, and snuggled, and rocked. The way Bubba never made Keith feel ashamed, never scolded or sighed or looked at him like he was broken.

He aggressively rubbed a hand across his face as if to erase the memory, but the awful, needy feeling in his chest—the one that had been easy to shove down before—wasn’t going away without a fight this time.  

It clung to him, sticky and unbearable, whispering thoughts he refused to acknowledge. Thoughts about how much easier this would be if someone else handled it. If someone was here to murmur soft reassurances, to tell him it was okay, that accidents happened, that he wasn’t—  

Stop .

Keith gritted his teeth, fists curling into the fresh sheets as he yanked them into place.  

He didn’t need that.  

His throat felt tight, frustration bubbling up under his skin. He pressed his palms hard against his eyes, willing himself to get a grip. He wasn't anything but big—a very big, very strong adult. He could handle this.  

This didn’t change anything.  

It wouldn’t happen again.

–

The problem didn’t go away.  

Keith had expected it to—demanded it to—but no matter how much he ignored it, how much he pushed forward, it kept happening.  

Not every night. But enough.  

Every other morning, he woke up cold and damp, shame burning in his throat as he ripped the sheets away. He had the cleanup down to an art now—quick, efficient, no hesitation, no evidence left behind. But the irritation never faded. Each time it happened, it settled deeper in his chest, simmering beneath his skin, making his movements sharper and his temper shorter.  

He adjusted. He had to.  

First, he cut back on water before bed.  

He made sure to drink plenty during the day, made sure he was hydrated before evening training so he could stop by nightfall. He ignored the dryness in his mouth, the way his throat felt tight when he lay down. He was fine. This would fix it.  

It didn’t.  

The accidents still happened. Not even with a decreasing frequency and often enough that Keith felt the frustration building like a weight in his gut. 

Fine. New plan .  

If sleeping was the problem, then he just wouldn’t sleep as much.  

He was used to running on little rest anyway. Training kept him busy, and when he wasn’t training, he pushed himself into whatever task he could find—sharpening weapons, cleaning gear, reviewing mission reports. He filled every hour until exhaustion clawed at his edges, until he could barely keep his eyes open.  

If he was that tired when he finally let himself sleep, surely his body wouldn’t have time to screw him over.  

And for a little while, it worked.  

He made it four nights without an accident.  

The relief was short-lived.  

On the fifth night, he woke up cold, wet, and absolutely furious .  

Keith sat up with a sharp inhale, fists twisting in the ruined sheets.  

No .

His head was pounding. His body ached in ways he couldn’t ignore, exhaustion clinging to him like a weight. He shouldn’t be this tired, not when he was getting more sleep than usual—but that was a lie, wasn’t it? He wasn’t getting more sleep. He was just dragging himself to the breaking point before collapsing.  

And now his body was failing him for it.  

His jaw clenched so tight it hurt as he ripped the sheets away, shoving them into the laundry chute like they were the cause of everything.

This wasn’t happening.  

This was a fluke .  

He wasn’t a kid who needed to be looked after. He wasn’t some stupid baby.

Keith clenched his fists at his sides, shaking with frustration. He didn’t bring…protection for a reason. He didn’t need it.  

And he wouldn’t start needing it now.  

He’d fix this.  

He had to.

—

Keith wasn’t expecting the call when it came through.  

He blinked blearily at the screen, exhaustion making his brain lag for a second before Pidge’s name fully registered. His chest ached in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.  

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. He should ignore it. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to pretend everything was fi— things were fine, though, weren't they? He wasn't sure he had the energy for a call.

But if he ignored it, they’d worry . If Keith was anything, it was a bleeding heart. He didn't want his team to think he was unhappy here, to think he was anything but content. He was happy. He loved it here. So why did his chest ache so much?

So he took a steadying breath, straightened his posture, and tapped the acceptance button to answer the call.  

Pidge’s face appeared on the screen, and just like that, something in Keith’s chest unclenched. She looked like she was puttering around in the lab, her data pad propped up giving an odd angle of her from below.

“Hey, dude whats up,” she said in greeting, squinting down at him. “You look like crap.”  

Keith huffed a tired laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Good to see you too, Pidge.”  

“Seriously, though. When’s the last time you slept? Guess I can't really talk though, I feel oddly spry for an all nighter.”  

Keith rolled his eyes. “I just got back from a long mission. I’m fine. I’ll sleep soon. Not all of us have the energy of a 15-year-old, oh wait—”  

“Fuck, you, dirtwad,” Pidge said, holding up an affectionate(?) middle finger up to the screen with a sharp grin, but even afterwards, her friendly smile didn’t look convinced. Her eyes flitted subtly behind her glasses, scanning his face with the sharp intensity of someone who knew when she was being lied to. Keith held her gaze, steady, unwavering.  

After a moment, she huffed. “Fine. But if you pass out mid-call, I’m telling Shiro.”  

Keith’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, but he forced a smirk and an eyeroll. “If I pass out mid-call I'm sure he would demand Allura open up a wormhole.”  

“Nah,” She said, flicking her wrist nonchalantly, “Shiro would just materialize behind you. His Keith-senses would catch it before you even knew. He's freaky like that. That being said, please visit sometime soon and maybe do something about your menace of a caregiver. If I have to have my face scrubbed at with a napkin again because of his stupid caregiving urges again, I'm going to scream.”

A pang of guilt stabbed through him. They missed him but she wasn’t being subtle about him coming back to the castle for…well. Still, he tried to seem unaffected as he gave back a snarky reply.

“Oh please, you probably had motor oil on your face again or something. I keep telling you, that's not for people, it's only to make machines go—”

“GUH. Here I am, calling to see if you've croaked, wanting to hear about some boring Blade things or some hot drama and this is what I get.” Pidge rolled her eyes but didn’t press the issue. Instead, she launched into updates about the castle, talking about how Coran was still making terrible goo-based meals, how Lance had somehow managed to lose his jacket but the mice had just squirreled it away in the vents and how Allura had been training harder than ever.  

Keith listened, glad he didn't have to make things up to tell her, letting her voice fill the silence of his room.  

He hadn’t realized how much he missed them.  

It was a physical ache, sitting heavy in his chest. The thought of Lance’s dramatics, of Hunk’s laughter, of Coran’s endless enthusiasm—he could picture it all so clearly, and for a second, he was back on the castle, surrounded by his team.  

Not alone in a sterile, silent base, struggling against something he refused to name.  

Keith swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Sounds like you guys are doing fine without me.”  

Pidge scoffed. “We miss you, dumbass.”  

The pang in his chest sharpened.  

He missed them too.  

More than he was willing to admit.  

But this was where he belonged now.  

So he pushed the feeling down, just like everything else, and smirked. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll check in again soon.”  

Pidge gave him a look that said she wasn’t fooled, but she let it slide.  

“Yeah, you better.”  

Keith nodded, said his goodbyes, and ended the call.  

For a long time, he just sat there, staring at the blank screen.  

His chest ached.  

But it didn’t matter.  

He had a mission to focus on.

—

The mission was supposed to be simple.

It never was.

The objective: infiltrate a Galra supply depot and disable their defense grid. Simple, in theory. In practice, it meant navigating a maze of laser grids, automated sentries, and heavily armed patrols. Keith moved like a ghost, his training kicking in on autopilot. 

He was so tired. The fatigue he carried with him nearly constantly was a heavy burden.

Keith moved with practiced efficiency, blade humming in his grip as he cut through Galran sentries. He almost walked straight into a laser grid, the warning ping echoing too late. He twisted, the beam searing the edge of his uniform, a burning reminder of his carelessness. He cursed inwardly, his heart pounding against his ribs as the smell of seared polyester grounded him to what fate could befall him if he wasn't careful. Stay focused. Just stay focused.

His body felt sluggish, like he was moving through water as muscle memory guided him. He felt kind of sick, his heartbeat too fast and too loud in his ears. Every hit rattled him more than it should. Every near miss felt closer than it needed to be. He needed sleep. His hands shook and they didn't stop no matter how hard he willed it.

He was fine.

Keith gritted his teeth, pushing harder, ignoring the way his hands trembled around his weapon.He reached the control panel for the defense grid, his fingers flying across the interface. Just a few more commands, and they’d be in the clear. 

Good. Done . 

Time to get the hell out. 

A warning siren blared, the red lights flashing, and Keith’s stomach dropped. No. No, no, no. Who had triggered the alarm?

A squad of Galra soldiers stormed into the room, their weapons raised. Keith’s blade was in his hand, but his body felt leaden, his movements slow and clumsy. He parried a blow, the force of it jarring his arm, and another shot grazed his side, burning through his uniform and into his skin.

He fought back with a ferocity born of desperation, an animal backed into a corner as his blade become whirlwind of steel. He took down the soldiers one by one, but his movements were sloppy, his defenses weak. He was bleeding, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and his head spun.

A final soldier lunged, his sword aimed at Keith’s chest. Keith barely managed to raise his own blade, the impact sending a shockwave through his arm. He stumbled, his vision blurring, and he knew, with a sickening certainty, that he was about to die.

But just as the Galra soldier moved for the killing blow, something snapped inside Keith. He was done being slow. Done being weak. He was done with this. With everything. A raw, primal rage surged through him, clearing the fog in his mind. He moved with a speed he didn’t know he possessed, his blade a flash of silver. The Galra soldier fell, his eyes wide with surprise.

Keith stood there, panting, his body trembling, his uniform soaked in blood. He hated when it was a person and not a robot sentry. He didn't feel any twinge of guilt when wires were severed, but tearing into sinew and flesh always felt awful.

 He’d survived. But at what cost? He’d almost died. He’d almost failed the mission. All because he couldn’t fucking sleep.

The rage twisted into self-loathing, a bitter, corrosive feeling that ate at him from the inside out. He hated himself. Hated himself for being weak, for needing sleep that he couldn't have, for needing anything. He was supposed to be a soldier, a Blade. He was a number. A casualty would mean nothing to anybody here.

“Keith!”

He barely processed the voice before realizing he had to get to the rendezvous point. Right. Keep going. 

“Move,” Regris ordered, and Keith did, gritting his teeth against the shaking in his limbs.

A warning shot rang out, snapping him back into the moment. More—there were always more and he needed to stop stewing in his head and focus . A squad of Galran sentries moved in, weapons raised. Instinct took over.

Keith lunged.

His blade met resistance—armor, flesh, movement blurred with adrenaline and raw survival instinct. He fought without thinking, without planning, just reacting, dodging, striking, forcing his body to obey through sheer willpower.

The halls were a blur of smoke and flashing alarms. He moved on instinct, blade cutting through anything that got too close. Training and muscle memory took over where thought failed him.

“Keith, watch your—”

A heavy impact slammed into his side before he could register the warning. The force sent him sprawling, his weapon clattering from his grasp.

Pain exploded through him.

The world tilted.

Someone was shouting. His vision blurred, ears ringing as he forced himself onto his hands and knees.

Too slow.

He shouldn’t be this slow.

The enemy was moving in, a towering Galran soldier raising a weapon, ready to strike—

Keith barely reacted in time. He twisted, forcing his body into motion, every limb screaming in protest. His blade was gone, but he lunged anyway, dodging the attack by sheer will alone.

He grabbed for his knife, vision tunneling. His breathing was too fast, his hands too weak. He couldn’t—

No. No, no, no.

A blur of movement—Regris, again, taking the enemy down in one swift strike.

Keith barely had time to register the assist before a hand was gripping his arm, dragging him upright.

“Stay with me,” Regris snapped. His voice was sharp, but his grip was steady, firm, keeping Keith anchored when everything else felt wrong. “We’re almost out.”

Keith wanted to argue. Wanted to say he was fine. Wanted to move without feeling like his own body was against him.

Instead, he let Regris pull him forward.

Keith stumbled forward, Regris’s grip firm around his arm, dragging him through the chaos. He let it happen—he had to—but it made his stomach churn.  

The steady hand guiding him, the way Regris shielded him from stray fire, the instinctive way he was being looked after —it made Keith feel small .  

Like a little kid being led by the hand, too weak and unsteady to walk on his own.  

A quiet, desperate whimper nearly slipped past his lips. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop it.  

Not now. Not here. Not ever.

His thoughts fuzzed, exhaustion weighing heavy on him, the heat in his chest thick and suffocating like the smoke, the tang of iron, the ringing in bis ears. He wanted—  

No .

His heart clenched violently. He snapped back to clarity like a rubber band stretched too tight, reality slamming into him all at once. His grip on Regris tightened instinctively, then loosened the second he realized what he was doing.  

He could die at any moment.  

This wasn’t some stupid training exercise or a bad day. He was in an active warzone, surrounded by enemies, barely standing on his own two feet.  

And he had the audacity to want—to ache for—  

Keith gritted his teeth hard enough to hurt, tearing himself from Regris’s grip.  

He couldn’t let himself slip.  

He wouldn’t . 

Regris turned sharply at the movement, sharp gaze flicking over Keith like he was assessing damage. “You good?”  

Keith forced himself to stand straight. His muscles screamed, his vision swayed, but he forced himself upright. Big. Capable. 

“I’m fine,” he ground out, voice rough with effort.  

Regris didn’t look convinced. Keith didn’t care.  

The rendezvous point was in sight.  

He could make it .  

He just had to keep his feet moving.  

And shove down the ugly, needy, disgusting part of him that wanted nothing more than to be held .

By the time they made it to the extraction point, his body felt like it was running on fumes.

The ship’s ramp hissed shut behind them, locking out the chaos of the battlefield. The moment they were inside, the rest of the team sprang into action—strapping in, checking systems, securing the prisoners they had fought so hard to retrieve.  

Keith barely had time to breathe before Regris shoved him toward the pilot’s seat.  

“Strap in,” he ordered before taking the helm, piloting them out with sharp, practiced movements.  

Keith numbly did as he was told, fingers fumbling slightly over the restraints. His limbs still felt too heavy, his head still too light. But they were escaping, and that was all that mattered.  

The ship rocked as they broke free of the station’s gravity, weaving through enemy fire. Keith clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus, but he couldn’t shake the way his body trembled, the way his mind still felt stretched too thin.  

By the time they hit open space and the Galran forces fell away behind them, Keith felt like he was floating—untethered, disconnected from his own body. Someone else was piloting. It was him but not. He felt like everything he was, was being torn into. 

Regris didn’t say anything for a moment, just flipped switches from the copilot's seat, setting their course for the Blade base. Then, without preamble, he turned to Keith.  

“What happened back there?”  

“Nothing,” Keith answered flatly, too tired to care.

Regris’s expression darkened. “Try again.”  

Keith’s fingers dug into his thighs. He couldn’t talk about this. Wouldn’t. Regris wouldn’t understand. No one would. Or worse, he would —and he wasn't ready to show his bleeding, aching chest and have someone care.

“I said I’m fine .”  

Regris exhaled sharply, like he was barely holding onto his patience, like he was towing the line between asking more and knowing who he was dealing with.

“You hesitated. You were sluggish. I had to drag you through that mission, and that’s not like you. So I’ll ask again—what happened?”  

Keith’s chest squeezed. He didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to admit that he was falling apart from something as stupid as denying what he was .  

He forced himself to meet Regris’s gaze, glaring despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. “Drop it.”  

Regris narrowed his eyes, studying him for a long moment. Then he sighed, shaking his head.  

“You should see Antok.”  

Keith’s stomach twisted.  

“No.”  

Regris’s brow furrowed. “You are being unreasonable—”  

“I don’t need to see him,” Keith snapped, suddenly too raw, too frayed to hold back the sharp edge in his voice. He didn’t need Antok, didn’t need to be fussed over like he was fragile . He just needed rest. Needed space. He always needed space, if people got to close they would see. 

Regris studied him again, eyes flicking over his too-tense posture, his white-knuckled grip on his thighs.  

Keith hated how knowing the look in his eyes was. His fingers tightened on the restraints, the metal digging into his skin. He deserved this discomfort. He deserved to feel like shit. Maybe then, maybe if he punished himself enough, he’d finally be strong enough. Maybe then, this pathetic neediness would finally go away.

After a long moment, Regris exhaled, turning back toward the controls.  

“Fine,” he said. “But if you collapse, I’m dragging you there myself.”  

Keith swallowed against the lump in his throat, staring straight ahead.  

“Not gonna happen.”  

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

—

Keith clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms as he stood before Kolivan. The debriefing had been going as expected—until it wasn’t.  

Kolivan’s expression was impassive, unreadable as usual. He was as composed as ever, but his words were sharp. “Your mistakes could have cost us months of intelligence gathering. A single misstep can mean the difference between success and failure, between life and death.”  

Keith swallowed hard, biting back the instinctive need to defend himself. He knew he had screwed up. He felt it in every fiber of his being, in every exhausted breath, in the way his body still trembled faintly from overexertion. He was trying so hard, he was doing his best. He had spent years drilling it into his own skull, pushing himself past his limits to make sure he never failed . But hearing it from Kolivan—hearing it in that firm, almost disappointed tone—like an adult scolding a child—made something inside him curl up, small and ashamed.  

The words cut deeper than they should have, especially when he already felt wrong . He was trying so hard to be a good boy, didn't Kolivan see that?

He knew what had happened.

He knew what caused it.

Littles who didn’t let themselves be Littles suffered for it. It was basic biology, something drilled into him from a young age. The shakiness, the delayed reaction time, the emotional instability— he knew what it meant. He was very familiar with the descent into classification sickness, always forgot how awful it felt but remembered that he was big for a long time and that felt like a very good thing.

But he’d never needed as much as other Littles. He’d always been fine, always managed, and it never used to be this bad.

He realized that Kolivan was still watching him, expecting an answer. He swallowed hard, standing at attention, forcing himself to look at Kolivan without flinching.  

“I understand,” he said, his voice steady, even though everything in him felt mangled. He was a mess, spilling over and ruining everything he touched.

Kolivan’s gaze bore into him, searching for something—weakness, doubt, hesitation. Keith locked his muscles, standing rigid under the scrutiny.  

Kolivan continued. “You are capable, Keith. But if you cannot maintain control in the field, you will be removed from active missions until we are assured of your reliability.”  

Keith’s chest seized, panic clawing up his ribs.  

“No,” he blurted, too fast, too desperate. Kolivan’s sharp gaze flicked to him. Keith forced himself to take a breath, trying to sound more composed. “This won’t happen again.”  

Kolivan studied him for a long, heavy moment. Keith held his breath.  

Finally, Kolivan nodded. “See that it doesn’t.”  

The words should have relieved him. They didn’t.  

He nodded stiffly, feeling like his skin was stretched too tight over his bones. “Understood.”  

Kolivan dismissed him, and Keith forced himself to turn on steady legs, walking out of the room as if his mind wasn’t a hurricane of emotions.  What a joke. He’d come here to prove he was strong, independent, that he didn’t need anyone. And what had happened? He’d nearly gotten himself killed and had to be helped. The irony was a sharp, twisting knife.

The second he was out of sight, the tight grip he had on himself nearly crumbled.  

He wanted—  

He didn’t even know what he wanted.  

His body ached with exhaustion, his mind foggy with the effort of holding himself together . The sharp words still echoed in his ears, and he felt small in a way that had nothing to do with height.  

Keith grit his teeth, fingers twitching at his sides.  

He just had to get through this.  

Tomorrow would be better.

Right?

—

Keith had barely finished cleaning up, blood and viscera swirling down the drain, when his communicator buzzed. His stomach twisted when he saw the name flashing across the screen.  

Shiro .

For a second, he hesitated. He wasn’t ready for this. He still had that awful, aching, clingy feeling in his chest, and hearing Shiro’s voice would only make it worse.  

But if he didn’t answer, Shiro would worry. Screw that, Shiro probably already was worried, the older man was a chronic worrier, especially where Keith was concerned. He and Shiro hadn't really called one on one since Keith had left. Shiro didn't seem pleased with his decision to not be Little around him anymore but seemed to back off his last couple days around the castle, though that may have been a little one sided since Keith had been avoiding him.

With a deep breath, Keith forced himself to press the button.  

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice steady.  

Shiro’s face appeared on the screen, smiling in relief. “Keith. Good to see you! How is the Blade base treating you?”  

Keith’s chest ached at the familiar warmth in his voice. He missed Shiro. Missed the castle, the team, the quiet safety of knowing someone was looking out for him. But he shoved those feelings down, keeping his expression neutral.  

“Good to see you too.” Attempts at neutral be damned, He couldn't stop his lips from quirking up into a smile. “The Blades are fine—nothing too exciting over here. I just got back from an extraction mission. How's everything going over there?”  

Shiro gave him the rundown—small mission updates, how everyone was doing, how Pidge was driving Coran up the wall with some new tech experiment. Keith listened, nodding along, feeling that pang of homesickness take root and grow deeper in his chest. Shiros voice settled over his frayed brain like a warm blanket, something in his brain glazed over as he was lulled just by Shiro talking. Like Bubba was telling a story. 

Then Shiro’s expression softened. “And you? How are you doing?”  

Keith straightened instinctively. Speaking to Shiro shouldn't be setting him off like this. He needed Bunny . He needed to jam his thumb in his mouth and rock his body back and forth. He needed something, anything to take the edge off. “I’m okay,” he said, feeling the lie roll off his tongue. He felt slimy. He was an awful liar and he willed the blush not to rise to his cheeks.

Shiro hummed, studying him. Keith knew that look—Shiro was reading him.  

“You look tired,” Shiro said carefully, like he wanted to say more but remembered himself. Remembered that they fought and that Keith had shoved, shoved, shoved him away because he didn't deserve that kind of love, not from Shiro.

Keith forced a small shrug. “Long mission.”  

Shiro’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned forward, voice gentle. “Are you getting what you need?”  

Keith’s throat tightened. He knew what Shiro was really asking. Are you regressing? Are you taking care of yourself? Are you okay?  

He forced himself to nod. “Yeah. I’ve been taking care of that on my own. It's been going…okay.”  

Shiro blinked, clearly surprised. “On your own?”  

Keith nodded again, firmer this time. “Yeah. I’ve got it under control.”  

Shiro was quiet for a beat, clearly debating whether to believe him. Keith held his breath. He hoped Shiro believed him but at the same time, something felt wrong. Did he want Shiro to press? Did he want Shiro to demand to come see him? To make sure he was okay even if he had told him he didn't want to be taken care of and loved and hugged and… what did he want ?

Shiro watched him carefully, and for a second, Keith thought he would push. He could see it in the way Shiro’s brow furrowed, the slight downward press of his lips.  

Then, Shiro sighed, tilting his head just slightly, like he was weighing the decision. “Alright,” he said, voice measured. “If you say so.”  

Keith swallowed. He braced himself, ready to deflect, to shut down. But then, something shifted in Shiro’s expression. A flicker of something Keith couldn’t quite decipher – resignation? Understanding? Hurt? It was gone before Keith could grasp it. That was too easy .  

Shiro wasn’t stupid. He had to know Keith was barely holding it together. He had to see the dark circles, the way Keith’s shoulders hunched, the way his voice wavered, just barely, when he lied through his teeth.  

Why wasn’t he calling him out on it?  

Why wasn’t he yelling and demanding Keith to come home? 

Keith’s fingers curled into his sleeve, an ugly, twisting feeling settling deep in his stomach. He should be relieved . This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be treated like an equal? To prove he could handle himself?  

Why did it feel like Shiro was letting him drown?  He probably knows , a cynical voice whispered in his mind. He probably knows and he’s tired of it. Tired of cleaning up your messes.

He forced a tight smile. “Yeah. I’m good, Shiro. Don’t worry about me.”  

Shiro exhaled slowly, nodding. “Okay,” he said, though his amicable expression didn’t quite match his words. “Just—check in when you can, alright? And actually get some sleep, Keith.”  

Keith swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I will.”  

Another lie.  

But Shiro just nodded again, like he believed him. Like he wasn’t looking too closely.

The call ended. The screen went dark.  

Keith stared at his reflection for a long time, stomach churning with something awful and sticky and impossible to name.  

He should be happy. He should be proud that Shiro finally saw him as capable. That he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t forcing help on him.  

But all he felt was empty .  

He shook his head, forcing himself to move, to do something, anything to shake the feeling off. He was fine.  

He had to be fine.  

—

The training hall rang with the sharp clash of blades, the steady rhythm of sparring drills filling the air. Keith had thrown himself into training with relentless determination, desperate to drown out the tangled mess in his head. He could push through this. He had to push through this.  

His opponent—Relk, a seasoned Blade, taller and broader than Keith—moved with precise, deadly efficiency. Keith met each strike, his body moving on instinct, his blade ringing with each parry. Keith had been holding his own—at first.  

But something was wrong .  

His body felt wrong .  

His grip on his blade was unsteady, his focus slipping in and out like static. His feet dragged when they should have been quick, his limbs sluggish like he was fighting through molasses. He knew this feeling, this horrible sinking feeling that made his brain feel light and fuzzy, that curled in his stomach and made everything feel too big and too much .  

No, no , not now. Not here .  

He gritted his teeth, trying to force himself back up, trying to push away the tiny, desperate thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. But the more he fought, the worse it got. He was dropping. 

Fuck.

His heart pounded. His vision blurred. The room felt bigger. His hands were… he didn't want them wrapped around the hilt of his blade. He—he couldn't fight right now. 

He whimpered .  

That tiny, pitiful sound was the only warning before Relk struck.  

Keith froze .  

His mind went blank. His body locked up, a sharp, overwhelming fear swallowing him whole. He barely registered the impact as Relk knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing hard onto the mat.  

He didn’t move.  

Couldn’t move.  

He couldn’t breathe. His chest was too tight, his head spinning. His body shook, trembling violently as he curled in on himself, hands clutching at the fabric of his training uniform, too small, too little, too much— he couldn't. He couldn't be here he was just a baby -

And then warmth spread between his legs.  

The accident happened before he even registered it.  

He was so bad.

Keith sucked in a sharp, panicked breath as the wet heat pooled beneath him, soaking into his uniform, into the mat. He felt his face burn, mortification crawling up his spine like ice. He wasn't a baby , he was a fucking adult and he jad just wet himself in the sparring room in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.   

His breath hitched, and his vision swam, and the awful, humiliating realization that he wasn’t big enough to handle this right now clawed at his insides. He was overwhelmed, immobilized, miniscule. He couldn't do anything right. 

Someone moved in front of him.  

“Keith?”  

Keith shrunk away at Relk’s voice—it was careful. Measured.  

Keith couldn’t answer. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently, trying to shake the regression away, to force himself back up , but it wasn’t working. He was trembling too hard, breath coming in short, shallow gasps.  

“I need you to breathe,” Relk said, softer this time. “Fill your lungs. Just breathe.”   

Didn't Relk see he couldn't? He was too little. Too much of a mess. Too—  

Relk shifted, kneeling beside him. Keith flinched, but Relk didn’t touch him, didn’t grab him. Just stayed there, steady and unmoving, waiting.  

“You’re alright,” Relk murmured, voice calm, even. “But we need to get you up, okay?”  

Keith forced his breath through his teeth, trying to shove the feeling down, to shake it off. He needed to get it together . He needed a hug. No. He needed to stand up, to fight, to be big.  

But his chest was tight, his throat burning, and he couldn’t make himself move. His hands fisted in the fabric of his training gear, trying to ground himself, trying to fix it, but it wasn’t working. His pants were wet and he had made a mess, he was so bad.

And Relk knew .  

The realization sent another wave of panic through him, breath hitching as his whole frame trembled.  

Relk stayed crouched for a moment, watching Keith with sharp, assessing eyes. Keith could tell he was trying to make sense of what was happening, trying to read the situation, but Keith wasn’t giving him much to work with. He couldn’t .  

His fingers clenched into the fabric of his tunic, knuckles white, body trembling with the effort of trying to not be small. Trying to not be this vulnerable, not let himself fall deeper. But it was like standing on the edge of a steep drop—his feet had already slipped, and there was nothing to hold onto.  

Relk frowned. He must have come to some kind of conclusion because the next thing Keith knew, there was a strong hand wrapping around his arm, tugging him upright.  

“You’re not well,” Relk stated, not unkindly. “You need to be checked out.”  

Keith stiffened, panic flaring hot in his chest. No . No, no, no, that would make it real . That would mean something was wrong , that someone else would see just how much of a mess he was. Well. He was sure plenty of people saw how much of a disappointment he was. His pants clung to him uncomfortably.

“’M fine,” he managed, voice meek, unconvincing.  

Relk barely acknowledged the protest. “You're not. You froze up, and you’re shaking. You are wet. If this is a human thing, someone needs to know.” 

Before he could muster another weak protest, Relk moved, gripping Keith’s arm more firmly and hauling him to his feet. Keith wobbled, his legs barely supporting him. It was humiliating. His entire body felt wrong, too small, too light, like he wasn’t quite all there.  

And Relk, clearly deciding Keith couldn’t be trusted to get there on his own, adjusted his grip and hefted him up.

Keith let out a startled noise as he was suddenly lifted, his feet leaving the ground. He barely caught himself, hands grabbing instinctively onto Relk’s armor. His face burned.  

“Cn’ walk,” he squeaked out, squirming, but Relk didn’t let go. Relk was getting wet. This was humiliating. Someone was going to have to clean up the sparring mat.

“You weren't walking,” he pointed out. “You weren't even moving.”  

Keith wanted to snap back, have some semblance of an adult interaction, but his thoughts were too muddled, too disorganized. The warmth of another person supporting him was sending all the wrong signals to his brain. It was safe and firm and steady, and he hated how much he wanted to just sink into it.  

Relk adjusted his grip and started toward the medical bay. Keith’s stomach sank further with every step.  

Antok was going to see . And then he’d know.

Keith’s face burned as Relk carried him through the halls. Everything around him felt huge —the corridors, the figures passing by, the distant sounds of boots and voices. He felt tiny in a way that made his stomach twist, like a little kid being carried somewhere he didn’t want to go. Relk’s steady grip only made it worse, the sheer size of him, the way he carried Keith so effortlessly, like he weighed nothing at all.

Like he was tiny.

Like he was a baby .

Keith gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay rigid, not to sink into the warmth and security of it. He was not a baby—he wasn't. He could not give in, not here, not now, not where people could see. He wasn’t Little. He wasn’t weak. He was a Blade. He was big… enough. He willed his breathing to even out, locked his muscles against any urge to curl in closer, to seek comfort where there wasn’t any. He had to keep it together. There were eyes on him.

The walk to the medical bay felt both too long and too short. When they arrived, Relk finally set him down, his legs dangling off the examination table and the cold of the metal seeped through his wet training suit and onto his butt. So cold. Keith barely stopped himself from making a noise of complaint. Antok was already there, waiting with sharp, assessing eyes, his expression unreadable but sharp.

Keith sat stiffly on the exam table, shoulders locked, hands fisted in his lap. He would not fidget. He would not squirm. He would not let his gaze drop.  

But the cold was awful against his skin, the wet fabric clinging uncomfortably, and his body still felt awful.  

“Explain,” Antok finally said.  

Keith swallowed hard, keeping his voice even. “It was a mistake.”  

Antok made a low sound of skepticism. “A mistake doesn’t cause full-body tremors. A mistake doesn’t result in complete freeze response during combat.” He narrowed his eyes. “And a mistake doesn’t result in… this.”  

Keith flinched, his ears burning. He noticed. Of course, he noticed.  

“I need more information on humans,” Antok continued, his tone shifting from sharp to purely clinical. “I need to know if this is something to be expected. Wetting oneself in a species, especially involuntarily, is typically a sign of illness or trauma unless this is a typical occurrence—”  

Antok paused, studying him.  

Keith forced himself to take a breath. No, no, no. He could not let this go any further.  

“It’s not,” Keith said quickly. “Not normal. Not for me.”  

Antok tilted his head. “Then there’s something wrong with you.”  

Keith bristled. “I’m fine .”  

Antok stared at him, unimpressed. Then he reached for a scanner, running it over Keith’s frame with a low hum. Keith sat still, barely breathing as the device whirred, analyzing him in ways he couldn’t argue against.  

The readout appeared, and Antok frowned.  

“Severe dehydration. Elevated pulse rate. Acute sleep deprivation.” His gaze flicked back up, sharp as a blade. “You’re running your body into the ground.”  

Keith gritted his teeth. He knew . Of course, he knew . He’d been pushing too hard. Not sleeping. Barely eating. Doing everything in his power to keep himself big and functional.  

But it wasn’t working .  

Antok made a low, unimpressed sound in the back of his throat. “You are showing signs of severe imbalance. Stress does not account for all of this.” The large galra stepped away, pulling out supplies for a blood draw. “I need more information on human biology to compare this with. I’ll send for Voltron’s records.”

Keith’s stomach twisted into knots.

Fuck.

It was so over.

Keith felt a spike of panic. He knew what Antok was looking for. Knew what Galra medicine wouldn’t account for. He forced himself to keep still as Antok returned with the needle.

Despite himself, he flinched when Antok took his arm, and when the needle slid into his skin, he let out a tiny, involuntary whimper, a pitiful sound that bubbled from the back of his throat.

Keith wanted to die.

His face burned, shame curdling in his gut as he clamped his lips shut. But Antok heard—of course, he heard—and something in the older Galra’s expression shifted. His ears twitched slightly, and his gaze softened just enough for Keith to know.

The moment it was over, he pulled his arm close, gripping it as if that would somehow undo what had just happened.

The med bay was silent as Antok turned to analyze the sample. Keith kept his gaze on the floor, ignoring the way his stomach twisted.

Minutes stretched before Antok spoke again. “Severe dehydration.” A pause. “Your stress levels are unstable, and your hormone balance is… unusual.”

Keith clenched his jaw. Of course it is.

“There are… anomalies. Your hormone levels are fluctuating wildly. Certain neurochemicals are significantly out of balance. It’s consistent with extreme stress and prolonged sleep deprivation, but there’s… something else.”

He tapped a section of the screen, his expression thoughtful. “There are baseline levels of certain compounds present that are… unusual. Not indicative of any known Galran physiology. It’s as if your body is experiencing a systemic imbalance that isn’t directly tied to fatigue or injury.”

Keith’s stomach twisted.  

Antok didn’t know about classification. Didn’t know how much Keith was fighting himself, didn’t know that Keith’s very biology was spiraling out of control because he refused to let himself be what he needed to be.  

But Keith couldn’t say that.  

So he shook his head, biting down every desperate, aching urge to tell the truth. “I just need to rest.”  

Antok stared at him for a long moment.  

“No,” he finally said. “This is not something that will fix itself with a few hours of sleep.” He set the scanner down, his tone brooking no argument. “If this happened in training, it could happen in the field. If your body fails you in a mission, we all pay the price.”  

He turned to a console, tapping at the controls. “I am placing you on medical leave, effective immediately.”

Panic flared in Keith’s chest. “No! I can’t. I have duties—”

“Your primary duty is to be fit for service,” Antok interrupted, his voice firm. “In your current state, you are a liability, to yourself and to the Blade. You will comply.”

Keith felt a bolt of sheer panic. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t face them, not like this. Shiro would take one look at him and know . He’d see right through him, see how incapable he was.  

Antok was already tapping into the console, sending a transmission. “You are welcome to remain in the medical wing on-base, otherwise, your team will be contacted for retrieval. You are on temporary leave, effective immediately.” He turned his sharp gaze back to Keith. “You may return to duty after a wellness report confirms you are fit. Whether that is verified by the Blades or Voltron, I will leave up to you.”  

Keith’s heart pounded. His hands clenched into the medical cot, panic clawing up his throat. “Antok, please,” he tried, voice tight. “I can get through this. I just need more time—” 

Antok’s expression remained impassive. “Your physiological readings indicate otherwise, Keith. Logically, there is no scenario in which I can clear you for active duty in your current condition. You are a risk.”

“...Can we just keep me for observation here and not tell Voltron?”

Antok’s ears twitched again, a sign of consideration, but his voice remained firm. “Voltron has a vested interest in your well-being, Keith. They are your team. They need to know if you are fit to fight alongside them. Furthermore, their knowledge of human biology is more comprehensive than ours. They may have insights into these… anomalies.”

Antok exhaled, his tone firm but not unkind. “This is not a punishment, Keith.” He hesitated, ears twitching slightly, as if debating his next words. “But you are not well.”  

Keith’s breath stuttered. His whole body was trembling, his muscles screaming from exhaustion, from deprivation, from the sheer strain of keeping himself big when every part of him was unraveling.  

This was it. He was losing .  

And maybe… maybe he already had.  

Antok turned back to the console. “Your retrieval will take time. You should rest until then.”  

Keith stared at the floor, his vision blurring. He was going back. Back to the castle. Back to Shiro . Back where he wouldn’t be able to hide what was happening to him. 

He had failed.  

And now everyone was going to know .

Chapter Text

Upon entering the Blade base the first thing Shiro had done was rush in and make sure Keith was okay, which was nice but he couldn't bring himself to say anything to the other man as Antok and Shiro discussed his medical examination. After that Shiro had demanded to see Kolivan, so that was whyKeith found himself hunched in his seat as he sat on a bench in the same hallway as Kolivans office, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring blankly at the floor.

The faint hum of the base’s ventilation filled the silence, the ambient sound a steady drone that did nothing to drown out the muffled tones from behind the door of Kolivan’s office.

He could hear them arguing.

Kolivan’s voice was firm, controlled, like it always was. Keith couldn’t make out every word, but he knew that tone. It was the tone of someone standing their ground, unmoving, unshaken.

Shiro’s voice, though—Shiro was pissed .

Keith flinched as another sharp, clipped response cut through the thick office door. He didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what was being said.

Why wasn’t I told sooner? How did this get so bad? You should have sent him back weeks ago.

Keith wiped away the snot on the back of his hand. He felt like a little kid sitting outside of Iversons office again as Shiro was probably vouching for or explaining something, but this time it was worse because Kolivan didn't have any obligation to him here. He wasn't the best at anything, here. His pants were drying in a way that uncomfortably chafed him and he was sure he still smelled like urine. He wanted to vanish and maybe never come back, despite how much he liked the blades because what if when they knew they didn't want him anymore?

He wasn't a very good soldier right now, and heat rises to his cheeks as he thinks of how he was getting worse at being big and shoving the need to be Little down down down . 

Not only that but he had lied to Shiro. Straight to his face—he had told Shiro he had it under control, that he was going into headspace and yes he was fine, but he didn't , couldn't even keep himself together for a whole month. 

Shiro was going to be so mad. Maybe this would finally be the thing that made Shiro realize he was far more trouble than he was worth and leave him here. He loved Shiro, but no one deserved to get stuck with a lying, pissy-pants baby who couldn't even take care of himself for a month—and now he was being shipped home like a useless, broken thing.

He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his soaked training suit, even though it had dried stiff and uncomfortable against his skin. It had been over four hours since Antok told him he was being sent home, but Keith hadn’t moved from this spot. He was in a self-imposed time out. Hadn’t even thought about peeling off the evidence of his failure.

Because that’s what this was . Failure.

He’d tried. He’d tried so hard to be big, to shove everything down, to make himself work like a proper Blade, like a proper soldier, like someone worth keeping. But the more he fought it, the worse it got. He couldn’t hold himself together. He couldn’t even make it through a sparring session without falling apart, without getting—

The sound of the door whooshing open made Keith flinch from where he was seated, curling up on himself. He didn't look up from the ground as familiar footsteps made their way to him. 

“C'mon, Keith. We're leaving. Let's go get your stuff and pack up.”

Shiro sounded upset. Angry. He looked tired and his lip was pursed tightly, like he wanted to say a heck of a lot more but was restraining himself either because Kolivan was there, or because he was waiting to tell Keith that he was a failure and that he didn't want him anymore.

His eyes didn't meet Shiro's gaze as he led him to his quarters. He kept his head down and kept his eyes trained on the ground. The tension hung so thickly in the air it was palpable as they walked but neither of them said anything. It was awful.

They stepped into his bunk and Shiro's expression tightened. Keith knew why—it was a mess, even for his standards, and he was pretty sure the sheets were clean but his room smelled like piss, there were dirty, bloodied bandages on the ground, clothes, and there were so many damning things in here that if Keith weren't already drowning in the throes of shame, he would be pleading his case. Or maybe he wouldn't be, all the evidence was in front of them and none of it looked good .

He watched Shiro's expression go from something like horror, back to a guarded neutral gaze, a tightly pursed lip and stiffness that exuded displeasure. Keith clamped down on the need for comfort, actively fought and raged against the neediness. Look at what you've done, he told the voice that cried for comfort, you ruin everything.  

His shaky hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He wanted to run, to hide, to do something other than stand here, waiting for Shiro to confirm every awful thing he already believed about himself.

Shiro finally exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped inside, moving toward Keith’s duffel bag. “Let’s get this packed up.”

His voice was steady. Controlled. But Keith wasn’t stupid.

The voice that had kept him safe in foster homes whispered that Shiro was mad , mad mad.

He willed himself to move, his body aching from sitting so long as his skin, still sticky and uncomfortable from his dried training suit, chafed between his thighs. Good. 

He grabbed a handful of his clothes, shoving them into his bag haphazardly. He kept his head down as he worked, avoiding the mess of a bed, avoiding Shiro who was probably standing there with his arms crossed, disappointed. Avoiding everything. He plopped his bag on the ground as he moved to check the closet, finding it empty.

“Is this all?” Shiro asked, holding up the duffel bag with his very few things in there. Keith moved to take it with a nod, but Shiro tightened his grip around the strap. “I got it.”

Oh. Was he not even trusted to hold his belongings? He felt useless, standing there after needing to be picked up because he couldn't do it anymore. In every way that mattered, he had shown that he was incapable.

“Fine,” Keith grit out, feet already heading for the landing pad where he knew Black would be, could feel her as she landed. Knew the feel of her on his mind and soul like it was his own-but Black wasn't his, never really was. He was a temporary solution until Shiro came back, so he wasn't even important anymore. They were going to get rid of him and it was going to hurt.

Shiro didn’t argue, he just sighed, slinging Keith’s bag over his shoulder and falling into step behind him.

Keith walked stiffly, his dried training suit chafing with every movement, a lingering, itchy reminder of how thoroughly he’d humiliated himself today. He felt gross. The heavy weight of failure sat in his gut, curdling like a sickness, spreading like poison.

The Blade’s base was quiet as they made their way to the hangar. Every step Keith took was weighted with exhaustion. Maybe if he stood still long enough, he’d just sink into the floor and disappear. Maybe that would be better.

He didn’t want to leave.

But he also didn’t want to stay.

He wasn’t anything here. Not a good soldier, not a real Blade, not even a proper pilot. Just a pathetic, broken thing that couldn’t even hold himself together.

Was Shiro going to leave him somewhere?

Black’s presence brushed against his mind, steady and cool, but Keith flinched away from it. He didn’t deserve that comfort. Not when he was just being dragged back like some useless stray. Not when he wasn’t even her paladin anymore.

When they reached the hangar, Keith's eyes flitted towards Shiro, stealing a glance. He almost flinched at what he saw. The other man's face was carefully neutral, but the way his human hand tightened around the strap of the duffel bag made Keith’s stomach twist painfully. Shiro was upset. Of course he was. Keith had lied. He had told him he was fine, had promised he was handling things, and yet here he was—bedwetting, falling apart, a liability to jeopardizing missions. He didn't deserve to be taken back. Didn't even deserve Shiro's time and effort to come and retrieve him from base.

The silence stretched, deafening, until Keith couldn't take it in anymore. “'m sorry,” he mumbled, voice hoarse from misuse, staring at his boots like a guilty child.

Shiros' jaw worked for a second until he closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, like he was fighting to control himself. He would snap any minute. Keith waited for the anger, the disappointment, the inevitable realization that he wasn't worth all this trouble.

Instead, Shiro's voice came low, steady. “I know. We'll talk about it when we get back.”

Keith nodded stiffly, his throat burning. He climbed into Black’s cockpit without another word, feeling more like a child being taken home after causing a scene at school than the adult he had tried so hard to be.

The ride back to the castleship was silent. Keith sat with his arms around himself, tense and quiet in the copilot's seat while Shiro flew Black. He could feel the exhaustion seeping into every bone in his body now that the adrenaline had worn off. His body felt heavy—he hadn’t slept properly in weeks and ate just barely enough to stop himself from the brink of collapse when the gnaw of hunger was unbearable. Now that Shiro was here it was over and what was there worth fighting for when he had already good and proven how bad he was at being useful —his body was giving into, urging him into something small and helpless. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Anything, anything to ground himself.

He tensed as the Castle of Lions came into view, one dreading the team's reaction to their sixth wheel and the other sighing in relief that he was home. He was safe.

As they landed, Shiros' hands gently guided them down into the hangar, but after they docked, he didn't move right away. He drew in a measured breath and Keith kept his eyes shut, trying to brace for whatever came next. He expected yelling, maybe even the cold shoulder but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Gentle. Steady.

He nearly flinched but didn't pull away.

“Come on,” Shiro said, softer now. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

Keith swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, following him out of the lion.

Back on the castleship, everything felt too big, too bright. Keith cringed as he was guided to Shiro’s quarters, hands trembling, waiting. Get rid of me. Get rid of me— He watched as Shiro set the duffel bag down, beside the nightstand and took a deep breath. His mentor turned to him with that look —one he had been on the receiving end of many times— whether he was crashing a motorbike or a stunt he pulled that was particularly reckless after a mission, he knew the familiar furrow of Shiro's eyebrow and the displeased purse of his lips like he knew the back of his hand. That look that meant he was about to get the talk he’d been dreading since he was told he was no good as a Blade.

Shiro looked like he was steeling himself, gazing at Keith with a stinging combination of barely concealed frustration and worry, and underneath it all was an emotion that Keith avoided from seeing on Shiro's face at all costs. Disappointment . Here it comes .

“Keith,” Shiro began, his voice heavy with the weight of whatever thoughts had been running through his head since Antok had contacted Voltron. “Help me understand what happened, here. What I'm having trouble with is that you didn't tell anyone you were…I don’t know how this got to this point. You’re shaky and sick and starved—” Shiro cut himself off, and gave the smaller man a look that conveyed pain . Shiro wouldn't understand what it was like, couldn't know what it felt like—

“What happened?” he settled on, seeming a little desperate for answers, body leaning towards Keith and arms splayed out like he could physically pluck the answers out of him.

Keith's chest tightened. He felt the sting of Shiro's words deep, like a knife running across his ribs. “I thought,” he bit out, his voice sharp and defensive. “I could do this, but apparently my body has other plans. You're making a big deal out of nothing. I just need to rest, really. I’m fine, Shiro. I’m fine.”

Shiro's expression hardened, a flash of anger and concern flickering in his eyes. “No, Keith,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “You're not fine. You haven’t been fine for a while now, and you lied to me. You said you were fine, but you were lying to my face. You’ve been falling apart, and I had no idea. Antok had to call me in and tell me something was wrong. Something was medically wrong. Do you understand how terrified I was when I found out? Your body is done trying to get by on willpower, Keith. This isn't something that goes away when you aren't thinking about it.”

Keith's face burned, shame twisting his gut into knots. “Because I should be able to handle it!” he growled, his voice rising with frustration and hurt at the confession. His hands balled into fists, swung low at his sides. “I know you’re all wondering why I dont beg for help at the first minor inconvenience but you don't know what it's like!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “I’ve been fine on my own for fucking years and then, boom, all of the sudden I'm not allowed to be on my own without a goddamn chaperone! I had it under control! I don’t need—”

“Had it under control? Really? That's what you've been doing?” Shiro’s voice was lethal calm as his eyes flashed with frustration. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Keith, everything about this screams the opposite. You’re exhausted. You’re dehydrated. You've been starving yourself. You’re…god, Keith. How many times can you run yourself into the ground before you can't get back up?” 

He faltered and for a moment he looked like he was in pain before he admitted “...you’re not okay. You keep hurting yourself like your body doesn't even deserve to be healthy. It's made you a danger to yourself and I agree with Antok that you aren't fit to be in the field right now.”

Keith's breathing quickened, and he felt the tears burning behind his eyes again, throat tightening with emotion. “I’m not a liability,” he rebutted, willing his voice not to crack. "I just... I just need a chance to prove I can do it!”

“Well I'm not giving you that chance until later. Right now, you're out of chances—you've had more than a month of them. You're benched . From the blades, from Voltron. Yes, Keith you are a liability. If you can't be trusted to take care of yourself, I'm not letting you be responsible for the lives of others,” Shiro said firmly, gaze burning harshly into Keith as he ripped everything away.

Keith stared at Shiro, eyes a little hysterical, his breathing ragged and uneven. “No. No.” 

Shiro’s words hit like a punch to the gut, it was as good of a confession as he would get from the other man that confirmed he was as good as useless. “No you…I…You can't do that,” he said, his voice trembling, a desperate edge creeping in. 

“You don't get to just—just take everything away from me!”

Shiro exhaled slowly, his expression steeling. “Keith, this isn't a punishment,” he said, his voice hard. “You can prove yourself later. But right now, you're benched. No missions. No Blade operations. I think it's too much responsibility, and you're not big enough to make good choices right now.”

Keith wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at the injustice of it all. He swallowed the tears threatening to spill over. He didn’t want to cry—not in front of Shiro, and especially not when his maturity was at stake. “Thats such bullshit . You’re wrong! I don’t need this. I don’t need you .” His voiced cracked on the last word. He loved Shiro but when would Shiro see that he wasn't lovable in return? “I can handle it on my own.”

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Shiro gave a measured sigh, his shoulders sagging as if he didnt want to be having this discussion either. “Maybe you think that now,” he said voice softening, “but this time I’m not leaving you to figure it out alone.”

Shiro stepped towards him and Keith shook his head, angling his face away as he stepped back. His chest heaved with suppressed sobs. He didn’t want to admit that Shiro was right because if Shiro was right that meant he was wrong. He was just as useless and stupid and incapable as everyone thought he was. What good was he then? Fighting was all he was really good at, all he knew how to do—he had been kicking, clawing, and screaming at people who had told him he couldn't for as long as he could remember, but Shiro had never been people and he honestly didn't know how much longer he could scream for. 

“I hate you,” he whispered, his voice verging on petulant, trembling with anger and heartbreak.

A hurt expression flashed across Shiro's face and he winced like he had been slapped, but recovered quickly enough to steel his gaze. “ I know you’re upset,Keith,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry this hurts. But I love you, and that’s why I’m doing this. You don’t have to like it, but I need you to trust me enough to take care of you when you aren't capable of doing it yourself.”

Shiro reached out again slowly, cautiously like Keith was a scared animal. As he approached, Keith didn’t respond, his body stiff and tense as Shiro’s hand made contact with his forearm. The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Finally, Shiro gave his arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back, giving Keith the space he so desperately seemed to need from the other man. 

“We’ll figure this out together. But for now, you’re taking a break. Whether you like it or not.”

Keith didn’t look up or even acknowledge the words. He stood frozen, his mind spinning as the weight of everything crashed down on him, leaving him feeling small and helpless and utterly lost.

—

Keith woke up the next morning, a deep hollow feeling in his chest. He wished yesterday had just been a bad dream, a nightmare. The emotions running high from last night’s fight with Shiro hadn’t faded. Something about it had settled deep, heavy and suffocating, failure clung to his very being. He was nothing but a disappointment. He was choking on the weight of his failures and he put a hand to his neck as if he could feel it crawling down his throat. As he sat up, his head pounded with an exhaustion he couldn’t seem to shake no matter how many times he tried to blink blearily at the ceiling, eyes dry and scratchy from too little sleep. He had been up nearly all night replaying the words he had exchanged with Shiro and he was about to do it all again when his leg shifted and he tensed. 

His breath hitched as he felt the cold, damp cling of wet sheets beneath him. Though it was depressing that he was getting used to changing his sheets, he would never get used to the gross feeling of an accident seeping through his pants and onto his skin. It felt like a cruel reminder of everything he couldn’t control. He squeezed his eyes shut, shame swirling in his gut as he tried to will it all away, because that was going well so far.

It was no wonder why he was deemed incompetent— he couldn't even keep his stupid bed dry.

Shaking off the burst of self-loathing, he glanced toward the door, eyes falling on the tray of food Shiro must have left outside sometime last night. It sat there untouched, cold and unappetizing. He wasn't hungry, didn't want to eat--he hadn’t even bothered to change out of yesterday’s clothes, too drained to care and too empty to move.  

A soft knock broke the silence but he didn’t bother to answer the door, but the door wooshed opened anyway. He blinks against the sharp onslaught of light coming from the hallway, disrupting his dark den of…well, brooding, he guessed. And pee. 

He didn't have to look over to know that there was probably a shock of white hair and he could feel concerned eyes trained on him. He knew Shiro was cataloging changes in the room, probably noting the untouched food, Keith's clothes from the day before, and his eyes landed on Keith’s lap in a way where Keith was positive that he suspected the sheets were fucked. Squeezing his eyes shut, Keith hunched over, shoulders curled in on himself like he wanted to disappear.  

“Keith…” Shiro’s saud his name with a breathy sigh like he was so much work , and despite how soft and carefully Shiro was speaking—like he was talking to a wounded animal— Keith flinched at the sound of it anyways. He turned his face away in shame.  

“I don't wanna talk,”he whispered in a hoarse voice. 

He doubted Shiro would take the cue and leave like he had yesterday and sure enough, he heard the door close and footsteps shuffle closer to him. He didn’t say anything at first, but the bed dipped by his feet and Shiro gave his lower leg a reassuring pat. “I know,” he said quietly, voice oozing with something like sympathy.  

Shiros gaze made his skin prickle. Keith didn't raise his head, refusing to meet his eyes. “Go away,” he mumbled, his voice cracking.  

But Shiro didn’t leave. Instead, he gave his calf an affectionate squeeze, warm and grounding. “You know I’m not gonna do that.” 

The silence dragged on for a little more after that and Keith could feel the weight of Shiro’s gaze, assessing, understanding too much without Keith even having to say a word. Shiro didn't judge unless someone gave him a reason to and Keith was sure he had given him plenty of reason. Finally, there was a quiet sigh, and then, “You didn’t eat anything.”

Keith didn't respond verbally, just shrugged, not trusting himself to speak without sounding pathetic. He was so bad. He felt the weight at the end of the bed disappear as Shiro stood, and heard the soft rustle of Shiro kneeling down beside the bed, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on. We need to get you cleaned up. You've been in your Blade suit since yesterday.”

Of course he had, it was his last chance to wear one since they didn't want him anymore. Keith finally looked up, bangs hanging in his face and eyes dull with exhaustion. The fight had all but drained out of him. “I don’t wanna,” he muttered, his voice raw and tired. He hated how small he sounded, and how much some traitorous part of him wanted Shiro to just fix it , even if he couldn’t admit it out loud as the other part of him screamed in denial that there was nothing to fix.

Shiro hesitated, and Keith could hear the restraint in his voice, like he was holding himself back from cooing at him, like.he knew it would make it worse. Instead, he spoke with carefully measured words and Keith could hear how hard Shiro was fighting to speak to him like an adult instead of reasoning with him like a little kid, “I know, but you’ll feel better once you're up and moving.”

Keith didn’t fight when Shiro started doing and stopped trying to convince him to.do it himself. The blanket was gently tugged away, and Keith cringed at the wet sheets being peeled back from his legs, cold air meeting damp skin in a way that gave him goosebumps. He felt miserable.

“Keith, It’s okay,” he said quietly, almost—but again not quite —verging on something soothing. “It happens. Let’s just take it one step at a time, alright?”

While it was true that he still wasn’t happy persay to see Shiro and he definitely wasn’t ready to forgive him for last night, deep down, some part of him was grateful that Shiro was still here, hadn't left him, even when Keith felt like he didn't deserve it.

After a long moment, he gave a small, reluctant grunt of consent. That seemed to be what Shiro was waiting for as he stood and reached for Keith’s hand, helping him up gently. 

Keith kept his head hung low, his hair falling over his face, and he refused to meet Shiro's gaze. His eyes fixed on the floor. “I shouldn’t need this much help,” he whispered like s confession, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I’m supposed to be…an adult. I’m supposed to be able to handle it.”

“Keith,” Shiro said firmly, his tone shifting, firm but not unkind. “You're not supposed to handle everything on your own. No one is, Big or Little. No one expects that from you. Especially not me.”

A glare flashed sharply in Shiro's direction, “You don't expect me to do anything on my own, do you ?”, Keith asked bitterly.

 “No,” Shiro said lightly, surprising Keith. His voice steady as he continued, “Not right now, not today.” He said honestly, bluntly. “You can be upset with me, with everything that’s happened. But what am I supposed to expect from you when you haven't eaten and you haven't cleaned up in two days? I've given you time and space to resolve things on your own and it's clear that you can't. I’m done watching you push yourself until you break.” 

He wanted to yell, to throw something, to push Shiro away and be alone, but the indignant arguments rising in his chest stilled on his tongue. Nothing Shiro said was untrue. The truth was laid bare before them and some small part of him, the one that still trusted Shiro and couldn’t stand to see him disappointed, just stayed silent instead. 

His throat tightened with emotion and he swallowed thickly. He’d spent so long trying to survive on his own, to be someone who didn’t have to rely on other people. He was trying to play the shitty hand that life had dealt him by himself, with the caveat of being Little meaning that someone else had to hold his cards for him anyways. It wasn’t fair.

So instead of arguing back like he wanted to, he just sighed tiredly. “You…you don't have to babysit me—It’s too much,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m too much. I—” He stopped himself, unable to finish the thought. The shame of needing this kind of help, of being so small and dependent, was eating him alive. Why had he ever been okay with it??

Shiro reached out like he wanted to grab at Keith's hand but paused and retracted the hand, seeming to think better of it. “No, no. You're not too much,” he said softly. “And if you don’t want me here right now—if you’re still upset with me—maybe…” he sounded pained to say it but finished strongly anyway “Maybe Lance can come help instead.”

Keith's head snapped up at that, his eyes wide and a little wild. “No,” he said quickly, his voice firmer and more confident than it had been all morning, a sharp contrast to the meek little murmurs and whispers. “I don’t want Lance.” The very last thing he wanted was Lance seeing him at his worst—seeing just how much of an awful mess he had become. Again. Well, at least this time he wasn't bawling and hiding in a closet but it probably wouldn't be long before that, either.

Seeming a little comforted by that, Shiro studied him for a moment, his face softening. He reached out again, this time resting a hand lightly on Keith's back, rubbing slow, steady circles. Keith stiffened initially at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. How long had it been since he had been touched in a friendly way outside of sparring and missions? His skin tingled in a good way, a too-much, kind of way. 

“Okay,” Shiro said simply, accepting it without hesitation. “Then I’m here.”

“Just get rid of me,” he whispered, to Shiro, his voice cracking. “Stop pretending to love me. I'm broken, anyways.” 

Shiro’s face fell, and for a moment, Keith thought he had finally done it—finally pushed him away for good. But instead of the anger or dismissal he expected, Shiro let out a sharp breath, his hands landing firmly on Keith’s shoulders.  

“Keith,” Shiro said, his voice suddenly gentler, steadier, “look at me.”  

Keith stubbornly kept his gaze on the floor, his lip pressed tight from where he willed it not to tremble. He didn’t want to see the pity, didn’t want to see how much of a disappointment he was in Shiro’s eyes. But then Shiro’s grip tightened just enough, warming his chest and grounding him, and slowly—hesitantly—Keith looked back up.  

Shiro’s expression wasn’t filled with pity. It was filled with something deeper, something Keith had always struggled to accept. Concern. Care. Maybe even love.  

“Keith I am not and will never be mad at you for regressing,” Shiro said, voice bleeding with conviction, willing Keith to believe the same. “I will never ever be mad at you for having accidents, or for struggling, or for needing something you think you shouldn’t.” He looked at Keith and it was sharp and firm. Protective . It made Keith feel a lot of things but he couldn't tell if it was a good or bad feeling. “I’m mad because you didn’t tell me. Because you let it get this bad, and I—” His voice wavered, just a little. “I wasn’t there to help you before things got to this point.”

Keith squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body trembling. He wanted to believe him. God , he wanted to believe him.

But he was so scared.

“And I’m not getting rid of you. Ever. You hear me?” Shiro said firmly, his eyes locked onto Keith’s. 

“But I—I can’t do this, Shiro,” he whispered, feeling raw and too exposed. “I keep trying, and I just... I keep messing up. I thought I could handle it, but I—” His voice cracked, and he looked away again, his shoulders shaking. “I don’t know how.”  

There it was .

He had admitted it. He maybe had a problem and things were maybe out of control. In response, Shiro looked pained, but he exhaled slowly, his hands rubbing up and down Keith’s arms in slow, steady motions in an attempt at comfort. “I know,” he said softly. “I know you don’t. Me neither, honestly—but I'm sure we can figure something out.”  

Keith couldnt repress the sniffle that escaped, hating how small he felt, hating how much he wanted to just collapse into Shiro’s embrace and let go . He had been holding on for so long .“I don’t want you to have to take care of me,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I'm so much work. I can't even be a paladin.”  

“Keith,” Shiro said, his voice gentle but unwavering, “You're never work . You’re my family. I love you no matter what. And I want to help, but you have to let me. You'll be a paladin again when you're ready, just not now.”  

Keith squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip hard to keep himself from sobbing. But it didn’t work—Shiro’s kindness was too much, and he still wanted to be angry at him—he's taking everything away, but before Keith could remind himself of that fact, he was pressing his face into Shiro’s chest, his hands clutching desperately at his shirt. Make it better, make it better. “I don’t know what to do,” he mumbled against him, tears slipping down his face.  

As Keith collapsed into a broad chest, stronf wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight. One hand came up to smooth down his hair in slow, soothing strokes. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “We’ll figure it out, one step at a time. But first things first, we’re going to get you cleaned up, get you some food, and then—” he pulled back just enough to look Keith in the eyes, “—you’re going to rest. No arguments.”  

He hesitated, searching Shiro’s face, and for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—he felt the tiniest bit of relief crack through the thick clouds of shame. It was still there, heavy and suffocating, but it wasn't consuming him alive like it had been.

“…Okay,” Keith finally allowed, feeling like he lost and won all at the same time in a confusing cocktail of emotions.

Shiro gave him a small, relieved smile. “Good. Things’ll be better, you'll see.”  

Keith was guided gently into the bathroom, his touch firm, like he knew what he was doing. Something about Shiro seemed so…reassured… and confident and put together and it made it easy to follow his lead. And Keith was so drained and so done , and as much as he hated to admit it, he was relieved that Shiro was taking over. He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

The showerhead came to life as Shiro turned on the water, adjusting the temperature before looking back at Keith, who stood there awkwardly, his arms wrapped around himself. The shame was still there, pressing in on all sides, but Shiro didn’t say anything to make him feel bad. He just helped Keith out of his clothes, peeling the damp, clammy, gross fabric of the skintight Blade suit away and tossing it draped against the sink without comment.

As Keith moved to stand under the warm spray, his eyes shut tight as the water washed over him. He should be able to do this himself—he knew that—but his limbs felt too heavy, his hands shook. No way he was effectively cleaning himself. He couldn't do anything right. Pathetic. He flinched when Shiro’s hands gently guided him to sit on the small shower bench all the paladin showers seemed to have.

“Hey, relax. I got you,” Shiro said softly, grabbing a washcloth and lathering it with soap.

Keith didn’t argue. He let Shiro wash him, his hands gentle but thorough as he worked the soap over Keith’s arms and back, across his chest, gently lifting Keith's arms to scrub under his armpits and bending over to get Keith's legs and flaccid dick. It was far from clinical, but it was efficient, brisk, gentle. And through it all, Keith sat still, head bowed. He didn't even have the energy to feel the humiliation that would have been crawling under his skin. He was tired, his skin was raw, chaffed from being in a wet skin-tight training suit for nearly 2 days. He should hate this—should feel like a burden—but Shiro’s touch was steady, grounding. He hated himself for wanting this , for liking the care.

When Shiro put his hands in Keith's hair and scrubbed in a way that gently scratched at his scalp he nearly melted. He must have let out a pleased hum, which coaxed a little smile out of his caregiver. 

By the time Shiro finished rinsing him off, Keith was blinking heavily, his body feeling weighted in a different way—clean and warm and safe , even if he didn’t deserve it. It was nice.

Shiro wrapped him in a big, fluffy towel, rubbing him down with the same gentleness. Keith stood still, letting himself be handled, feeling too drained and too useless to do it himself. He barely registered when Shiro dried his hair with another towel, ruffling it slightly before leading him back to his room.

They stripped his bed, and Keith flushed as the mattress protector that was under his bed was wiped easily with soap and water. They quickly got a spare set of sheets on and that was that.

Keith expected to be handed clothes and left to dress himself, but instead, Shiro guided him to sit on the bed, rummaging through a different bag. Keith blinked blearily at him, but his stomach dropped when he saw what Shiro pulled out—a thick nighttime diaper, one of the ones Keith had to be really little to even tolerate.

“Shiro,” he said, his voice wavering but firm. “You promised.”

Shiro paused, looking up at him with steady, unreadable eyes.

Keith swallowed, his throat tight. “You promised you would never take being big away from me.”

There was something firm, unyielding, in his eyes, as Shiro took a moment to respond. “Yes,” he said evenly. “And I meant that. I'm never going to stop you from coming back up. But Keith—you’re forcing yourself to be big, and it’s making you sick. A chemical imbalance from not regressing properly can do worse things to you than just exhaustion and stress.” His voice dipped lower, weighted with something heavier. Fear. “You know that, don’t you?”

Keith swallowed hard, sure, he had heard of awful things happening because of lack of regressing. He did know that.

He had felt it.

The constant exhaustion, the way his body ached more than it should, the way his brain fogged over until he was barely functioning. The way he crashed, worse and worse each time. He had heard you could get stuck in a chronic regression. He theoretically, knew all this, but… in practice it was a lot harder.

Shiro let out a slow breath. “I want you to have control, Keith. I want you to choose when you’re Little or Big. And right now, I know you want to be big. Your headspace—I want you to be able to choose it. But if you don’t take care of yourself, if you don’t let yourself drop when you need it…” His expression darkened slightly, eyes filled with something raw. “Then at some point, your body is going to force it. And you won’t have a say in it. I don't like that you have to be cornered or corralled into feeling safe. ”

Keith let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping. Damn . 

Shiro reached for the diaper again, but this time, he didn’t push. He just held it up, giving Keith the choice.

Keith swallowed. His face burned. Wearing…that was so embarrassing. But, with slow, reluctant movements, he let the towel slip from his shoulders and laid back against the bed. “Okay,” he murmured, eyes averted. If he kicked and screamed now, Shiro would back off, he knew that, but he would hover and check in and worry more than he was now. It wasn't worth it.

“I know its not what you're use to but, this—” Shiro said, giving Keith a sympathetic smile,“—will keep you safe and dry. You do what's comfortable for you right now, bathroom-wise, but in case of accidents—this keeps your skin a lot happier. You've got one heck of a rash.”

Keith’s breath hitched, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him. He was trying so hard to be okay with this, but—

Shiro didn’t even trust him to stay dry.

The thought stung. He should be able to do that, shouldn’t he? But at the same time…Shiro also wasn’t asking him to. No one was telling him to be big. No one was expecting him to fix it all himself.

No one was going to get mad at him if he couldn’t.

The realization settled over him like a heavy, warm blanket, making his shoulders sag. He really was going to be getting help with everything .

Fine .

No matter how hard he willed it, he couldn't relax. He let out a shaky breath, his fingers picking at the clean sheets. His brain still screamed at him to fight, to push back, to prove that he could be big, that he could handle it—but he was exhausted . Shiro was so stressed that Keith was going to die or something. Maybe things really were bad . 

Having had plenty of practice, Shiro worked efficiently, rubbing cool lotion over the irritated skin on Keith’s thighs. Keith closed his eyes tightly as he felt Shiro lift his legs and slide the diaper under him, taping him in snugly. The padding crinkled as Keith shifted, and he let out a soft whimper, curling his hands into the blanket beneath him.

Shiro smoothed a hand over his hair. “Shh, you’re okay,” he soothed. “All done.”

Keith blinked up at him, sniffling again. His whole body felt heavy, warm, safe . The knowledge that he wouldn’t wake up to cold, wet sheets— that it was okay to have an accident —eased something deep inside him that he hadn’t realized was wound so tight. 

Shiro helped him sit up, gently pulling a too large t-shirt iver his head and shimmied a pair of soft sweatpants over the thick padding, and Keith felt the bulk between his legs as Shiro patted his bottom lightly. The affectionate gesture made something in Keith’s chest flutter, a small sound catching in the back of his throat that he quickly swallowed down.

Shiro didn’t comment on it, just smiled knowingly and ruffled Keith’s damp hair again. “There we go. Feel better?”

After a pregnant pause, Keith nodded, chewing his lip, feeling small but safe in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time. It had been almost two months since he was in this room and had angrily told off a devastated Shiro that he was done with all of this baby bullshit shit. Well. Old habits died hard.

He had told Shiro that he was done, stormed out when Shiro wasn't even strong enough to chase after him and then left. Had Shiro even been okay? He had been too consumed with himself to notice. Suddenly, his throat burned, his fingers curling into the hem of his shirt as a wave of something heavy swelled inside him—too many emotions all at once, pressing down on his ribs until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

A part of him screamed for comfort from the very person he had hurt, and before he could think, before he could stop himself, Keith reached out, grabbing desperately at Shiro’s wrist, his fingers clutching tight.

Shiro’s expression, which was already unbearably tender, softened into sympathy. “Oh, honey,” he murmured, shifting closer, his voice full of gentle understanding. “C’mere.”

Keith barely needed the invitation. He buried himself in Shiro’s chest, pressing his face against the soft fabric of his shirt. Shiro smelled like love and home and snuggles and everything good . His breath came in short, shaky bursts as his arms wrapped tightly around Shiro’s middle.

Shiro in turn, didn’t hesitate for a second, wrapping his arms around Keith and holding him close. He began firmly rubbing soothing circles into his back. “I got you,” he murmured, his voice warm and reassuring. “You’re okay, Keith. Just breathe. You're doing so well, sweetheart. I know, I know, this is a lot.”

Keith let out a breathy noise between a whine and a moan against his shoulder, his fingers curling even tighter, his grip a vice on Shiro’s shirt at the praise. A quiet sob bubbled out of his throat. His face burned, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He just needed this —needed the warmth, the safety, the soft, steady presence of the one person who always made him feel okay.

“You all right?” Shiro asked, after a long while had passed, still rubbing his back in soothing circles. He moved to stand up, taking both of them and setting Keith on his feet. Keith looked up at him and nodded.

He felt wrecked .

“Good,” Shrio said, pressing a kiss to the crown of his hand. After Keith had settled down a little, Shiro took his hand and led him out of the room. Being in the hallway made Keith nervous. “C’mon, Let's go get something to eat. It's just about lunchtime.”

Shiro led Keith down the quiet halls of the castleship, holding his hand in a way that made Keith feel safe. The thick padding beneath his sweatpants was noticeable to him as he walked, and Keith felt a familiar flush creep up his neck. He hadn’t worn any sort of protection in months and going from underwear straight to nighttime diapers was like going from zero to one hundred. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on being back at the castle but he was trying to figure out how to walk without such a wide stance. Focus on something else. The castle, right. The other worldly shade of blue. The faint hum that ran underneath the floors. The clean smell that wasn't quite sterile. 

The kitchen was brightly lit when they stepped inside, and Keith barely had time to brace himself before Hunk turned from the counter, his face lighting up.  

“Keith! You’re back!” Hunk beamed, his excitement genuine as always. “Man, it’s good to—” He trailed off slightly, his eyes flickering over Keith, taking in the damp tear tracks still visible on his cheeks, the way he was practically hiding behind Shiro, Keith wanted to melt into the floor as Hunks eyes flitted down to the unmistakable bulk beneath his sweatpants, no matter how loose they were. 

The smile on Hunk’s face softened, his expression shifting into something quieter, more understanding. It wasn't a coo per say, but it definitely wasn't a tone you used with stable adults. “It’s really good to see you,” he said simply, giving Keith an easy out. “I was just making something for lunch—uh, you hungry? I can whip up something quick if you want.”

Keith hesitated, but Shiro’s hand gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “That sounds good, huh, Keith?”  

Respond. He needed to respond. He wasn't too useless to do that without help. Shiro thought he couldn't handle himself, didn't think he was any good to be on the team—

Shiro gave him another squeeze and his eyes focused and darted to Hunk. He cringed—subtlety was never his strong suit and Hunk looked like he wanted to hug him.

Keith swallowed, nodding hesitantly. “Hi, Hunk. Yeah... that’d be nice,” he mumbled, still unsure how to navigate this. He felt like a little kid tagging along behind Shiro, unsure of his place. He had been so bad and Hunk didn't even know that he was in so much trouble.

Hunk grinned, turning back to the stove. “Great! I’ve got some warm soup I'm actually working on right now, and I can whip up the space equivalent of grilled cheese in, like, five minutes flat.”  

It was nice to watch as Hunk busied himself, the normalcy of it all making some of the tension in his chest ease. Hunk wasn’t treating him like he was that broken or fragile—just Keith. And somehow, that made it easier to stay.  

Settling into one of the chairs at the table, he tugged his legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. He knew it probably didn't do him any favors for looking big, but he was going for comfort, here. Shiro took a seat next to him, and a warm hand rubbed his back soothingly.

“So, Keith,” Hunk said as he flipped a sandwich, keeping his tone casual as he glanced in Shiro and Keith's. “You staying for a while, or just passing through?”  

Keith bit his lip, unsure how to answer. Shiro spoke for him, his voice gentle but firm. “He’s staying.”  

Hunk gave a longer look over his shoulder, nodding like he already figured as much. “Cool. It'll be good to see you for more than a couple of hours, Keith. We've really missed having you around.” 

Keith felt something warm bloom in his chest at that, something safe. He ducked his head, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks. I've missed you all, too.”  

“Awww! Keith—you're gonna make me cry!” Hunk gushed and chattered about as he slid a plate of food in front of Keith a few minutes later along with a bowl of soup and after a pause, ruffled his hair lightly. “Eat up, buddy. You look like you could use it.”  

Humming appreciatively, he started picking at the sandwich in slow little bites. As usual, Hunk’s food was great. The soup was good too, but even better when Hunk told him to dip the sandwich into the soup. Eating finally soothed the gnawing ache of hunger, but it didn’t do much to untangle the mess in his head. 

Shiro’s steady presence beside him was nice, but there was tension there, too. Keith could feel the weight of their…disagreement. It sat heavy in his chest, an echo of their fight last night. He knew Shiro was still upset, and worse—he was probably right to be. Keith was a lot of work and kept messing up. He was trying. 

As more of the team filtered in, their voices filled the kitchen with warmth and familiarity. Pidge settled into a chair across from him, studying him for a moment with friendly eyes before offering a small, teasing smile. “Wow, Keith, didn't expect to see you here. What happened? The Blades finally realize you were too cool for them?”  

Keith stiffened slightly, his fingers curling around his spoon. Before he could come up with anything that didn’t sound pathetic like No, they just kicked me off active duty because I couldn't keep my shit together for five minutes , or snarky like, Glad you asked! Actually they decided I needed some special time off so now I'm vacationing here to watch you all save the universe while I sit on my ass, Shiro answered for him. 

“Keith was just talking about taking some time to be here,” he said, his tone leaving little room for further questioning. “He’s staying with us for a while.”  

Keith kept his head down, nodding mutely in agreement. It felt easier to let Shiro do the talking, to let him handle it, because he didn’t trust himself not to crack under the weight of everyone's gazes. He was sad, he was bitter. He didn't want an audience to the Crash and Burn Keith Show Part 2 Electric Bugaloo.

Pidge didn’t push, just nodded. “Cool. Well, it’s good to have you back.”  

Lance greeted him next, his usual teasing was toned down as he slid into the other seat beside Keith. “Hey, man,” he said, bumping Keith’s arm with a friendly nudge, “Haven’t seen you in a hot minute. The, uh… Blades treating you okay?”  

Keith hesitated, feeling the familiar warmth of Lance’s concern, but still too tangled up in his own shame to meet his gaze. He shrugged instead, murmuring, “It’s fine.” He avoided saying I'm fine , since Shiro probably wouldn't let that slide right now.

Shiro’s hand rested a little heavier on his back for a moment, and Keith restrained himself from letting out a sigh, knowing he probably didn’t sound convincing to anyone in the room.  

The atmosphere remained light, but Keith could feel it—how careful they all were, how they seemed to glance toward Shiro every time they addressed him. They were treating him gently and really nice, and it made him feel so small .  

He should be relieved that no one was outright asking questions, but the way they talked around it, the way their gazes focused on details and then looked away, made it clear they all knew or at least had an inkling of what was going on. Maybe not the details, but enough. Enough to know he had crashed and burned hard enough that Shiro had to come get him.  

Keith poked at his food, his appetite fading under the weight of his thoughts. He barely noticed when Hunk refilled his soup, when Lance nudged him gently with his shoulder. He only perked up slightly when Shiro gave his back another reassuring rub, leaning in to murmur quietly, “Eat, Keith. You need it.”  

He hated being micro-managed and Keith, pressed his forehead to his palm for a moment before reluctantly taking another bite. He wasn’t sure if he was eating because he wanted to, or because Shiro was here watching him. Maybe both.  

Conversation flowed around him and Keith found himself letting Shiro answer most questions directed his way, feeling too worn down and honestly a little embarrassed (he hoped they didn't look under the table bit it was only a matter of time before he stood and his padding wasn't subtle) to say much himself. Every now and then, someone would shoot him a soft smile or tried to include him despite his lack of engagement, but it only made him feel worse—like they all knew he had failed, but were too nice to say anything out loud.  

He hated it. Hated feeling this exposed. Not like he was contributing anything of value--he hadn’t said much, hadn’t done much, just went through the motions. Everything felt like it was weighing on his mind—how much he’d messed up, how disappointed Shiro must be, regardless of what he pretended and how obvious it was to everyone that he couldn't handle being big.

Shiro must have sensed his overwhelm because he stood, placing a gentle hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Hey. Let’s go have some quiet time,” he said, his voice low and just for Keith but clearly leaving no room for argument but still kind enough that Keith didn’t feel like he was being ordered around.

Still staring down at his empty plate, he gave a small nod. He wanted to prove he could listen, that he could be good. Without a word, he pushed back his chair and followed Shiro out of the kitchen, his movements meek and obedient as he fell into step beside his caregiver. The walk back to what he assumed was Shiro’s room was quiet, each step feeling heavier than the last.

They walked right past Shiro's room and then, they walked right past Keith's room and suddenly, Keith had a very good idea of where they were headed. He hated that he was right when they stopped in front of the nurser—room full of Little people things.

Keith hovered awkwardly by the door as Shiro moved around the room, tidying up a little before settling into the large rocking chair in the corner. Feeling uncertain, Keith shifted from foot to food. He knew that he didn’t really deserve whatever comfort Shiro was about to offer.

Shiro looked at him, his expression calm but expectant, and patted his thigh lightly. “C’mere, Keith.”

Keith swallowed hard, feeling his heart pound as he hesitated, but then his feet moved on their own. He approached the rocker slowly, and after a brief pause, he carefully slotted himself into Shiro’s lap. It felt a little awkward, he hadn't really done something like this in awhile, but Shiro's arms wrapped around him, steady and sure. The tension that was tight in Keith's shoulders bled out as he was hugged. 

Oh. That was nice.

He curled up in Shiro’s lap, amongst the warmth and comfort of all, making himself as small as possible. He couldn’t do a lot of things right—couldn’t be a good Paladin, couldn’t be a good Blade—but he could still fit here, in Shiro’s arms. And somehow, that made things feel a little more okay.

Tucking his nose against Shiro’s neck, seeking the quiet comfort he couldn’t give himself without being asked, without it being offered. Shiro held him close, his grip steady and sure, rocking them gently. The soft creak of the chair filled the room, a slow, soothing rhythm that settled the mangled knot of anxiety deep in Keith’s chest.

Shiro’s voice broke the quiet, rough around the edges, thick with something Keith didn’t want to name. “I wish we didn’t have to do it like this—when it's bad enough that you don't really have a say. I don't want you to drop because people say you need to, I want you to do it because it makes you happy.”

Keith’s heart squeezed at the words, a deep ache that tightened in his chest. He wished that too. Wished he could be strong, could be better—could be big or at least be ok being little. But here, like this, all he could do was let Shiro hold him and pretend that none of it hurt.

A warm hand rubbed slow, steady strokes down his back, and Keith's eyes fluttered as he let himself lean into the comfort. He felt his eyes drift shut, his muscles unwinding bit by bit. He was unwinding, melting away under the soft, rhythmic pats against his back. He hated how good it felt. He loved how safe it made him feel. Here, at least, he didn't have to pretend to be something he wasn’t.

His body, lulled by the warmth and exhaustion, must have relaxed too much, because he felt the slow, spreading warmth between his thighs as he wet himself. It was really nice. It was gross . He knew better than that. His breath caught, shame crashing over him in waves. He pressed his face deeper into Shiro’s chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice, despite being on the other man's lap. 

Shiro’s hand shifted, resting gently on Keith’s padded bottom, and with a few thoughtful pats, he sighed. 

Keith squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his voice coming out small and ashamed. Damn it. “I—I’m sorry. I didn't mean to.”

“I know,” Shiro said softly, his tone steady and reassuring. “It’s okay.”

It wasn't okay—not really—when he knew it was just another thing added to the growing list of worries Shiro was keeping a tally of in his head. Keith not eating enough. Keith not sleeping. Keith losing more and more control. Shiro was always worrying about him, always trying to keep him safe. He was worse now and Shiro was probably so disappointed and concerned and Keith himself was the reason.

And Keith hated it—hated that this was what he had become.

After a little while, the warmth and steady motion of the rocking chair lulled Keith into a soft haze. His eyelids drooped as he drifted somewhere between awake and asleep, safe in the gentle rhythm of the rocker. The quiet creaks of the chair and the soothing pats against his back kept him soothed, kept him small. Probably what Shiro wanted , but at this point all of the fight had drained out of him.

And yet—he still wasn’t sinking.

He wanted to. He should have dropped easily, the way he had before. It was all there—the warmth, the safety, the quiet reassurances. His body felt little, his limbs sluggish and his head fuzzy, but that final step, that last little slip into complete littleness—

It wouldn’t come.

His chest ached, too raw and exposed to let go entirely. His mind wouldn’t let him have it, wouldn’t let him disappear into the safety of it, not when the shame still clung so tightly, not when his head was still screaming at him about how wrong this was, how weak he had become.

He wasn't sure when but he was shaken out of his stupor when Shiro's hand gave a final, tender squeeze to his shoulder, and Keith barely stirred as he was shifted bridal-style in his arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up, buddy,” Shiro murmured, his voice gentle but firm and up they went. Keith swallowed back a whine building in his throat from the loss of the swaying and rocking.

Keith blinked sluggishly, hardly processing the transfer from the chair, and burying his face back into Shiro's collarbone as they entered the hallway. He wasn't sure whose room he was in and he didn't particularly care as he was laid down on a bed, his back sinking into the familiar softness while Shiro rooted around for supplies. He expected to be pulled up to his feet, expected Shiro to hand him fresh clothes and give him space to change on his own. That was how they usually did it—Shiro always offered him at least that small bit of autonomy when he was between spaces.  

But this time, Shiro didn’t.  

Instead, Keith felt his sweats being gently tugged down, his legs lifted without any prompting, the tapes of his soaked diaper peeled away with practiced ease. And Keith didn’t move. He didn’t help. He wasn’t expected to.  

The realization sent a flush of heat crawling up his neck. He was being changed like a baby—on his back, completely passive—and instead of feeling angry or resistant, he just felt... embarrassed. Embarrassed and ridiculously little. And worse, he was grateful he didn’t have to do anything.  

Good. He couldn’t make any more mistakes if he wasn't even doing anything. 

Shiro didn’t expect him to be anything but this. Small. Needy. Completely cared for in a way that made parts of him cringe, but soothed the other half, the one that craved and needed.

Keith’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but he couldn’t deny how warm and safe it made him feel. 

His thumb found its way into his mouth before he could think too hard about it, filling the empty space. He sucked lazily, eyes fluttering shut as Shiro worked with steady, familiar efficiency. In short order he had him cleaned him up with warmed wipes, smoothed on cream, and taped him snugly into a fresh diaper. Each step was gentle, and unhurried, and Keith felt boneless under his ministrations.

He was redressed in fresh, soft clothes, and went to sit up with a drowsy snort, but Shiro pressed a hand to his chest, easing him back against the pillows. “Nap time,” he said softly, tucking the blanket up to Keith’s chin and giving his chest an affectionate little pat.  

Keith nodded faintly, he was so tired . He should probably argue that didn’t need to sleep, didn’t need to be babied. But the exhaustion weighed on him, and he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

But sleep was already claiming him, dragging him down into the comforting numbness of it all. And for once, he let it.

Chapter Text

After his post-lunch nap, the rest of the day passed in a slow, syrupy haze, and Keith was.. noticing every way Shiro tried to nudge him past that stupid in-between where he was stuck between headspaces. And noticing was just a nice way of saying Shiro was slowly starting to use every move in his arsonal that he could possibly use to drop Keith.

He was so fucked.

It started with smaller things, like the way Shiro’s hand would rest on his lower back when they walked like Keith needed to be guided like a lost little kid. What he was finding he really didn't appreciate whatsoever when he was big were fingers occasionally drifting down further than his lower back to pat his bottom in a way that made Keith want to vanish from this plane of existence. 

And Shiro, the traitor did it in a way that was always casual, always brief, a little pat pat— but Keith knew what it meant. He was being checked , just like how Shiro always did when Keith was deep in his little space, too little to really be embarrassed by such things.

What he hated more was when Shiro hummed contemplatively and checked again because more often than not he only went back for another pat to Keith's butt again if he was wet which left Keith with the unpleasant choices of either having to dodge Shiro's hand (he looked guilty and wet anyways) or stand there and endure because it was usually a precursor to being hauled off for a change.

It was always a losing battle. Shiro didn’t even look at him when he did it, like it was normal, routine, expected. It was nice— No it wasn't! It made him want to yank his hair out. Shiro knew what he was doing and it didn't really feel good not to be trusted with his own tolieting…on the other hand, it was maybe a little nice not to be responsible for something as mundane as the bathroom, even though he definitely did not need any protection thank you very much.

He guessed he really was off balance. His warring states of mind made something in his chest tighten, a tangled mess of emotions he couldn’t sort through fast enough. Frustration. Embarrassment. Relief. He was on a tilt a whirl of emotions and it gave him tummy butterflies— it made him nervous —at the same time it made him nauseous.

Because he knew he needed it. Knew he was standing on the edge, wavering, too raw and exposed to be anything but whatever this was , deep at the bottom of the pit, trying to claw his way up, because even though there was a ladder thrown down at him, climbing up the latter would mean he was admitting he needed a ladder in the first place. Ok— he knew the ladder would actually help him, but knowing didn’t make it easier and it didn't fix this. 

He was far past doing anything to crawl out of the hole himself (it was too deep this time) and he hoped he wasn't stuck as some needy insecure half-Little for the rest of his life. He had reluctantly given his consent to let Shiro help him drop, whatever that meant.

So yeah, Shiro was doing things that were starting to get pretty embarrassing.

And then there were the things Shiro wouldn’t let him do.

He was minding his own business and had reached for a cup at dinner, perfectly capable of pouring it himself, but Shiro had gently steered his hand away, “Too little for that, buddy. Let me,” with a saccharine grin and a hair ruffle.

A cup. Of water. Shiro had to be kidding.

Keith had scowled, feeling a flash of irritation as he smoothed his hair back down.

 Dinner was its own affair.

 Maybe it was damning, but he didn't protest when a sippy cup of water was placed in front of him; he just resigned himself to drinking out of the sink spicket later because no way. He just sat there, picking at his food while the others carried on like nothing was amiss. Keith’s grip on his fork tightened. They must have talked to Shiro.

That was the only explanation for why no one even blinked when Shiro did things , why no one teased him when he paused before responding or looked to Shiro automatically for things—aagh! He was so obviously dropping it hurt . Regardless, Keith was quickly realizing that the team was completely unhelpful when it came to escaping Shiro’s persistent babying.

Which was a complete and utter betrayal .

He was thinking maybe Pidge would roll her eyes and make a sarcastic comment about how ridiculous this all was or mutter under her breath a little louder at least. Some loud questioning from the Alteans at least? Maybe Hunk, who was supposed to be nice, would at least acknowledge that Keith was too big to be comfortable for all this. Or hey, maybe Lance—who should be making fun of him, and cooing and teasing in that obnoxious way of his—would actually call Shiro out instead of just rolling with it like this was all just a Tuesday evening. Because in his head, he had assumed at least one of them would back him up. That someone —anyone — would step in and say, Hey, maybe this is a little excessive. Why can't Keith get his own cup? Why can't Keith wipe his own face?

But noooooo.

Instead, it was like they had all been conscripted into the cause, and Keith was surrounded. He had no allies here. 

They were all apart of the scheme where they wanted him to be a stupid baby. 

Maybe it felt like such a betrayal because it screamed intervention. All they were missing was the big banner that said “ Keith, Please regress already” . 

Yes, he knew he needed to let go. His body ached for it, wanted the relief of sinking fully into the safety Shiro was offering. Beinf stuck—caught somewhere between big and little, unable to fully drop, unable to pull himself out either, was awful.  But the reality of the solution , of being babied so openly in front of the team, of being so obviously cared for—

“You need the butter, my boy? What do you say?” Coran prompted in a gentle tone as Keith was extending his arm to reach over for it—like Keith was a toddler that needed to be reminded of his manners. 

He wanted to roll his eyes but he didn't want to be mean to Coran of all people, even if Coran was hopping in on the babying Keith train, which he didn't love.

“Coran, could I please have the butter?” Keith said in a monotone voice, barely suppressing a put-upon sigh.

“Very good, lad.” The mustached man praised, “Some fine manners you have! Why I say that's the kind of language that could earn you a sweet after dinner, hmm?” 

Keith didn't know if the flush warming his cheeks was from the sheer ridiculousness of the situation or maybe a little from the praise but either way—he needed this to stop.

“Good boy,” Shiro murmured, patting his back again. “You're being so cooperative today.”

Oh hell no. Cooperative ? Like he was a toddler on his best behavior?

Keith groaned softly and thumped his head gently against the edge of the table. He was done. He was officially giving up. He was set up for failure—this whole dinner was rigged for him to lose.

“Aww,” Pidge teased immediately, honing in like a predator on its prey. She had years of annoying little sibling training, her voice all mock sympathy. “Is it baby bedtime already?”

“I am not a baby, I'm older than you ,” Keith said through clenched teeth, glaring at his food goo from where his cheek was hot against the cool table.

Allura chuckled politely at the sheer embarrassment Keith radiated, Pidge openly snorted, and Hunk at the very least made a valiant effort to look anywhere else. Thank you, Hunk.

Keith straightened up and miserably pushed away his bowl, wondering if he could get away with climbing under the table and never coming back up.

“Can I be done now?” he asked a little desperately, voice cracking with residual mortification.

“Three more bites,” Shiro replied, inspecting his plate and then gently pushing it closer again, “and you can play in the living room or we can have some quiet time in my room.”

It was too much. Too much attention, too much coddling, too much in front of people. Shiro knew exactly what Keith needed, and he wasn’t letting him run from it. 

“I'll lay down after dinner then,” Keith said sullenly, forcing three more bites. His stomach wasn't exactly welcoming food with his nerves right now bit at least he didn't have to finish his plate.

After a pleased nod from his caregiver, Keith stood up, done pretending to pick at his food goo, and avoiding eye contact because Lance and Hunk were giving him that stupid smile that you gave really little kids. He sighed and stood to take his empty plate to the sink, kids were allowed to do that,, right? Apparently not, because Shiro intercepted him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Relax, I got it. Give me a second to tidy up. Why don't you ask Pidge to play with your magnet cubes? Then we can go lay down in a second.”

Keith bristled at that, feeling like he could definitely handle carrying a stupid plate, but the way Shiro looked at him—eyebrow raised expectantly—made his indignation whither. He hated that look. 

He sat back down with a huff—after politely declining Pidge's seemingly genuine offer to go get the magnet cubes (he almost preferred the teasing snark)—folding his arms, frustrated that this method kept working. Frustrated that deep down, a small part of him liked being told what to do, it was safe. He was good when he did what they told him to do. He could do a good job if they would just tell him how to be good.

He was trying .

He really was.

But every time he felt himself slip, felt his body relax into the care surrounding him, his brain panicked, screaming that this was wrong, that he shouldn’t need this, that he needed to fight it before it was too late .

It was hard and he wanted to be comfortable and little already but… it was hard to be okay with help when he had been refusing himself for so long. The idea of being out of control made him feel scared and the fear won out over the possibility of being loved every single time.

By the time dinner was over, Keith was wrung out, his emotions tangled into something too big to sort through. Everything had been too much, was too much. At least with dinner over and people dispersing to do their own thing, the team wasn’t watching. He could stop spiraling and get out of his own head now that he didn’t have to suffer through their too-normal acceptance of his humiliation. 

But now he was going to be alone with Shiro, and that was somehow even harder, because Shiro wouldn't really pull any punches with just the two of them. But the other man didn’t say anything about Keith’s reluctance as he led him into his quarters, but he didn’t have to. He gave Keith a reassuring smile, like he knew the cacophony of panic and need going through Keith's mind.

—

For the past month, he had fought so hard against being little, had resisted and resented every step of the way. But now that Shiro had taken control, had made things easier, had helped— at this point he couldn’t tell if he missed making his own choices or if he just missed feeling like he had them.

So here he was, standing stiffly in the middle of Shiro's room as Shiro hummed to himself and pulled out the nighttime supplies.

And God , it was so much worse than he expected.

The first thing to hit him was the onesies and sleepers. Keith’s stomach squirmed at the sight of them—soft, pastel-colored, some with little embroidered stars or moons, all clearly designed for someone firmly in baby territory. He knew theoretically he had worn stuff like this before when he was really little, but seeing them now, in this state of miserable limbo between big and small, made his whole body uncomfortably hot with the idea of wearing one now .

Shiro must have noticed his reaction, because he softened slightly, holding one up. “This one’s nice and warm,” he offered, like that was supposed to help. “Doesn't it look comfy?”

“…Do I have to wear one..?,” he asked shyly, looking away from sheer embarrassment. Was this really supposed to help?

Shiro didn't seem put off by Keith's reaction. He just smiled. “You don't have to, buddy. You can wear your sweats tonight, if uh, that's what you want.”

Keith blinked at how easily Shiro offered him that concession. His eyebrows lifted to his hairline. “I can wear regular pajamas…?”

“You can certainly try,” his caregiver said with an amused smile.

Keith’s mouth opened, ready to ask him what the fuck he was talking about , but the words died when Shiro arched a brow, gaze flickering briefly down to the padding already set aside on the bed.

Oh .

Because yeah. Okay. Maybe the bulk of a diaper was already bad enough under loose sweats—there was no way they were fitting under his normal pajama pants and onesies were easier—but guh , did Shiro have to be so casual about it?

“Fine,” he grumbled, cheeks still on fire as he yanked the plainest onesie out of Shiro’s hands before he could say anything else. His sweats probably needed a wash anyway. It was starting to feel a little grimy from being slept in and being used as an outfit all day. 

The rest of the routine was exactly what Keith expected, much to his embarrassment. There was something about the slow, methodical way he went through the routine, guiding Keith with practiced ease, like he was already expecting compliance, like Keith already needed help with everything and anything.

He was changed without having to offer any help, guided into soft, thicker padding and then zipped snugly into the sleeper, which felt ridiculously babyish anyways despite being plain (he figured it was the little attached feeties). He refused to look at himself in the mirror as Shiro guided him toward the bed situation.

Which was not what he expected at all.

Because apparently Keith was not sleeping in his own room again tonight. Or for a while. Maybe yesterday had been a peace offering until Keith had shown Shiro that he couldn't change his gross clothes, or keep his stupid bed dry.

He hugged his arms around himself, glancing toward the additional bed that had been set up in Shiro’s room. He wasn’t even allowed to sleep in his own bed. His ‘choices’ were this bed or curled up next to Shiro, like a baby that couldn’t be trusted to sleep alone. Well. At least it wasn't a massive crib or something equally as humiliating.

He wasn't quite sure how to feel. For so long, sleep had been something he stole in between training, crashing whenever his body forced him to and praying he woke up dry. He had never had a structured routine for sleep when he was at the blade base and even on the castleship, had never been put to bed in any way that was consistent unless he was already dropped.

Now he guessed he had a routine. And boy, it was… thorough.

Shiro left no corner unturned; Keith had been diapered, dressed, teeth brushed (he swatted Shiro away because he could brush his own teeth even when he was small), and had his hair brushed all in short order. He was tucked in, choosing the smaller cot-like bed (he didn't think he could sleep next to Shiro and wake up big and he was trying to let himself drop but he was terrified). He was guided into blankets that were soft and smelled like fresh laundry and something distinctly like home .

It was overwhelming. It was good. 

His caregiver sat on the edge of the bed, watching him closely, and Keith knew—knew—what was coming before Shiro even reached for it. There were some…things he didn't sleep without when he was little. 

Sure enough, Shiro picked up a bottle and a pacifier from the nightstand, offering them with an easy, expectant smile. “You want one while I read a story?”

Keith stiffened and after a moment, as if snapping himself out of a stupor, he shook his head vehemently, refusing the… things… Shiro offered before bedtime. He didn’t want it. He didn’t need it. Sometimes he felt like if he dropped people would realize he was just a stupid baby, then he’d never be allowed to do adult things again, never be allowed to be big again . 

But he wanted it.

He knew he wanted it.

But if he took it—if he let himself take it—that would be it. He was supposed to be okay with that but he couldn't—

Keith swallowed hard, his throat tight. Shiro was waiting for a verbal answer. 

“…No.” He shook his head “no” again, squirming uncomfortably under Shiro’s gaze. “I don’t need it.”

Shiro didn’t argue. He just hummed, setting them back down. “Okay.”

Keith exhaled shakily, relieved that Shiro wasn’t pushing—but also…

Also a little disappointed.

Which was stupid .

Shiro didn’t seem bothered, he just reached over and grabbed a book from his nightstand. It was a brightly colored kids storybook, a well worn favorite since they had found it in a bartering trading post. The illustrations had appealed to an adult Keith and for Little Keith it was definitely a favorite. “Alright, kiddo. Story time, but first let's do a friends check. You got Bunny and blankie?”

Sifting under the covers of his bed, Keith did in fact, find blankie and Bunny wasn't far behind, relocated here from the diaper bag after he had been changed.

“...Yeah,” Keith said slowly as he peered at him cautiously, trying to gauge if this was another way to push him into being smaller. It all was, of course it all was but…even adults read stories before bedtime. He and Shiro would just be reading one together which sounded…nice. 

Shiro glanced at him, tilting his head slightly. “You want me to read here, or do you want to come up with me?”

Keith frowned, looking toward Shiro’s bed, then back at his own. His tummy fluttered. He wanted to sleep next to Shiro, wanted the warmth and safety, but—no. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to wake up that little. Being tired and cozy before bed always made it harder.

“…Here,” he mumbled, gripping blankie and Bunny a little tighter.

The older man nodded like he expected that answer. Deciding that Keith had what he needed, Shiro positioned himself so he was lying down next to him instead of staying perched on the edge of the bed, which was nice since Keith could see the pictures easier this way. Stretching one arm behind him, he opened the book with one hand. If he had to turn the page and Keith scooted any closer, his arm would have to come across Keith and he would be trapped in a hug.

Keith paused.

For a second, he stayed put, keeping a careful distance between them. But then Shiro started reading, and his voice a steady and comforting cadence and before Keith realized what he was doing, he was scooting closer to get a better look at the pictures.

And a little closer.

A liiiiiittle more.

Until he was right there, tucked under Shiro’s arm, his head resting lightly against his shoulder, warm where the prosthetic met flesh. Keith let himself inhale slowly. Shiro smelled like home, a little bit of pine from the soap he used and Keith drank it in greedily. 

If Shiro noticed, he didn’t react or tease. He just kept reading, his voice calm and rhythmic, his chest rising and falling with his breaths and his throat rumbled in time with the words. Keith gave up all pretenses of supporting his own weight, letting himself sink into the warmth of something he had been sorely missing at the cold Blade base.

His whole body felt heavy in a good way. His eyes fluttered, fingers curled loosely into blankie, and before he could think too hard about it, his thumb crept toward his mouth and it would be so good to — he stopped himself just before it got there, arm stilling as he settled for feeling the texture and pressure of his fingernail against his lips.

His eyes flickered nervously to Shiro, but Shiro didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him, but Keith knew he had noticed when the arm draped around him gave a little squeeze. It made him feel good. Shiro noticed everything, which made him feel special.

He barely noticed when the story ended, only dimly aware of the book being set aside and the weight of both of Shiro’s arms wrapping around him fully in a hug.

Huh. Guess he was sleeping with Shiro either way, he blearily thought. That was…that was fine. Good, even though he would never admit it. A slow exhaled left him a barely-there sound escaping him—something small and content. It was the closest he had come to relaxed all day.

A kiss was pressed to his hair, Shiro murmuring softly, “Sleep tight, baby. I’ve got you.”

Keith barely registered the words before sleep took him, warm and safe in Shiro’s arms.

—

Keith was slow to wake, blinking sluggishly. His eyes fluttered open just enough to catch the dim blue light that emanated through the room before they drifted shut again. His brain was still fuzzy, still caught in that awful middle space between small and big. He groaned, shifting slightly—only to feel the unmistakable squish around his hips.

Great.

Of course he was wet.

He let out a quiet, disgruntled huff, pressing his face deeper into the crook of Shiro’s shoulder in the hopes that maybe, maybe, he could just ignore it. It's not the worst way he's ever woken up, far from it, and it's way better than a wet bed but still— its the principle of it. He still would prefer to slip out of bed and handle changing on his own. 

But Shiro, as if summoned by that fleeting thought of independence, took that exact moment to stir, snuffling awake with a soft groan.

Keith held his breath as Shiro yawned, stretching slightly, and tightening his arm lazily around Keith’s waist, his hand landing with an easy, familiar pat against Keith’s bottom. Keith squirmed at the wet padding that had long gone cold being pressed against him and swallowed the whine building in his throat. So much for changing himself.

“Mm,” Shiro hummed, still mostly asleep. His voice was thick with drowsiness, but his palm pressed against Keith’s diaper, giving it a few more assessing pats before moving up to rub slow, soothing circles over Keith’s back. “Mornin’, baby.”

Keith grumbled something muffled and unintelligible into Shiro’s shoulder, despite the fact that just moments before he was considering leaping out of bed to change himself, now, in a rapid change of heart, he refused to move.

Shiros' chest reverberated as he chuckled, the shoulder Keith's face was smashed against shook lightly. “Grumpy boy,” Shiro said fondly, voice still husky with the dredges of sleep.

Keith was not grumpy; he was disgruntled. Disgruntled was an adult emotion.

His caregiver shifted again, brushing Keith’s hair back before pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you changed.”

Letting out a long, dramatic groan, Keith curled in tighter like that was going to stop this from happening.

Shiro just huffed out a laugh. “Keith. ”

“No,” Keith mumbled, barely even coherent. “Sleepin’.”

“You can go back to sleep, kiddo.” Shiro patted his bottom again, like that was going to help his case. 

Oh. That was easy. His eyes fluttered shut as he drifted back off until the blanket was very rudely thrust off of him and he was being maneuvered . His half asleep brain wasn't computing—had forgotten what Shiro wanting him to change and what him wanting to sleep would mean—

Keith growled when the cold air hit his skin. 

“I said you could go back to sleep bud, not that I was letting you stay in that all morning,” Shrio said, sounding amused.

Before he could even blink himself fully awake to argue he could do it himself , he was being changed, manhandled lovingly as per usual. The tapes of his soaked diaper peeled away, cool wipes smoothing over his skin, a fresh one slid beneath him and snugly taped in place. 

He sprung up because he knew what would happen next, he had seen the babyish outfits set out last night. “Shiro I can—”By the time he opened his mouth, Shiro was very helpfully slinging clothes over his head—pulling his arms through the sleeves of a soft shirt, Keith grabbing the hoodie thrusted on him and tugging it over his head in an attempt to grapple for control as he sputtered, “—dress myself…” 

Shiro gave him a very pleased grin as a black mop of hair popped through the head hole of the hoodie, giving a glare. “You couldn't have even let me try?” 

“I could have, but we agreed yesterday that you were going to make an effort to drop, so today we're going to well…you won't like this, but we're going to try treating you a little younger than yesterday,” Shiro said, kneeling as he rolled a pair of thick socks onto his feet. 

You won't like this.

Yeah, no kidding.

Keith already felt small from the way Shiro had handled him so effortlessly, changing and dressing him without so much as a pause. He had the sudden urge to swing his feet from where he sitting on the edge of the bed in soft, thick socks and an oversized hoodie that swallowed him whole, covering up his hands so that only his fingers showed in a way that definitely made him feel tiny. 

He shifted slightly and the thick padding between his legs reminded him of just how much control he didn't have today.

Shiro crouched down in front of him, looking at him with kind concern. “You okay?”

Keith looked away, hugging himself as he hunched in a little, ducking his head down. “I guess.”

Shiro pressed a warm hand against Keith’s knee and smiled reassuringly. “I know it's  a lot for you, but It’s going to be okay, kiddo,” he murmured, voice gentle but firm. “This is hard, but I wouldn’t be pushing you like this if I didn't think you needed it.”

Keith flushed, looking in Shiro's earnest eyes and looking away again. 

Shiro ruffled his hair. “C’mon, sweetheart. Breakfast.”

Keith crossed his arms, dragging his feet as they made their way to the kitchen. He wanted to hide behind Shiro because he wasn't ready to be so publicly perceived while he was babied to hell and back. 

By the time they entered the dining area, the whole team was already settled around the table, talking and eating. Keith hesitated nervously in the doorway, fiddling with the fabric of his sleeves. He wasn't ready, maybe he could just stand here and—

Hunk looked up towards them, grinning warmly. “Mornin’, dude.”

Oh thank God a normal greeting .

Lance barely even glanced up before smiling, half teasing, half warm. “Whats up, Osh-B-Gosh?”

Keith bristled immediately. Fucking Lance . “Shut up.”

Lance just grinned. “Touchy. Don't you look cosy-wosy?”

Pidge pursed her lips from where she sat next to Lance, glancing at Keith’s oversized hoodie and thickly socked feet and then went back to eating like she knew he didn't want to be looked at. 

Yay for Pidge. Death for Lance.

Keith’s face flamed, but before he could growl in Lance's direction again or perhaps locate an item to throw (which he knew wouldn't help anyone think he was mature but it would feel good in the moment), Shiro’s hand clapped on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Enough,” Shiro said easily, steering Keith toward the table. “Lets please just eat something without fighting.”

Keith scowled harder, but let himself be guided toward his seat.

Except—

His seat wasn’t the same as yesterday.

Keith stopped short, staring.

Because there, at his usual spot, was a booster cushion with arms and the fucking belt that strapped across it to keep its wearer firmly in place.

It wasn’t a full high chair— he would have ran from the room and maybe never come back —but it was definitely meant to make him sit higher, keep him safe (from what, the floor?) And to make it easier for Shiro to feed him if necessary.

Keith shook his head, taking a step back. “No way.”

Shiro sighed, but before he could say anything, Coran of all people spoke up.

“Oh, come now, lad!” he said brightly. “That’s just a comfort cushion! Perfect for keeping you nice and snug while you eat!”

Keith gaped at him, incredulous. “It’s a booster seat.”

Coran beamed. “Exactly!”

Keith turned desperately to Allura, hoping for some kind of backup—only to find her sipping her tea, watching the whole thing with an unreadable expression.

She knew .

She knew this was ridiculous .

But she wasn’t saying anything.

Traitor.

Keith whipped back around to Shiro. “I am not sitting in that.”

“Okay,” Shiro said easily. “Then I’ll just hold you on my lap while you eat.”

Keith froze.

His entire body locked up, heat rushing to his face. Today was going to be the most embarrassing day of his life.

Lance who of course was in the seat next to his cackled .

“Jesus christ,” Pidge muttered under her breath, hand up to shield her face from the events occurring on the other side of the table, trying her absolute best to keep her head down. At least someone was trying to mind their business during this undignified display, even if she had teased him yesterday, she had probably met her quota of babying for the year, which was admittedly, not much to begin with.

Keith looked at the booster seat. Then at Shiro.

Then back at the booster seat.

His face burned hotter. 

Fuck this.

Without any further fanfare, he let out a sharp inhale, nostrils flaring as he stomped over to the chair and aggressively plopped down onto the cushion. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest as he sank back into the ridiculous chair.

The table shook with how hard Lance was laughing, smacking the table top as the silverware changed.

Keith hated everything and everyone at this table. They were all dead to him.

Keith sat stiffly in the booster seat, his arms crossed so tightly his shoulders ached. As Shiro leaned over to buckle him in, he kept his gaze locked on the table, waiting. Waiting for the teasing to continue, for Lance to throw another smug comment his way, for Coran to enthusiastically coo again, for anyone to make it worse.

But… it didn’t come.

Pidge was still ignoring all of this and so was Allura. Hunk, who had never been one to tease Keith too much, just sent him a warm, reassuring smile before he set down a plate of food in front of him, along with—yep. A sippy cup.

At least he wasn't being outright spoon-fed — thank God —but his equivalent of toast was cut into perfect little squares, and his…maybe those were supposed to be eggs??? Were scrambled soft, easy to eat.

Hunk even smiled brightly at him when he poked halfheartedly at his food, his voice warm and steady. “Eat up, dude. You’ll feel better.”

Keith gave an appreciative smile as he took a bite. At least he was still a dude to Hunk and not honey or sweeti e. 

Even Lance, Lance , who should have been giving him hell for all of this, had calmed down and was rolling with it, seeming to have gotten his kicks from the teasing about the stupid booster seat . He shot Keith a lazy grin when he caught Keith staring nervously at him. “What? You think I'm gonna make fun of you?”

Keith felt his face heat again, a hot rush of shame curling up his spine. He was glad the others were talking—at least then he wasn't being judged by a whole table of people, just Lance. He refused to answer, but the way his shoulders hunched must have said enough, because Lance sighed.

“Look, man—your face was gold when you walked in and freaked out over a little cushion on your chair, but otherwise… I’m not gonna make fun of you when you’re stuck like this.” His voice was casual, like they were just talking about the weather, but there was an undertone of something steadier—something that told Keith that Lance was speaking honestly.

Keith felt his insides squirm. He didn’t know if it was relief or humiliation or something else entirely. He stared at his plate, unsure of what to do, what to say.  

His silence must have given him away, because Lance tried again. “Look, man. You’ll drop when you drop. No rush. But until then, you better get used to a little extra hand-holding, ‘cause we’re not letting you sit here all grumpy and miserable when we all know what you need.”

God, he hated that Lance was right.

“I am , however, gonna keep treating you like the baby you clearly wanna be until you stop fighting it.” He shrugged. “So, y’know. The sooner you just let go, the sooner we can stop dancing around this.”

Keith scowled. “ I don’t —”

“Uh-huh.” Lance just smirked, popping a bite of ‘egg’ into his mouth before pointing his fork at Keith’s plate. “Eat your breakfast, munchkin.”

Keith bristled, heat rushing to his face. “Lance—”

“Ah, ah—” Lance waggled a finger at him, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Eat first. Complain later.”

Keith wanted to argue.

He wanted to snap at Lance, to insist that he wasn’t a baby, that he didn’t want this, that he wasn’t about to—

But his stomach growled, and his body ached, and his head felt foggy, and— he did want this. What was he going to prove by snapping or arguing? That he could handle himself?? They knew he couldn’t. Not really.

So he huffed, dropping his glare to his plate, and took another bite.

Lance just grinned, ruffling his hair playfully. “Good boy.”

Keith nearly choked on his food. Guh. He needed to be dropped for this shit. This was so embarrassing .

—

Keith hated diaper checks.

Not that he would ever admit to wearing them in the first place—if he had his way, he’d be back in pull-ups at least by now—but Shiro had been firm on that rule. Until he could stay dry for more than a day , he wasn’t “graduating” to anything thinner.

Which meant Keith had to endure it.

All. Day.

He didn't know if he was going to make it to being little, he was kind of hoping embarrassment could kill him before it got there.

The first check happened right after breakfast . After not being allowed to help at all for breakfast (again) and being fretted over by Hunk for unbuckling himself (what was this concern with him falling? Was he dropping out of chairs when he was little?). He had been slouched on the couch in the common room, sipping at a bottle ( not a sippy cup this time, a bottle, because apparently Shiro was doubling down on the babying today and he meant it ), when Shiro sat down beside him and, without warning, gave his bottom a firm squeeze .

Keith flinched , nearly choking on his drink.

“Relax,” Shiro said easily, while he was actively checking him again , pressing against his bottom to feel for a tell-tale squish. “Just checking.”

Keith scowled, wrenching his bottle away from his mouth and pointing the nipple at Shiro as menacingly as one can brandish a baby bottle. His face burned. “ Don’t .”

Shiro raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather I check another way?”

Keith stiffened. No he would not. Because that meant—

And then sure enough , before Keith could scramble away, Shiro was already pressing a hand against the front of his padding, giving it a quick, assessing squeeze on his crotch .

Keith squeaked , trying to squirm away, “Shiro!”

Shiro just smiled, patting his knee. “Aaaall dry. Good job, kiddo.”

It was worth the scolding for the angry kick sent in Shiro's direction.

The second check happened a few hours later.

He had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, messing with Pidge’s magnet cubes (which he had been offered again , okay? He wasn’t just playing on his own like some dumb baby— Pidge gave them to him ), when Shiro approached from behind.

Keith was already grumpy from being poked and prodded all day. He had been trying to prove he was big, trying to keep himself together like he had been trying to do this whole time , when Shiro, completely casually , caught him by the hip as he passed by and yanked the back of his waistband out .

Keith gasped , his entire body jerking forward as his hands flew to cover his butt. “ Stop! ”

Shiro hummed, letting the elastic snap gently back into place. “Just making sure you didn’t need a change, baby.”

Keith was going to combust .

That was not the kind of accident he had to worry about, thank you very much . That only happened when he was really Little, when he wasn’t even trying to use the bathroom, when—

Keith buried his burning face in his hands, his entire body on fire . “I hate you.”

Shiro just grinned , completely unphased. “No, you don’t. I'm making sure your rash doesn't get worse because someone won't tell me when they need a change.”

Keith groaned dramatically, arms covering his face as Shiro's hands petted his hair affectionately. At least there were no witnesses, but…

This was officially the worst day ever.

—

“Pidge,” Keith had pleaded, dropping onto the couch beside her as she tinkered with some gadget. “You have to talk to Shiro. He’s—”

“Yeah, not happening,” Pidge said immediately, not even looking up.

Keith scowled. “You didn’t even hear me out.”

“Didn’t need to,” Pidge said, twisting something into place. “Like literally what else would you come to me to complain about? Blah blah, Shiro doesn't think I can be big a moment longer, blah blah, isn't that fucked up?” She looked up with a deadpan stare, “Let's get this out of the way—You need this, he knows you need this, you know you need it, and I’m not getting in the middle of it.”

Keith stared at her, betrayed.

“You know you're fighting a losing battle, right?” she had said, eyes darting back to her project, “The sooner you accept your fate as a human person with needs, and more importantly breaks, the easier your life will be.”

“Pidge,” Keith said with something adjacent to a whine . “You know this is ridiculous. It's way worse than usual.”

“Mm. Sad.” Pidge turned a screw, unbothered. “Are you really going to make me repeat myself? What's your problem anyways? Doesn't your body feel like shit from some sort of hormone deficiency thing anyways? You kind of look like shit.”

Keith scowled, crossing his arms tighter. “I just don’t get why anyone would want to be around me like that,” he muttered, voice sharp but wavering at the edges. “I’m annoying. I—” He exhaled sharply, hating how vulnerable the words felt on his tongue. “I don’t even like me when I’m like that.”

Pidge finally paused, setting her screwdriver down with a clink before tilting her head at him. “That’s dumb .”

Keith’s eye twitched. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “You act like you turn into some little monster or something when you’re small.”

Keith bristled. “I do.”

Pidge snorted. “No, you don’t. I mean, yeah, you get fussy sometimes, but you actually let people take care of you, which is a fucking Christmas miracle . I'm not really good with kids so I'm a bad example, but newsflash, we like you, stupid. Look forward to it or something, that's what other people do.”

Keith sputtered, completely thrown off by Pidge’s casual, matter-of-fact response. He had expected something —maybe more teasing, maybe a joke—but not that .

“Why on earth would I look forward to it?” he scoffed, folding his arms tightly. “You know how sucky my headspace is, right?”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Says you ,” she shot back. “Meanwhile, the rest of the team gets stupidly happy every time you do anything Little. Even Allura thinks it’s good for team morale.”

Keith scowled. “Lance is Little too. They can just fawn over him whenever they want.”

Pidge snorted. “Lance is more Big than he is Little. Unlike you. ” She pointedly reached over and patted his shin in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture. “Besides, he’s too high-energy. I much prefer a quiet afternoon with you being Little than with him bouncing off the walls.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. I’ve probably swallowed, like, seven small bolts by this point. You don’t even like kids.”

Pidge smirked. “You’re right about that. Kids are chaotic and illogical. But babies? Babies are fine. ” She shrugged. “They're like machines. They take input and respond accordingly. Whereas children are irrational little gremlins.”

She huffed, then added, “Did you know that when Lance was Little, he once tried to convince me that maple syrup came from pancake farms ?” She gave Keith a deadpan look. “Like, what the hell is a pancake farm? ”

Keith's tips tugged up into an amused smile. “Probably where they raise and harvest pancakes, duh.”

Pidge grinned. “Exactly.”

There was a pause, a brief moment of easy silence, before Keith hesitated. His fingers tugged at the hem of his hoodie.

“And… uh… thanks,” he mumbled. “For saying that. It makes me feel a lot better about… y’know.”

Pidge waved him off. “No problemo. Just don’t expect me to go on diaper duty anytime soon.”

She gestured lazily toward where the waistband of Keith’s diaper was very clearly peeking out from beneath his hoodie.

Keith’s face flamed . His eyes darted down, and he immediately tugged his hoodie lower, his hands gripping the fabric and yanking it down forcefully. With a very dramatic noise that wasn't a whine , he flopped onto his side and buried his face in his sleeves. He had buried his face in his hands many times today, and he was pretty sure the extra blood darkening his cheeks had just decided to take residence there. 

Pidge cackled. “Oh, come on, Keith. Get over it. It’s not that bad.”

Keith grumbled something completely unintelligible into his sleeves before tilting his head to the side so he could actually breathe and speak. “Why don’t you try wearing them then?” he muttered petulantly. “And then try putting on your stupid skintight battle armor.”

Pidge smirked. “Well, first, we’d have to see what I’m classified as. Then we can talk.”

That caught Keith’s attention. He rolled onto his back, sitting up in a way that wouldn’t disrupt his very carefully tucked hoodie. “What class do you think you’ll be?”

Everyone on the castleship had speculated at some point or another about what Pidge would present as, but Keith had never thought to ask her directly.

Pidge hummed, tapping her chin in thought. “Y’know, I’m not quite sure,” she admitted. “Both my parents are Neutrals, and Matt’s a Neutral with Little tendencies… so I guess it could go either way.” She shrugged. “I’m kind of hoping for Neutral, though.”

Keith frowned slightly. “I just hope you aren’t a Little. It’s a huge inconvenience.”

It was clear that he meant it—like he genuinely believed it, despite the fact that the team had gone out of their way to make sure he had what he needed.

She just waved a hand dismissively. “Eh. Wouldn’t be so bad. I’d have the ultimate excuse to skip training and team bonding sessions. Oh, and diplomat meetings? I could just fake it all the time and get out of them forever. ” She smirked. “You made it look real easy couple’a months ago.”

Keith bristled . “I—I didn’t fake it!”

Pidge arched an eyebrow. “Oh sure. You just suddenly regressed right after learning we were gonna be holding a panel with the queen in front of thousands of Yublek citizens.” She even made obnoxious air quotes for emphasis.

Keith’s face burned. “That was a coincidence! ”

“Uh-huh. Totally.”

Keith scowled, shoving her shoulder. “I hate you.”

Pidge just grinned. “No, you don’t.”

“See..?” Keith huffed, flopping back dramatically. “We won’t get to banter this way when I’m Little—”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Oh no, what a tragedy,” she deadpanned. “Instead of this, I guess we’ll just have to settle for the awesome sensory bin Hunk made you.”

Keith blinked, sitting up slightly. “Hunk made a sensory bin?”

“Oh yeah,” Pidge said, stretching her legs out. “I saw him put it together. Super fun. I had my hands in there for a while, and let me tell you, it was metal as fuck .”

Keith’s eyes lit up, all previous grumpiness momentarily forgotten. “Wait—really?” He sat up fully now, looking at her eagerly. “And—you’re gonna play with me?” He added the last part a little quieter, almost hesitant, like he was hopeful but expecting to be brushed off.

Pidge blinked, momentarily caught off guard by just how fast his demeanor changed. She hesitated just slightly before sighing. “Yeah, yeah,” she conceded. “ Once . When you’re dropped. But once .”

Keith flushed—not in embarrassment, but in that quietly pleased way Pidge had started to recognize when he was feeling especially warm and fuzzy about something. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie like he was trying not to be too obvious about how much it meant to him.

He knew Pidge didn’t love playing with Littles—not him, not Lance, not anyone . She wasn’t mean about it, she just wasn’t interested. But for her to offer? Even if it was just once?

Yeah. That meant something .

 “That’s… cool,” he mumbled, clearly trying not to seem too excited.

Pidge rolled her eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get used to it, squirt.”

Keith snorted, about to retort about who between the two of them was really a squirt , when the whoosh of the door opening made his stomach drop.

Shiro .

Keith tensed immediately, instinctively cringing at what he knew was coming.

Shiro, predictably , smiled when he saw him. “ There you are, kiddo.” His voice was warm, steady, affectionate —but Keith still bristled, his body already gearing up to resist the inevitable babying. Having an adult conversation with the only teammate incapable of babying him had been so nice . 

Shiro strode over, ruffling his hair like Keith was five , before nodding toward the door. "C’mon, sweetheart. It’s time to wind down."

Keith gritted his teeth . Wind down. Right . That was code for let’s get you in jammies and a diaper and put you to bed .

Pidge snickered beside him. “Welp. Guess that’s my cue.”

Keith glared at her. “ Traitor .”

She smirked. “Nah, I just accept reality . Some of us actually arent straight up delusional.”

Keith groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face before standing up and being led out of the room by Shiro.

—

Keith sighed heavily as Shiro guided him through the halls, his grip firm but gentle on Keith’s shoulder. He knew exactly where they were headed—straight to Shiro’s room for ni-ni time, as Shiro so annoyingly called it when Keith was little. Little him loved it.

He knew he was doomed the second Shiro led him back to his quarters. Because of course Shiro was pulling out all the stops tonight. He wanted to groan when he saw yet another footed sleeper. 

“Hmm—are you thinking rocketships or the little blue fruit one?” Shiro held up the sleepers for him to inspect. Ah yes, the illusion of choice . They looked like they were warm and thick, one of the stupid soft ones that zipped up at the front and had poppers on the back for easy access for changes. He would probably be really cozy but—

“Do you need help picking? Bubba can pick for you if you need me to,” Shiro said gently, voice oozing patience in a tone that was almost a coo.

“I, uhm—-neither?” He stuttered out, “I just—” he cut himself off, frowning. He was trying, right? This is the littlest Shiro could possibly treat him. There was no more going down from here . Well, except for a—

Yup, there was a bottle on the side table of milk. Shiro was an evil genius. He didn't know if he would come out of this big, didn't know if he wanted to. Tucked up against Shiro’s chest, warm and safe, coaxed down into Itty bitty with every slow, rhythmic sway.

He wanted it.

God, he wanted it.

That’s why the other man was offering it so casually. Keith’s resistance wasn’t even a factor in Shiro's equation. If he declined, Shiro wouldn't fight him too hard because his caregiver knew Keith would be fighting himself too hard to really fight Shiro too.

Shiro smiled, warm and steady, like he knew what was going through Keith's head. “C’mon, baby. Let’s get you ready for bed.”

This was how Keith always ended up dropping—the slow, steady care, the coaxing warmth of routine.

And the worst part?

Keith liked it.

He liked the way Shiro expected compliance, the way there was no pressure to be big. He liked the way he was guided instead of asked, the way Shiro already knew what he needed before Keith could admit it himself.

And now—now, Shiro was offering the one thing that always did him in.

A bottle.

In the rocking chair.

Keith's knees felt weak just thinking about it.

“Come here, baby,” Shiro coaxed gently, unfolding the sleeper like Keith hadn’t already lost this battle.

Keith huffed, glaring as Shiro helped him out of his day clothes, stripping him down efficiently before getting a fresh, thick diaper taped around his hips (it was worse because he had actually been wet this time and he had no idea when that had happened). The cool wipes made him shiver, and he closed his eyes tightly for the whole process, unable to bear Shiro's warm gaze as he leaned over and cleaned Keith with a care he didn't feel like he deserved.

Keith wanted to fight harder, to push back, to win at least one of these arguments, but his brain was already going soft around the edges.

Even as he let Shiro zip him into the fleece sleeper, even as he was guided into the rocking chair and settled securely in Shiro’s lap, even as the warm bottle was pressed gently into his hands he struggled against the wave of comfort.

But it was so hard .

The warmth of the milk, the slow, rhythmic rocking, the solidness of Shiro underneath him—it was all pulling him under, coaxing him to let go.

And Shiro…Keith knew how he was looking at him, even without opening his eyes, he could feel it.

That stupid soft, lovey-dovey adoring expression Shiro always got when Keith was like this—like Keith was the most precious thing in the universe.

It made his insides squirm, with happy warm feelings and…well…it made him feel safe, made him want to melt, made him want to lean into the care and just be Little, but—

No.

Keith squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

He couldn’t let himself sink.

So he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing only on the bottle, on the rhythmic suckling, on the way the warm milk soothed his frayed nerves.

He could do this. He could stay big.

He could—

A slow, steady hand began rubbing his back, moving in lazy, rhythmic circles.

Keith shuddered.

The rocking chair creaked ever so slightly as Shiro’s voice came low, hushed against the quiet.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Drink up, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Keith whimpered, a small, involuntary sound that made Shiro’s arms tighten just slightly around him. It wasn’t enough to make him drop fully, but it was enough to make him feel very small.

It was a slow descent, but he couldn’t stop it.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you, baby?” he crooned, his voice thick with fondness.

Keith’s stomach fluttered, his entire body tensing.

Because yeah .

He would cling until he couldn't because that's all he knew how to do—he didn't know how to let go, how to drift into that comfortable haze without losing himself. He had too far to fall not to instinctively reach for a foot hold, a line, a tether, anything because he didn't want to be caught when he fell . 

The slow, steady rhythm of the rocking chair lulled him deeper, with strong arms wrapped securely around him. Shiro rubbed his back in lazy, grounding circles. Keith's sleeper was soft and snug , his tummy full of warm milk, and the gentle hum of Shiro’s voice filled his ears, soothing and constant .

Warm. Safe. Held .

“You’re so loved, baby,” Shiro murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair. “So safe. So good.”

Keith barely registered the words, barely registered anything beyond the warmth, the security . His lashes fluttered, his breath evening out as he melted completely , fingers loosening their grip in Shiro’s shirt, his body going limp and boneless in his Big’s arms.

The last thing he felt before sleep took him was the slow, comforting pat against his bottom, Shiro’s voice a soft whisper of mine, my baby, my good boy . 

And by the time Shiro gave one last, lingering pat to his bottom, Keith was already deep, deep asleep.

Chapter Text

Keith woke up slow .

His brain was cloudy. Thinking was decidedly hard, like a camera that wouldn't focus no matter how many times you tried.

In the general brain fogginess, he barely registered the softness around him at first—the familiar warmth of the sleeper, the thick padding still snug against his hips, the comforting weight of Shiro’s presence close by. The world felt far away , distant, like he wasn’t fully here yet and he felt much littler than yesterday, but—

But he was still big enough to realize it, which was new. He had never been stuck in a partial drop this long.

Something cool brushed against his skin, and Keith opened his eyes, squinting against the onslaught of light as he was moved , the unmistakable crinkle beneath him sending a rush of delayed awareness through his body.

He knew this feeling from somewhere, right? 

The first thing he registered was that Shiro was leaning over him. The second thing was that his bottom was cold and oh—he was being changed. That made sense. His caregiver’s hands were gentle and efficient as always, moving an ease that told anyone with eyes that this was not his first, second or even third rodeo. His expression was soft , and unbearably fond in a way that made Keith want to squirm, but as his eyes met Keith’s, something like surprise flickered in his eyes. 

His hands stilled for a brief moment, his gaze looking at Keith with a muted intensity as he blinked, as if to make sure he was seeing things correctly, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. “Huh. Well I'll be darned.” Then, slowly, a small, knowing smile pulled at his lips.  “Hi , kiddo. Good morning,” Shiro said with a cheerful little wave, his voice a perfect blend of bewilderment and affection.

Leave it to Shiro to immediately clock his headspace. He didn't know whether to be grateful or disgruntled at being so easily read.

Keith blinked at him blearily, his cheeks warm, “Hey,” he groggy ground out, rubbing his hands over his face to wake himself up.

Shiro’s smile was playful. “You sure are stubborn, I honestly didn’t expect you to still be big,” he admitted, fiddling with the tapes and making sure they were powder-free so they would actually stick. “I thought for sure you’d be all the way down after last night.”

Keith let his hands drop from his face, staring up at Shiro with heavy-lidded eyes. He still felt off , like he wasn’t fully here, like his head was wrapped in cotton and everything outside of Shiro was too far away to focus on.

He didn’t know how to feel about it.

Part of him was relieved—he wasn’t completely gone, still able to think big enough to register what was happening. But at the same time… he didn’t know if he wanted to be big.

Because this —this limbo between states, this hazy, sluggish, too-vulnerable feeling—this wasn’t any better.

Exhaling slowly, Keith shifted on the changing table as Shiro finished securing the fresh diaper around his hips. He knew he wasn't supposed to squirm, but his caregiver was almost done anyway. “Guhhh,” he groaned, voice thick with sleep, barely managing a small, sleepy pout, shifting slightly as the warm sleeper was zipped back up, cocooning him once more in soft fabric. No chance at any grown-up clothes today , but he found that he didn't really care all that much.

Instead what did bother him was the cloying syrupy buzz that felt like it was squeezing his brain. Yep. Brain still wasn't coming online. Yesterday the pressure had been simmering in the back of his skill, but today it was at the forefront, more insistent than before.

His body wanted things—things he had been able to ignore yesterday, things that felt impossible to ignore now. The urge to wiggle, to reach for something soft, to suck his thumb, to hide his face in Shiro’s neck and stay there—

It was all there, right at the surface. So while a lot of things should have made him irritated or uncomfortable, the most pressing thing right was the empty space against his chest.  

Keith frowned, his lips parting before he could stop himself. “Where’s Bunny?”  

The moment the words left his mouth, his stomach clenched, heat crawling up his neck. God, he sounded like a baby . He wasn’t even fully awake yet, but he knew today would be another uncomfortable day, still stuck in that frustrating middle space where he was too big to be little and much, much too little to be big. 

But if Shiro thought anything of it, he didn’t show it. “Oh! I'm surprised she snuck off your bed—hmmm…” He tapped his chin playfully, “Where could she be?” 

Maybe a grimace would be the appropriate emotion to conjure at such obvious, patronizing musing, but Keith actually wanted to know the answer, what if Bunny was missing him? Shiro clearly didn't understand the urgency of finding her, and be was about to let him know that with a scowl, when Shiro reached over and flipped up the covers of his bed and then ducked to check under it.

Before he could process that Shiro had found her, Keith let out a tiny, startled squeak, blinking at the plush toy that had suddenly appeared in front of his face. Shiro wiggled it slightly, making it ‘hop’ up and down in his hand before giving Keith’s cheek the lightest tap, like Bunny was giving him a little kiss.

His fingers twitched, his grip tightening around Bunny before he could stop himself. He should be pushing back, should be rolling his eyes or making some sarcastic comment, but all he could do was duck his head slightly, his body betraying him with a tiny, pleased sound. He liked it, even as he flushed with the humiliation of h ow much he liked it.  

Shiro, of course, didn’t comment on the way Keith immediately clung to the plush. He just smiled, warm and patient, like he’d expected that exact reaction. Before Keith could even think about getting up himself, strong hands slid under his arms, lifting him effortlessly off the bed. Shiro’s hands were firm under his armpits as he was hoisted up onto his feet.

The gears in his brain that had been turning slower than usual, grinded to a stop .

The moment he left the bed, everything in his head went soft and fuzzy, a rush of static clouding his thoughts, making his limbs feel weightless and unsteady. If he was being carried was he big enough to walk on his own? He swayed slightly once his feet were on the floor, gripping onto Shiro’s forearms as his brain struggled to catch up.

Uppies .

Something deep inside him ached .

Shiro steadied him, watching him closely, and Keith could feel the moment he noticed .

“Oh, almost ,” Shiro murmured, his voice tinged with something warm and knowing. “I know its uncomfortable but we'll get you where you need to be soon.”

Keith’s face burned, the fuzziness snapping back like a rubber band stretched too tight.

No, no, no —

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to take a steady breath, to grab onto something big and hold it. His head was too messy, his control too fragile—he couldn’t drop, not yet. Being really little like he knew where he was going to land himself was so scary, such a raw, vulnerable experience , even if he knew he was going to be loved and looked after.

Shiro didn’t push him, didn’t coo or tease, just gave him a soft pat on the back before guiding him toward the door. “Come on, let’s get some food in you.”

Today was going to be hard. Things like going to breakfast shouldn't be so hard. The morning was barely beginning, and already, he could feel himself slipping, balancing precariously between big and little.

He had a feeling Shiro wasn’t going to let him stay stuck there for much longer.

—

The moment he stepped into the kitchen eating area, everything stopped.

Expectant eyes looked to him and he knew what was coming before it happened.

Oh no .

“Awwww,” Lance crooned immediately, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Look who’s up! Good morning sunshine!”

Hunk gave him a megawatt smile. “Look at that little sleeper! Buddy, you’re lookin’ cozy. Did you have a nice sleep?”

Even Allura gave him that stupid grin like she did when she saw something cute, dabbing at the corners of her mouth regally with a napkin as she finished her bite. “You do look rather adorable, Keith. Very precious.”

No, no, no!

Keith flushed a deep, mortified red and half-turned like he might retreat entirely, but Shiro caught the corner of his arm nonchalantly like he wasn't holding Keith hostage to this humiliation . His eyes darted up to Shiro in silent, urgent protest. Tell them to stop!

“Someone's shy this morning,” Pidge said, chin propped up on her arm with a grin.

“I'm not Little!” Keith protested, resisting stomping his foot and adding fuel to the fire.

“Yes, yes. You’re absolutely right,” Lance chimed in, not at all sounding sincere. “You’re just a very big, very adult person who just so happens to eat in a booster seat and wears jammies with the cute little feeties on. Totally different thing.”

Keith turned bright red.

“I don’t—! That’s not— Shiro made me wear these !”

“I know, and aren't you just adorable in them?” Allura said, both hands clasped and held to her cheek in a pleased way. “Warm, snuggly and soft. I do wish I had a pair like it. Why, you look like you could be carried back to bed!”

“I walked here,” he hissed, low and urgent.

“And you did a great job,” Shiro said with a smile that was way too proud . “You had very good walking feet, honey.”

Keith let out a tiny, undignified whine and buried his face in Shiro’s shoulder, fully turning and hiding from the other paladin's collarbone. Today was definitely worse.

That got a laugh from the team—not mean, just warm and amused and equally as embarrassing . Pidge snorted into her drink, and Hunk smiled like he couldn’t help it.

“Okay, okay,” Shiro said lightly, brushing Keith’s hair back. “That’s enough. Let him wake up a little.”

There was a beat of peace as Keith fidgeted with the hem of his sleeper and peeked shyly up at the table. He sat in his seat and found that the booster wasn't all bad when you got used to it and that he even liked the security of the buckle going across. It definitely felt much safer than his usual chair.

 A moment later, Shiro passed him a plate already cut into small, manageable bites and a cup with handles on both sides.

Breakfast was weird. Well more accurately, Keith felt weird. But the strangest part wasn’t how he kept wanting to rest his head on the table and doze back off now that the embarrassment had faded, or even how oddly good the warmth of his sleeper felt against his skin.

It was the fact that no one was acting like anything at all was amiss. Yesterday had been embarrassing in an awful but safe kind of way, where he knew no one hated him and they would back off because Shiro would protect him today—

But for the rest of breakfast no one teased him, it was a similar song and dance to yesterday but the song itself was to a much gentler tune. Sure, Lance made funny faces at him when he caught him nervously staring at him, but no one pointed out that he was very quiet or that when he did talk, his sentences were a little slower, a little simpler, or that he kept looking to Shiro for help without even realizing he was doing it.

It was normal .

And that was odd. He wasn't usually a witness to what it was like when he was small, but he guessed this was as close to it he could get without actually being dropped. It was a casual kind of quiet. 

He wasn’t even sure what he needed half the time, but every time he hesitated—like when his cup was slightly out of reach, or when he couldn’t quite scoop up his food right—Shiro just knew, giving him a smile that made him want to wiggle in a good way as he reassured him and fixed whatever he needed with an “I've gotcha, hon.”

And no one reacted and something nervous that had been flitting around in Keith's chest all morning began to settle down.

Shiro reached over and patted the Little's knee reassuringly, checked the straps on his booster and told Hunk, who was sitting next to him on his other side today, to watch after him for a second while he got Keith another bottle full of water. Keith had been trying to cut back on accidents in the blade base so water was something he had previously rationed, but now he had multiple cups that he drank whenever he was handed water, a juice, or milk. Keith had been more hydrated in the last couple of days than he had ever been in his life.

Hunk nodded at Shiro and then gave Keith a bright grin and an exaggerated wave, the kind that you gave to a little kid when they were excited to see you. He guessed he was pleased enough to see Hunk. He liked Hunk just fine and the wave he gave him was nice, like he was pleased to see Keith too.

“Hey Keith! Look at you Mr. Big boy, almost finished eating all of your breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day, so it's always important to make sure you have a good breakfast!” 

Yep. That was definitely not how you talked to adults. Hunk had his little kid voice on, the one he used with a Little Lance or apparently, him. They had gone from teasing to just straight up little kid treatment and it was a little disorienting. Even worse, it was working. 

He craned his head back, trying to twist around to see when Shiro would come and save him from this hell. He did not like this when he was big—it was making him feel ridiculously small and he needed Shiro to come back NOW.

“Oooh buddy—he'll be right back.” Hunk said, interpreting his longing gaze towards Shiro to be separation anxiety, since a much Littler Keith would definitely panic if his main caregiver was out of sight. “He's just getting you some water, but it'll be real soon. In the meantime, wanna see me tickle Pidge?”

“Wait what—,”

Before she could protest what was about to happen, Hunk’s fingers ghosted Pidge's side and she jerked away with a mouth closed tightly and erratic huffs that sounded suspiciously like laughter leaking from her nose. 

“No!” She burst out laughing, taking a moment to lean away, “You absolutely suck—STOP!” The smaller girl screeched before launching herself out of her chair, dragging her plate and sitting next to Allura on the other side of the table.

“I try to eat my breakfast in daaaa–rrrn peace and this is what I get? Reduced to entertainment? I will remember this, Hunk Garret. Mark my words,” she punctuated her statement with a fork jabbed in Hunks direction before going back to her food.

Hunk leaned over and whispered in his ear conspiratally “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, huh?”

Keith cracked a little smile and Hunks whole face lit up. It was pretty funny and it was also nice that Hunk cared about him enough to risk Pidge’s wrath. 

When Shiro came back, he found he was relieved and Hunk nudged him in a friendly way before going back to chatting with Lance. Shiro smiled at him, coaxing him to drink the bottle and Keith hesitated a little before slipping the nipple in his mouth.

As he drank he had time to dwell on his circumstances. This strange, in-between space where he was little-ish but still aware enough to notice it, where he could see how different everything felt and how easily everyone adjusted around him. Which of course meant this had happened before, and had happened often enough for this not to even register as a novelty. Which meant… he had been this little before. Maybe a lot.

Was this this okay ? He couldn't tell. 

From breakfast, Keith had managed to keep himself somewhat together, walking the razor’s edge between big and little with a level of stubbornness that would have impressed even himself—if it weren’t so exhausting—and damn if he wasn't tired. The team was still handling him like he was already small, but he was holding his own, forcing himself to stay steady.  

He didn't even know why he bothered other than the discomfort of having to be, well…little. It was maddening for the descent to be this slow. He wanted for the babying to either stop (he knew it wasn't going to stop) or to drop little enough to escape all higher cognizance.

So as they piled into the living room, Keith was led by the hand and realized that the world was fuzzy around the edges unless he focused on being big . He should stop thinking about it. He should let go. He felt like he was being squeezed dry of every drop of bigness he possessed and the fallout was going to be uglier and uglier.

He found a spot with a pillow on the floor big enough to sit and plopped down, slumping to the ground. He felt feverish—he didn't feel good, his body felt like—

“Alright, alright, kiddo,” Shiro said, sounding too strained to be casual. He wondered if he was pale or Shiro had felt his hands trembling. The others were settling onto the couch beside him in the common room. “Arms up, c'mere.”  

Keith blinked, glancing up from where he was sitting on the floor, cross-legged beside the coffee table. He had sat here because the ground was cool and if he passed out at least he didn't have far to fall. The world was starting to spin. 

 “Huh?” Keith managed, dragging his gaze over. 

Shiro patted his lap, like that explained everything, then repeated, “Arms up.”  

Keith hesitated, stomach twisting. The request was so… normal. So offhanded. The same way Shiro would say pass the salt or gear up for training . But something about it—about the expectation of compliance, about how easy it was for Shiro to tell him what to do—  

His hands twitched in his lap. He should say no. He should ignore it, stay where he was, but he knew Shiro would come get him anyways. Being picked up earlier had nearly made his brain fuzz over completely. Sitting with Shiro wouldn't be all bad , he reasoned, he loved Bubba, and as he moved to get up into Shiro's lap to do it himself—

Shiro didn’t hesitate. Didn’t make a big deal out of it as he struck like a cobra. He simply hooked his hands under Keith’s armpits the second he was close enough and lifted —  

And Keith had the brief thought that Shiro was finally playing dirty and oh thank god before he plummeted .  

—

It was nice to wake up small or to drop subtly enough to the point where he didn't even know he was dropping. Sudden drops, however, were nothing short of disorienting. It was like a shitty magic trick where the table cloth was ripped from the table, but all the plates stayed in place, except the cloth was his adult grip on reality and the plates were everybody else that remained unaffected.

And he hated magic tricks.

His stomach twisted as the world lurched around him. His chest clenched, his breathing stuttering as the sudden, terrifying smallness crashed over him in waves. His head felt thick, slow, fuzzy in a way he couldn’t fight, and panic sparked under his skin because no, no, no— not here, not in front of everyone — He let out a small, startled whimper as he was pulled into Bubba’s lap and held very firmly.  

Keith’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into his caregiver's sleeve as his vision blurred. His lip wobbled, and another wave of panic rolled through him in thick, suffocating heat. He hadn’t been ready . He hadn’t wanted to—  

The team was here .  

Hunk, sprawled out on the other couch, scrolling through his tablet. Pidge, tinkering with something at the coffee table. Lance, lounging with one arm slung over the back of the couch like he belonged there.  

They saw .  

They knew .  

Keith let out a soft, distressed whine, pressing his face hard into Shiro’s shoulder. He couldn’t be little right now. He couldn’t . Not in front of everyone, not where they could see—  

But it was too late.  

It had already happened.  

A hand settled on his knee.

Keith barely had time to flinch before Shiro’s voice broke through the static droning through his ears.

“ Hey , hey , kiddo,” he soothed, his tone gentle and so unbearably fond . “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Shiro’s arms tightened around him, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles against Keith’s back. “You’re okay, buddy. Just breathe.”  

Keith couldn’t . His throat was too tight, his mind too scattered to process anything but the bad feelings he had been clinging to all month flooding through him. Everything was so hard. He was so little and he didn't know what to do. His descent was still happening—he wasn't done. He could feel himself regruh-re…getting dumber. His shoulders trembled as a few stray tears escaped, his hands fisting in Bubba’s hoodie. He needed Bubba. Bubba would keep him safe .

Lance sat up a little, watching with an expression that was… not teasing . Not even amused. Just gentle . “Aww, there he goes,” he murmured, voice dripping with sympathy, as if this was something inevitable. As if he had expected this.  

Hunk frowned. “Finally. Took longer than I thought, honestly. Poor little dude was strung tight .”  

Keith whined again, hiding further in Shiro’s chest. The words made him not-happy for a moment, but the meaning was starting to get muddled. The tones, he could tell what was a good sound and a bad sound, told him that Hunk was probably talking about something not-happy. It was getting harder to remember why he was upset. He was upset, though and he knew that Bubba would make it better.

Shiro pressed a kiss to Keith’s temple, rocking him slightly. “There we go, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re doing a good job, Just let it happen.”  

—

Shiro felt the tension in his chest ease as he held Keith close, finally— finally —surrendered to the headspace he had been fighting against for the last three days since he had been brought home and likely the last month and a half that he had been gone when he left for the Blades.

The relief was palpable, settling deep in his bones. Keith had been tearing himself apart trying to stay big, holding onto something that only hurt him in the end. Littles weren’t meant to go so long without regressing, and he felt the way Keith shuddered against him, almost like he was vibrating from the inside out. 

Drop sickness, Shiro realized grimly. It happened when a Little held themselves together for too long—when the strain of pretending to be okay outweighed the body’s ability to regulate through it. The tremors weren’t from cold or fear; they were from sheer exhaustion. His nervous system was overclocked and now rapidly shutting down to re-stabilize in a smaller, safer space. He had no idea how Keith held on for so long but more likely, Keith probably couldn't let go . 

Now, though, Keith was pliant in his arms, his tiny sniffles softening into quiet whimpers as he pressed his face against Shiro’s chest. Shiro rocked him gently, feeling the weight of Keith’s body curled up on his lap, the way he clung so tightly, like he was afraid of slipping away again.  

“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” Shiro murmured, rubbing slow, steady circles on Keith’s back. “I’ve got you.”  

The rest of the team had gone quiet when Keith finally dropped, their gazes soft and understanding. 

“Whew. I'm glad that he's dropped. I didn't know how much more of that my heart could take,” Hunk breathed out after Keith's sniffles had died down.

Pidge watched quietly before sighing. “I kinda figured he wouldn’t let himself drop till he got back,” she said softly. 

Hunk nodded, watching Keith with a fond smile. “Yeah... but at least he’s home now.”

Keith didn’t answer, just let out a soft, contented sigh, his thumb creeping back into his mouth as Shiro continued to rock him. He barely seemed to remember why he’d fought so hard in the first place, his now-limited understanding unable to grasp the frustration he’d been feeling before. All he knew was that he felt safe now—warm and small and safe in Bubba’s arms.  

Shiro pressed a kiss to Keith’s temple. “Yeah, I think we were holding on too tight for too long, huh, baby?” he said with a coo, his voice gentle but tinged with concern. He glanced down at Keith, his heart aching a little at how exhausted he looked, how much he’d been pushing himself.

Keith made a small, sleepy noise in response, his face still hidden in Shiro’s chest. Shiro hummed softly in agreement, his fingers carding gently through Keith’s hair. “But yeah,” he murmured. “He’s home.”  

—

“Shh, it’s okay,” Shiro murmured, his hand smoothing over Keith’s head, pushing back the wild mess of hair that had fallen into his face. His voice was gentle, patient. “I’ve got you, kiddo. You’re safe here.”

They had moved after Keith had started to fuss again. Shiro didn't really know if it was hunger or overwhelm or just bad feelings but he has a feeling Keith himself probably didn't know either. Keith’s headspace had sunk to something younger, but that wasn't necessarily unexpected after repressing a headspace and getting dropsick. It wasn’t just the usual toddler space Keith had spent most of his time when he was regressed—it was a very infantile, a raw, vulnerable version of him that was all soft confusion and big doe eyes.

It happened when Littles dropped hard—too hard. They could certainly skew younger with trauma and if it had been a long time since they regressed…well, they bottomed-out, and Keith had certainly hit the lowest his headspace could go, his brain compensating for the stress and hormonal imbalance he had been battling for so long.

Shiro’s heart softened at the sight. Keith furrowed his brow, the little crinkle of his nose so endearing that Shiro almost let out a laugh at how innocent it all was, watching the way Keith’s gaze darted around the room as to lazily attend to what he was seeing, then back at Shiro, to make sure he was still holding him. It didn't really look like he was tracking anything. Shiro had bounced Bunny up and down and Keith dazedly stared in the general direction without moving his eyes unless Shiro got really close .

Shiro chuckled softly when Keith let out another needy little noise. “I know, baby. Words don’t mean much right now, do they?” he murmured, cupping Keith’s cheek gently, brushing the pad of his thumb over the skin.

Keith was still gazing up at him, his expression said fix it , a quiet whine escaping his lips as he shifted uncomfortably. He definitely didn't know what was wrong but he probably knew that Bubba would make it all better.

Shiro bit his lip, suppressing the instinct to bubble wrap Keith so he would never be uncomfortable again , but settled for swooping in and hovering over Keith with constant reassurances. “You're okay, it's aaaaalll okay,” he sing-songed. “Let me just grab your pacifier. You need something to help you settle.”

—

Keith, in all his tiny, soft, bottomed-out littleness, had been perfectly fine—until he wasn’t.

Twice now, he’d spit out his pacifier, and twice, he had wailed about it, the loss of the soothing rubber was too much to handle since Keith didn't understand why it was gone or where it went. Shiro had soothed him easily enough, popping the pacifier right back into his mouth with a litany of reassurances, bouncing and swaying and rubbing his back, but it was clear that this was going to keep happening unless he found a solution. Keith's face was still splotchy from the tears that Shiro had just wiped off his face.

So now, Keith was snug in Shiro’s arms, his hands gripping the fabric of Shiro’s vest as they made their way to the nursery. Shiro was still basking in the presence of a tiny Keith. He was nowhere near baby-fussing frazzled. Yet . “I know, baby. We’re gonna fix it, okay? No more losing your paci.”

Keith blinked up at him, his jaw working around the pacifier rhythmically, but he didn’t respond. He was too little for that now.

When they reached the nursery, Shiro quickly moved to one of the supply drawers, searching for a pacifier clip to keep Keith from losing it again. He adjusted Keith in his arms, then, with consideration, set him down on the thick, blanketed floor.

Keith hummed inquisitively as he found himself seated on the soft padding beneath him, his  fingers curling into the plush fabric as they explored the new texture below him. He swayed slightly but stayed upright, his body loose and uncoordinated in a way that screamed tiny.

“Hold tight, buddy,” Shiro murmured as he rummaged through the various drawers until he found what he was looking for—a pacifier clip

Keith didn’t seem to mind being put down—he was calm, still working at his pacifier with soft little suckles. He didn’t seem to have much intention of moving , just content to exist wherever Shiro had placed him as long as he could see his caregiver (Shiro had a feeling that if he was out of sight then Keith would start screeching but he was pretty sure Keith was at a point where he didn't really have object permanence).

As he turned back around, Keith was exactly where he had left him, plopped on the soft, thick blanket that covered the nursery floor. His legs splayed out lazily in a vee shape as his arms held him up. It was disgustingly cute. 

It also meant that Keith could sit up on his own—that was good.  That meant he wasn’t completely helpless. His headspace wasn’t too young for any sort of autonomy, even if Keith wasn't really able to express himself.

Shiro smiled. So little .

“Alright, buddy,” Shiro said, moving to kneel in front of him. “Let’s get this clipped on so we don’t have any more lost paci disasters, yeah?”

Keith didn't really react, his expression blank and sleepy, but he let Shiro gently attach the pacifier clip to the soft fabric of his onesie without a fuss. The other end snapped securely onto the ring of his pacifier.

“There we go,” Shiro murmured, giving Keith’s hair a small ruffle. “Crisis averted.”

Keith made a small, pleased sound, his head wobbling slightly as he leaned into Shiro’s touch.

Shiro chuckled softly. “Awww, I love you too, honey. Now, let’s see something.”

“Hey, baby,” he called softly, moving back and sitting on his heels, settling into a crouch a few feet away. Keith’s head lifted immediately at the sound of his voice, his eyes flitting to Shiro's direction with that same wide, unfocused gaze.

Shiro smiled, holding open his hands in invitation. “C’mon, come to Bubba.”

Keith stared.

Shiro tried again, patting the ground in front of him. “Come here, lovebug. Let’s see if you can crawl.”

Keith just continued to stare at him, but Shiro waited him out, giving his brain plenty of time to process the request. Keith’s expression was slow to change, his lips still softly working around his pacifier, but after a moment, he somewhat shifted against the blanket, his body moving slightly like he was thinking about it. 

If he was even thinking about anything.

“Thats it, over here. Up, up, up. C’mon, sweetheart,” Shiro coaxed, his voice warm and encouraging. “You can do it. Come here, baby.”

Keith furrowed his brows, his pacifier shifting slightly as he sucked harder, focusing. He leaned forward, hesitated—

And then slowly, awkwardly, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

Shiro lit up, his chest swelling with quiet pride. "There you go, baby! That’s it!"

Keith blinked at him, clearly uncertain, but the warm encouragement made something settle in his little headspace, and he rocked forward slightly, testing. Slowly—very slowly—lifted one hand, then the other, shifting into a tiny, unsteady crawl.

Clearly, Keith had the muscle development, but it was the coordination that was his downfall. He couldn't figure out how to time his arms and legs. With a soft, startled noise, he plopped forward onto his tummy—his arm moving forward until his torso was on the ground with his legs folded underneath him.

Shiro barely held in a laugh. “Oh, buddy. That was close.”

The baby, however, didn’t seem to mind. He blinked, then simply let out a soft coo, stretching out contentedly against the blanket like he hadn’t just attempted to move at all.

Huffing a fond sigh, Shiro reached out to rub gentle circles into Keith’s back. “Well, looks like we’re not quite there yet,” he mused, watching as Keith merely flopped and let himself be soothed. “That’s okay. We’ll try again another time, yeah?”

Keith let out a tiny, contented hum, eyes slipping half-closed. His body remained limp and relaxed, showing no inclination to try again.

Shiro just shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Yeah, I figured.”

—

After another nap—because Keith slept a lot when he was this little—Shiro figured it would be good for him to have some time outside his room. So, he carried Keith to the living room and settled him on a soft, thick blanket spread out on the floor, surrounding him with plush toys, soft blocks, and other baby-safe things to keep his hands busy if he wanted to play.

Keith blinked up at him, still groggy from sleep, his pacifier working slowly in his mouth as he adjusted to being awake again. He grasped absently at the nearest toy, his bunny, but his movements were slow and uncoordinated, like he hadn’t fully woken up yet.

Shiro ruffled his hair gently. “There you go, sweetheart. Just relax, okay? You’ve got all your toys, and I’ll be right here.”

Keith made a soft noise in response, curling slightly on his back, seemingly content to just exist in his fuzzy little haze.

For a while, he just laid there, his pacifier working rhythmically in his mouth as he stared at nothing in particular, still caught in that post-nap haze while Shiro slumped on the couch and read his holo-pad. The room was quiet except for the occasional hum of conversation between people popping in and out of the room going about their business. No one paid much attention to him.

Until Lance did.

Keith barely registered Lance approaching until there was a sudden, high-pitched shake-shake-shake right in front of his face.

He blinked.

Lance grinned. “Hey, drooly,” he said, giving the rattle another enthusiastic shake. “You awake now?”

Keith blinked again, his gaze locking onto the rattle with slow, sluggish fascination. The sound was interesting. The way it moved, the bright colors—it captured his attention immediately. 

Lance chuckled at the delayed reaction and shook it again, closer this time. “You like this, huh?”

Keith’s lips parted around his pacifier, and before he even realized what he was doing, a small, delighted giggle bubbled up in his chest. His little hands reached up instinctively, grasping at the air, his coordination still too clumsy to grab the rattle properly.

Lance gasped dramatically . “Ohhh, you want it, huh? You want this rattle?” He shook it again, making Keith giggle even harder, his whole body wiggling slightly in excitement.

Keith kicked his legs slightly, making another happy noise as his fingers finally curled around the rattle when Lance let him have it. Of course, the second it was in his grasp, Keith did what all babies did—he immediately shoved it into his mouth.

Lance snorted, watching in amusement as Keith happily gnawed on the plastic. “Yup, should’ve seen that coming.”

Shiro, who had been watching from the couch, huffed a quiet laugh. “I’d say be careful, but at this stage, everything is going straight into his mouth. Its big enough that he can't swallow it.”

The other occupant of the couch, Pidge, finally let out an exasperated sigh and looked up. “Lance, for the love of God, stop with the high-pitched baby talk. He’s not a dog .”

Lance gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart like Pidge had just personally offended him. “Excuse me ! I’ll have you know that Keith loves my baby talk.”

Pidge raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Yeah? And how do you figure that?”

Lance smirks , leaning over cooing again just above Keith’s face. “Who’s the cutest widdle guy in the whole wiiiiiide universe? Huh? Is it youuuu ?”

Keith, still lying on his back, lights up , letting out a tiny, squeaky giggle around the rattle in his mouth, his whole body wiggling in delight.

Pidge groans. “ Unbelievable .”

Lance grins victoriously , turning back to her. “See? He's eating. This. Shit. Up!” He says, punctuating each word with a clap. “And besides, what’s he gonna do about it? He’s definitely not big enough to have any strong opinions right now...unless…”

He leaned over looking serious for a moment. “Keith, blink if you think Pidge is ugly. I'm not talking a little ugly either, I'm talking like, disgusting .”

When Keith stared up happily, Lance shot him an exaggerated grin and gently blew air onto his face, causing Keith to blink and make an inquisitive noise at the sensation.

“You know, Pidge—maybe he does have strong opinions, I mean, it's seems like if anyone's a good judge, it would be a—”

“ Fuck you Lance, you stupid, greasy weasel,” Pidge glared, clearly not pleased at the jab. Sometimes Pidge was unbothered, sometimes she was touchy. Probably puberty or something.

“ Language,” Shiro admonished.

“Shiro, I don't think he's getting any of this ,” She gestures to Keith, who is still giggling, and kicking his feet , sucking on the rattle. He looks utterly pleased with himself, and definitely not tuning into the conversation happening around him.

“Katie, you're 15. You are also a child. ” 

Pidge glares for a second before slamming her laptop shut and stomping off with a huff . “I cant work like this. See y'all at dinner.”

Lance snickered as Pidge stormed off, clearly ruffled, and turned back to Keith with a triumphant grin. “Welp, someone’s cranky. Guess she’s the one who needs a nap, huh, buddy?”

A sigh escaped from Shiro. “Why must you goad each other on?” 

“Becaaaauuuse!” Lance drawled out in a whine, “She's like an annoying little sister. She's always up in my business, she just ambushes me when no ones around—ask Hunk, she's a menace. Also! I haven't had a good argument in weeks— I can't wait until Keith is actually big again so I can heckle him.”

Shiro hummed, watching Lance with a contemplative look.

Lance was always energetic, always poking fun and riling people up just for the sake of it, but there was something about the way he needed to poke at Pidge that made Shiro pause. Littles often dropped around other Littles who were already down—it was natural, instinctual. And with Keith this little, completely bottomed out, it wouldn’t be surprising if Lance’s own regression instincts were stirring.

Shiro kept his voice casual as he spoke. “Lance.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Lance groaned before Shiro could even say anything, rolling his eyes. “‘Lance, stop antagonizing Pidge, Lance, be the bigger person,’ blah blah, I hear you, fearless leader.”

Shiro smirked slightly but didn’t take the bait. “Actually, I was going to ask if you needed some little time too.”

Lance blinked, startled out of his dramatics. “Wait, what?”

Shiro gestured loosely toward Keith, who was still contentedly gnawing on his rattle, utterly oblivious to the world around him. “Littles tend to drop around each other. And if you’re this wound up, picking fights with Pidge just because you’re restless, maybe you need a break too.”

Lance scoffed, folding his arms, but there was something hesitant in his expression. “Pffft, me? I’m fine, I don’t need —”

Shiro just raised an eyebrow.

Lance sighed dramatically, slumping back onto the couch. “Okay, maybe it could be nice.”

Shiro smiled. “Yeah?”

“I guess it’s been a while,” he admitted. “I mean, I could probably use a break, but…” His gaze flicked to Keith, his expression softening. “I mean, I don’t wanna be too little, though. Like, Keith is dropped , man. Like, computer reboot. Fully brain soup.” He gestured toward Keith, who had completely abandoned his rattle in favor of wiggling his fingers in front of his own face, completely mesmerized by the movement.

Shiro chuckled. “Yeah, he’s not coming back up for a while.”

Lance shifted. “I just—I dunno. I don’t wanna be too much, y’know? Like, Keith’s really little, and I wanna make sure you have help. I don’t wanna be another thing for you to handle.”

Shiro’s expression softened. “Lance, I never mind taking care of you.”

Lance’s face turned pink. “I know, but still…” He trailed off, kicking his feet lightly against the floor. “I just don’t wanna make things harder for you.”

Shiro reached over, ruffling Lance’s hair. “You wouldn’t. And besides, dropping isn’t about being a burden—it’s about taking care of yourself. If you need it, you should take it.”

Lance huffed, crossing his arms, but he didn’t immediately shut the idea down.

Shiro could tell he was considering it.

“Well,” Shiro said, voice light, “if you decide you wanna drop, I’ll be here.”

Lance didn’t respond right away, just watching Keith for a moment as the smaller boy babbled happily, completely unaware of the conversation.

Then, finally, Lance let out a sigh, rubbing his face.

“Alright, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Lance stretched with an exaggerated groan, rolling his shoulders as he stood up. “Alright, should we start heading to the kitchen? I’m starving .”

Shiro nodded, shifting to scoop Keith up effortlessly. “Yeah, let’s go before you start getting hangry,” he teased, adjusting Keith so he was securely nestled against his chest. 

Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it, leading the way out of the common room and toward the kitchen.

As they entered the kitchen, the warm, inviting scent of something savory filled the air. Hunk stood at the stove, stirring a large pot of what smelled like some kind of stew, while Coran stood beside him, gesturing animatedly as he talked.

“Ah, yes, Hunk, you see, if you just add a little dash of—”

Hunk held up a hand, stopping him. “Nope.”

Coran blinked, his mustache twitching in offense. “Now, now, don’t be so quick to dismiss my suggestions, dear boy! Altean seasoning is renowned for its complex flavors! Why, I remember a dish from my youth—”

Hunk groaned, rubbing his temple. “Yeah, I remember last time, Coran. I still have nightmares about whatever you put in my taziki sauce when I tried to make gyros.”

Coran huffed. “Well the flavors were certainly interesting —”

“Lets just leave it at interesting and agree to disagree,” Hunk said, sounding weary. 

Coran crossed his arms, muttering something about “culinary brilliance being misunderstood” before turning to greet them with a smile. “Ah! Shiro, Lance! And there’s our smallest Paladin!”

Hunk turned too, immediately grinning at the sight of them. “Hey! Good to see some of the team finally showing up! Where’re the girls?”

“Pidge stormed off earlier,” Lance said with an air of nonchalance, flopping into a chair. “Something about not being able to work or whatever.”

Shiro smiled. “I think she needed a break from Lance.”

Hunk snorted. “Yeah, that tracks. And Allura?”

Lance shrugged. “Dunno. Probably off training or something. Princess stuff.”

Shiro shifted Keith in his arms slightly. “Speaking of, can someone help set up the highchair? My hands are kinda full.”

Before Hunk could even move, Coran perked up, already stepping forward. “Ah! Allow me!”

With a flourish, Coran immediately began pulling out the highchair from where it was tucked away. He did most things with an odd grace, but it never usually looked awkward. Coran was truly a mystery and a marvel.

By the time everyone rolled up for lunch, Hunk had finished his version of vegetarian tacos based on what ingredients he had. Shiro didn't know how he did it but it somewhat looked like tacos, and the smell was close enough that Shiro was sure if he closed his eyes with his own unrefined palette, it would be pretty taco-like.

Keith wasn't really big enough for a taco, but he needed some solids. One could only drink formula for so long and food goo wasn't a bad bridge between more substantial food and bottles. 

It was just that feeding Keith turned out to be moderately difficult.

He wasn’t fighting it, exactly—he was just distracted. Little Keith was just not at all interested or motivated by food. Every time Shiro tried to bring the spoon of warm food goo with some of the taco seasonings to his mouth, Keith would turn his head at the last second, his attention caught by something else. The light above them. The movement of someone at the table. The way his own fingers wiggled in front of him.

“C’mon, sweetheart, focus,” Shiro pleaded, gently tapping Keith’s bottom lip with the spoon.

Keith blinked slowly, looking at Shiro with big, unfocused eyes before finally opening his mouth, letting the food in. He smacked his lips together, looking contemplative, before his face scrunched up a little in thought.

“You like it, buddy?” Shiro asked.

Keith didn’t seem to dislike it, but he also didn’t seem particularly excited about it. He made a soft noise, neither pleased nor displeased.

Shiro sighed. “Alright, well, we’re at least getting something in you.” He lifted another spoonful and tried again.

This continued for a while—Keith eating in slow, distracted bites while occasionally blowing raspberries between mouthfuls, splattering tiny bits of food goo on himself and Shiro.

Shiro sighed. “C’mon, baby, it’s not that bad, you're hungry, right?”

Keith, apparently, disagreed. He let out a small, disgruntled noise, his mouth opening just enough for some of the food to dribble down his chin.

“A bib ,” Shiro groaned, “I forgot a bib.”

Hunk, who had been watching in amusement, finally took pity on Shiro. “Here, dude, you’ve been on baby duty all day. Lemme take a turn so you can eat something before your food gets cold.”

Shiro didn’t hesitate—he handed the spoon over, rolling his shoulders as he grabbed his own plate and took a seat. “You’re a lifesaver, Hunk.”

Hunk took Shiro’s seat, getting settled in front of Keith as he grabbed a spoonful of food. “Alright, little man, let’s get some more in ya, yeah?”

Keith, wide-eyed at the change in caregivers, simply stared at Hunk as if trying to process what had just happened.

“Buh,” Keith said, brows furrowed. He didn't look pleased with this development but most importantly he wasn't crying to whining for Shiro otherwise.

“Bubba needs to eat his food like Keith's eating his,” Hunk said, pointing to the spoon and then to Keith.

Keith's expression didn't look like he really understood but after another “Buh” and a sympathetic headshake ‘no’  from Hunk he let out an unhappy squeal.

Hunk chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I know, new guy feeding you. Wild concept. But c’mon, buddy, open up—”

Before he could get Keith to take a bite, the doors to the kitchen swished open.

Pidge and Allura walked in just as Keith suddenly sneezed— directly onto Hunk .

There was a brief moment of silence as everyone processed what had just happened.

Hunk slowly blinked, his entire expression going blank as a fine mist of baby drool and food particles glimmered on his face.

Allura, bless her, was oblivious to the catastrophe and instead took a deep breath, smiling warmly. “Oh, my, Hunk! That smells absolutely wonderful. What are you making?”

Meanwhile, Pidge had zeroed in on what had just happened and made a noise of pure disgust.

“Oh my God, that was so gross .”

Lance, ever the supportive best friend, howled with laughter. “Ohhh, buddy. You just got sneezed on by the baby. That is so unfortunate.”

Hunk still hadn’t moved, staring down at the splatter on his sleeve with a vaguely betrayed expression. “Bro.”

Finally, he exhaled deeply through his nose, grabbed a napkin, and slowly wiped his face. “I,” he said, his voice heavy with deep resignation, “regret my life choices.”

Keith, completely unaware of the havoc he had just unleashed, blinked up at Hunk with big, innocent eyes.

Pidge, still making a face, crossed her arms. “I told you all babies are gross. They leak.”

—

Later that evening, Lance finally took Shiro up on his offer to drop.

At first, he’d tried to act cool about it, just casually hanging around while Shiro set Keith up on the playmat in the living room. But the longer he watched, the more he itched to join in, to let himself sink down into something softer, to just play .

So, of course, he did.

And now, here he was—fully three , fully bouncing with excitement, fully determined to play with Keith.

Shiro sat nearby on the floor, folding laundry since Keith practically went through a onesie every time he ate or leaked which was…yeah. Keith hadn't even been regressing for more than 2 hours and they were three onesies deep. He was occasionally handing Lance a toy or checking in, but for the most part, Lance was happily trying to explain how to play all sorts of games to Keith.

The problem was, Keith wasn’t doing anything.

Lance tossed a stuffed lion toward Keith, who was lying on his tummy, chewing on the ear of a teething toy. Keith blinked slowly, but didn’t reach for it, didn’t babble at him, didn’t even look at the lion.

Lance frowned. “Member, Keith. You pick up the Lion and ya play with it—then our lions can go on another adventure.”

With a clumsy grasp Keith accepted the Lion as it was shaken in his face again and used it to replace the teether as he sucked on the ear. 

“Ro,” he whined, looking up at Shiro with a pout. “Why’s Keith not playin’ wif me? He loves playin’ Voltron!”

Shiro placed down the socks he had just paired and glanced over at Keith. The babyish Little had rolled onto his back now, legs kicking slightly as he worked the new texture of the plush in his mouth, completely content just existing . His baby was still in the potato phase. He wouldn't be up to doing much of anything for a little while at least, until he was done bottoming-out and showed some signs of aging up. Like eye contact, or words that were more than one slurred syllable or babbles. He loved his Itty bitty baby but Lance was right about him not doing anything 

Now, how to tell that to a Little Lance?

Shiro hummed softly, shifting to sit closer to Keith, smoothing a hand over his chest. “He’s really, really little right now, bud,” he explained gently. “Too little for big kid games.”

Lance huffed, crossing his arms. “But he always plays a widdle! Even when he’s tiny!”

Shiro gave him a knowing look. “Not this tiny, buddy.” He glanced back down at Keith, who barely even reacted to the conversation, eyes unfocused and sleepy. “He's not really aware of what's going on and you kind of need that to play.”

Lance frowned harder, clearly not pleased by this development. He scooted closer to Keith, gently poking at his foot. “Keithy,” he called, dragging out the name. “D’you wanna build a castle wif me?”

Keith just blinked up at him, sucking rhythmically on his pacifier. 

Lance pouted, flopping dramatically onto his side. “ Maaaan! He’s no fun! ”

Shiro chuckled, rubbing Lance’s back from where he was splayed on the floor. “He’s just a baby, bud. But you can still play. I’ll build a castle with you.”

Lance let out a deep sigh, like he was personally suffering, but after a moment, he reached for the blocks again, still pouting as he started stacking. “S’not the same ,” he mumbled, but at least he was trying .

Shiro played with Lance for a while, helping him stack blocks into a very unstable tower, only for Lance to immediately knock them over with an exaggerated “KABOOM!” and giggle like it was the funniest thing ever. 

But then, Lance suddenly froze, his nose scrunching up in absolute disgust .

“Ew.” He pulled back, face twisting. “ Ewwww! Baby stinks! ”

Shiro barely held back his laugh. Instead, he grinned down at Keith and playfully tickled his belly. “ Uh oh, ” he cooed, voice dipping into that affectionate, teasing tone. “Did you go potty ? Huh? Are you gross ?”

Keith let out a happy little squeal at the tickling, his legs kicking excitedly, but obviously had no idea what Shiro was talking about.

Shiro chuckled, shaking his head fondly before reaching down to check. One quick pat to Keith’s diaper, and yup. Definitely a full one.

“Welp,” Shiro said, with entirely too much amusement. “Lance, buddy, you called it. Baby definitely needs a change.”

Lance, still wrinkling his nose, huffed, watching as Shiro helped Keith sit up from under his armpits and then lifted him onto his hip with a grunt. “Why didn’t he use the potty?” he asked, like the concept personally offended him.

Shiro gave an indulgent smile to the other Little with him as he swayed his baby in his arms. “Because he’s a baby right now, bud. He doesn’t even know what a potty is .”

Lance frowned, clearly processing that. “But he does when he’s big.”

“Yeah,” Shiro said. “But when he’s this little, he’s not really thinking about that kind of stuff.” He shot Lance a look. “And speaking of the potty… do you need to go?”

Lance’s expression immediately shifted into an exaggeratedly offended look. “ Me?! Nooo, I’m big .”

Shiro raised an eyebrow. “You just said you were three.”

“Yeah, but I use the potty.” Lance huffed, crossing his arms. “I know better.”

Shiro chuckled, shaking his head as he ruffled Lance's hair while the other Little squeaked and ducked away with a giggle. “Mhm. Just making sure.”

—

Shiro hummed and bounced as he carried Keith toward the nursery, the little one nuzzling sleepily into his shoulder with a soft contented sigh. Shiro couldn’t help but smile . Keith was so little right now, just completely dependent, trusting Shiro to handle everything. Shiro couldn't be happier to give Keith anything he needed, after all, he lived for when Keith was Itty bitty and looked up to his Bubba like he hung the moon.

The nursery door opened and the pastels and excess of soft, fuzzy things and dim lighting soothed even Shiro as he laid Keith down on the changing table with practiced ease, keeping a hand on his tummy to keep him from wiggling or rolling off (it had happened only once but Keith had wailed and Shiro felt horrible. Never again ). “Alright, baby, let’s get you aaaallll comfy, cozy, clean, again,” he murmured, grabbing the wipes and a fresh diaper, this one patterned with something like space puppies.

Keith gazed around curiously. He showed no signs of understanding what was happening but he giggled when Shiro's fingers ghosted his sides. 

“Yeah, you don’t even know how yucky you are, do you ?” Shiro cooed, tapping Keith’s nose gently before unsnapping his onesie. “Just my happy little baby, huh?”

Keith gave a soft hiccupy giggle, his legs kicking slightly as his caregiver got to work.

“Oof, yeah, you really needed a change, bud,” he teased as he wiped Keith down, making sure he was nice and clean before slipping a fresh diaper under him.

Keith wiggled some, but otherwise stayed still, playing with a chunky yellow triangle as Shiro gave a generous shake of baby powder and taped the new diaper into place. He couldn't resist giving the front a little pat as his little beamed from the attention. 

“There we go,” Shiro said saccharine sweet, snapping the onesie back up. “Does baby feel better?”

Keith let out a tiny, pleased hum, in response but Shiro got the feeling he could have asked anything in a syrupy tone and Keith would respond the same.

Shiro grinned. “Alright, let’s get you back to playtime, little man.”

Scooping Keith back into his arms, Shiro carried him out of the nursery, rocking him slightly as they made their way back to Lance, who was still sprawled out on the playmat, absentmindedly stacking blocks again.

Lance looked up as they entered, his nose still slightly wrinkled. “Didja fix him?”

Shiro chuckled. “He’s all clean.”

Lance gave a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. He was so gross.”

Shiro smirked. “Well, buddy, if you ever drop this little, you’ll be dealing with the same thing.”

Lance visibly shuddered . “ No thanks. ”

Shiro just laughed, settling back onto the floor with Keith, rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back as the babyish Little melted against him, pleased to be in his caregivers lap.

Eventually, Lance’s boundless energy began to wane. He wasn’t quite out of steam yet, but he was definitely winding down—his bounces were slower, his giggles a little softer, his words a little slurred.

Shiro, who had been keeping an eye on him, decided it was time. “Alright, bud, let’s start getting ready for bed.”

Lance groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “Noooooo,” he whined. “I dun’ wanna.”

Shiro smirked, already moving to scoop Keith up from his lap. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon, kiddo. We both know you’re not gonna make it much longer.”

Lance pouted, but he was too tired to fight it much, letting himself be pulled up onto his feet. “Fine,” he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes, allowing himself to be hefted onto Shiro's other hip as he looped arms around the caregiver’s neck. Having both boys in his arms was heavy, but the bedroom wasn't far, and a sleepy Lance under 4 didn't usually walk far if a nap or bedtime was on the horizon.

Shiro guided both of them to the bedroom, settling Keith down for a moment before plonking Lance down on the bed. Lance bounced with a sleepy chuckle as Shiro grabbed a pair of soft pajamas and a pull-up for Lance. “Alright, let’s get you changed.”

Lance blinked, then frowned when he saw the pull-up. “Imma big boy!”

Shiro raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. You know the rule— even big boys wear pull-ups at bedtime.”

Lance scowled but still let Shiro help him step into it. “But I don’t need ‘em,” he grumbled as Shiro tugged up his pajama pants. “I’m big. ”

Shiro just smiled, patting Lance’s hip lightly. “I know, bud. It’s just for bedtime, just in case.”

Lance huffed, arms crossed, but his fussing was half-hearted at best—especially when Shiro started helping him with his pajama top, smoothing out the fabric before guiding his arms through the sleeves. It was definitely more help than Lance usually got at bedtime, but Shiro was used to providing a lot of care with everything . Feeding, dressing, and gentle manhandling were all things Keith usually needed so it was hard to turn it off. Lance didn't seem to protest other than pinkness coloring his cheeks—Shiro would even say he was pretty sure Lance liked a little coddling so he worked slowly sliding on soft sleep shorts, making sure Lance felt taken care of.

When Lance was fully dressed, Shiro leaned in and pressed a smooch to his forehead. “Sometimes it’s nice to have help, y’know.”

Lance flushed , immediately ducking his head. “ Shiroooo, ” he whined, wriggling in embarrassment. “ Not in front of Keith! ”

Shiro chuckled, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Keith’s not even paying attention, bud.”

Lance huffed but didn’t argue.

“Now go brush your teeth,” Shiro said, nudging him toward the bathroom.

Lance scampered off without protest, and the moment he was gone, Shiro turned back to Keith, who was still slumped where he had been set down, blinking sleepily at nothing in particular.

Shiro smiled fondly. “Alrighty, little mister. Your turn. Lets get you ready for nighty-nights.”

Keith just blinked at him, completely pliant as Shiro moved in to start getting him ready for bed.

As Shiro got his baby dressed in a sleeper and fed him a bottle of water, he settled him down on the bed, patting the spot next to him when Lance came out of the bathroom. With a boy on each arm, Shiro picked up the book he had settled in his lap and began to read. 

He smiled when both boys were knocked out by the fourth page. The quiet breathing and warm weights beside him brought him a sense of fulfillment and joy.

He lived for nights like these, he thought as he closed the book gently and lifted Lance to tuck in to the smaller bed still in his room. He pressed a kiss to the younger teens forehead and then got into his own bed with Keith.

He always slept well when his baby was safe next to him. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Shiro woke up feeling... great. It was the kind of mornings he associated with getting his first teaching job and leaping out of bed for lesson plans, it was the kind of morning where he would get up early and try to make Adam breakfast (it never went well but he did his absolute best even if it always ended in the smoke alarm rather than breakfast waking Adam up).

It was a familiar kind of high—life was good and things were going his way. It was a rush he always got when he had Littles to take care of. There was something about knowing both Keith and Lance had needed him so much last night that settled deep in his bones, left a warmth in his chest that still lingered even now.

Keith was still sound asleep, curled up in his sleeper, his fingers loosely wrapped around Bunny’s ear. Shiro got the sense that Keith would be a little bigger today—not all the way up, but more than yesterday. That was how it went with Keith, it was a steep drop into headspace and a slow ascent back up into higher cognizance. 

But then there was Lance.

Shiro turned his head slightly, his eyes landing on the other lump in the bed, sprawled in a tangled mess of blankets and limbs; pleased at the notion that Lance was still dropped.

Shiro exhaled slowly, staring at him, he’d been expecting Lance to bounce back by morning—Lance usually wasn’t that deep into headspace unless he really needed it. He dipped in and out, rapidly changing and moving like the teen himself. But he was still curled up, still breathing soft and slow, still tucked into that warm, safe headspace.

Shiro felt the itch to help him go smaller. 

It'd be nice if he stayed that way.

Just a little more.

But no—no. He had to pace himself. Lance wasn’t like Keith, who if allowed to choose his headspace would scream ‘big’ into the void and land himself here…again. Lance needed the wiggle room to come up and down as he pleased.

—But it had been so long and Lance had only given him a little taste here and there while Keith had been away. It had been at least a month since he had a Little in his care for more than 24 hours and he felt like he was finally not feeling the jittery urge to make sure things were okay. 

Were people eating enough? Sleeping enough? Did they hydrate after training? It was nice for the constant buzz underneath his skin to have alleviated now that he was able to concentrate his doting to a single source. It had been easier on Earth, when he had mentees to teach, adolescents to give pep talks to, and could grade papers, give feedback to help cadets improve themselves.

So even though Shiros caregiver urges were feeling more sated, he had to resist the urge to nudge, nudge, nudge. It would be easy to reach over and rub his back the way he did Keith’s, to coax him further down with soft words and steady hands, insistent that Lance wouldn't be able to do it himself.

Luckily, he could recognize when his need for control wasn't such a good thing. Instead, he inhaled deeply, he doesn't need you like that, Shiro reminded himself, and gently reached over to pat Lance’s hip.

“Hey, bud,” he murmured, keeping his voice warm and low. “Rise and shine. Time to wake up.”

Lance stirred slightly, but instead of waking, he let out a soft sleepy sound and burrowed deeper into the blankets.

Shiro’s heart squeezed and he held back a coo.

God, it would be so easy to tip him a little smaller, just enough to make him needy. He was already so close—

Nope. He was not going to do that.

Shiro took another deep breath. Willpower. Restraint. Yes, he had those. 

If Lance was still this little, then that meant he needed it. And that was okay. Shiro could handle having a moderately needy Little and an extremely needy one.

He carefully scooped Keith into his arms first, pressing a kiss to his temple as the baby Little stirred slightly, making a noise of protest before settling against Shiro’s chest.

Then, he turned back to Lance, smoothing a hand down his back. “C’mon, kiddo,” he coaxed. “Time to get up. C’mon. Let’s get some breakfast in you.”

Lance groaned, cracking one eye open.

Shiro smiled. “There you are.”

Lance just blinked at him sleepily, and yeah, he was still definitely small. “Do I halfta?” 

“Well, I guess you could skip it, but I think Hunk would be very sad to eat breakfast without-”

“I'm up! I'm ready!” Lance pounced out of bed, motivated by a dejected Hunk more than anything. 

Getting both boys changed and dressed was a bit of a process, but nothing Shiro wasn’t used to by now.

Keith was cooperative, blinking up at him with big, glassy eyes, letting Shiro guide his limbs into a soft onesie without any protest. He was definitely bigger than yesterday, but still undeniably tiny—Shiro could already tell that even if Keith could crawl today, he wouldn’t be fast.

Lance, on the other hand, was wiggly.

Shiro had to work twice as hard to get him out of his pajamas (and dry pull-up! Hooray!) and sweats, the Little giggling and kicking his feet the whole time like it was the funniest thing ever. “Shiiiro,” Lance whined, even as he let himself be dressed. “I can do itttt.”

“You could,” Shiro agreed easily, tugging a hoodie over the squirming boy's head. “But I like taking care of you.”

Lance flushed, huffing dramatically but not fighting him nearly as much after that.

Once they were both dressed and ready—as ready as kids could be since Keith was busy jamming the wrong side of his pacifier into his mouth and chewing on the mouthguard and Lance was showing Shiro how high he could jump—Shiro scooped Keith into his arms and juggled him to a hip and grabbed Lances hand so he would walk beside him instead of running as they made their way to breakfast.

The second they stepped into the kitchen, Hunk’s face lit up.

“LANCE!” he boomed, immediately opening his arms as Shiro relinquished his hand so he could run into a sweeping, bone-crushing hug.

Lance squealed, kicking his legs as Hunk spun him around. “HUUUUNK—”

“Look at you!” Hunk grinned, finally setting him back down just long enough to pepper a barrage of kisses all over Lance’s face, making the Little squeal with laughter. “You’re so cute!” Mwah! “I missed youuu!” Mwah mwah mwah!

Lance, now thoroughly smothered in affection, just grinned dopily at Hunk. “Missed you tooooo.”

Hunk beamed. “Aw, bud!” He pulled Lance into another hug, swaying them slightly. “Gosh, it’s been forever since I’ve had my lil’ buddy around!”

“It’s been like two weeks,” Shiro interjected.

“Forever!” Hunk repeated dramatically, ignoring Shiro completely. “Did you sleep well? Hmm let me see here—oh yes, you smell like a good sleep”.

Lance laughed as Hunk pretended to sniff his hair, completely content to let Hunk hold him for as long as he wanted “I sleeped good. I got my own bed and Keith hadta share with Shiro since he's a baby.”

“So big!” Hunk praised, ruffling Lance's hair.  “And how did the baby sleep?” 

Keith, who had been watching with big, fascinated eyes, blinked up at him before hiding his face shyly against Shiro’s chest.

“Ohhhhh my GOOOOOD,” Hunk whisper-yelled, aware that loud noises will cause said baby to flinch but unable to quell the rising cuteness agression that demanded he grab the cute thing and attack it with smooches. Luckily, Hunk knew restraint. Instead, he dramatically clutched his chest, the drama an indication that he was definitely spending too much time with Lance. “Keith, buddy, you can’t just do that to me, man, that’s not fair!”

Keith, completely oblivious, just nuzzled deeper into Shiro’s hold. The older man chuckled fondly. “I think he’s still waking up.”

Hunk pouted. “Well, that just means extra snuggles later, doesn’t it, buddy?”

Keith didn’t answer, he was still busy trying to fuse with Shiro's chest, but that was fine. Hunk was more than happy to wait until the tiniest paladin was ready for attention.

For now, he had one squishy Little in his arms and a whole breakfast to make.

It was going to be a good morning.

—

The morning had gone smoothly—both boys had been fed, entertained enough to be kept out of trouble, and now Shiro was setting up a blanket fort in the common room, letting them settle into their coziest headspaces.

And then—

The paladin alarm blared.

The sudden, shrill noise was like a bomb going off in the peaceful quiet. And Shiro was glad the volume was loud enough to cover his surprised cursing.

Keith screamed.

Not just a startled cry, but a full-body sob, his tiny hands clutching at his ears as he wailed. The sheer distress in his voice made Shiro’s stomach lurch—Keith wasn’t big enough to process this. To understand it. All he knew was that something loud and scary was happening.

Lance, meanwhile, also cursed this time, loud enough to be heard over the alarms, his whole body jerking as his mind fought to sharpen through the thick haze of Littleness. He groaned, pressing his fingers hard against his temples. “Shit—okay—”

Shiro knew that sound and from the pinched expression he knew Lance was forcing himself up, climbing out of his headspace fast.

“Lance—”

“I got it,” Lance snapped, his voice already stronger, more stable. His movements were clumsy, like he was still fighting off the remnants of softness, but he was pushing through. He shoved off the blanket pile, already stumbling toward the door. “I’ll meet you when I'm in Red, just—ugh—just let me do it myself, okay? I need to do it myself.”

Shiro hesitated just long enough to see that Lance could swing it—his breathing was evening out, his steps more sure. By the time he reached the hallway, he was walking tall, no trace of his previous Littleness in sight.

Shiro let out a slow breath, forcing himself to trust that Lance could handle it.

But Keith—

Keith was still sobbing, his entire body trembling against Shiro’s chest, curled up small. His breath was hiccupy and uneven, his face pressed into Shiro’s neck like he could hide from the horrible noise.

And Shiro—

His stomach twisted, his arms tightening around Keith instinctively. The idea of handing him off to Coran—of leaving his baby when he was this scared, this little, this vulnerable—felt physically impossible.

But he had to.

He had to.

Life was full of tough choices and he had done terrible things before-truly terrible things- and he would do them again if it kept his space family safe. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move, to act instead of cling. He spun on his heel and made for the bridge, already knowing Coran would be there.

By the time they reached Coran, Keith was outright sobbing, his distress hitting a peak, his cries hiccupy and panicked and Shiro was about to make it worse.

Don't think about it. Stop thinking.

“Coran,” he started, breath tight, already hating this. “I—”

Coran, to his credit, took one look at Keith and immediately softened. “Oh, my boy,” he murmured, stepping forward. “I know, I know, it’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” His voice was calm, steady, soothing.

But Keith wailed harder, pressing himself as close to Shiro as he could.

Shiro hesitated—for just a second—his grip tightening and he—

He couldn’t do this.

He had to do this.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, and slowly—painstakingly—shifted Keith toward Coran’s waiting arms.

Keith thrashed, his cries turning desperate. “Bubba!”

Shiro clenched his jaw, forcing himself to let go.

“Take care of him,” he ground out, voice rough as he turned sharply on his heel, heading straight for his room to shove armor on and then racing to Black before he could change his mind.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

—

The moment the battle started, Shiro knew he was screwed and it wasn't because of the Galra cruiser—not because of the enemy fire or the maneuvers or the overwhelming odds.

But because he couldn't focus; not when his baby was probably sad and scared and missing him. So he coped as best as he could, his focus split between the battle and the gut-wrenching image of Keith’s tear-streaked face as he sobbed for him.

Black rumbled beneath him, a steady pulse of concern brushing against his mind, but Shiro forced himself to push forward.

Keith wouldn't want him to ignore the safety of the galaxy for him. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

But God, he couldn’t stop thinking about Keith.

Was he still crying?

Had Coran been able to soothe him?

Was he scared?

The questions pulled at him, gnawed at his focus, made his whole body itch with the need to go back.

A blast from the enemy cruiser barely missed him, snapping him back to reality.

“Shiro, watch it!” Lance’s voice came sharp over the comms, all business now, no trace of the Little he’d been just an hour ago.

Shiro exhaled hard, gripping the controls tighter.

“I’m fine,” he bit out, forcing himself to focus.

He had to get through this.

Then he could go home. 

—

The battle had been a shitshow as per usual.

It was a hot mess of enemy fire, desperate maneuvering, and it's not like they had sheer brute force, they had one powerful ship that was one tenth the size of a cruiser so it was a rush of desperation and frazzled strategy that flexed his ability to improvise. 

Forming Voltron had been a strain and if he didn't know how to shove his puzzle piece I to place and force it to fit despite the circumstance, it may not have happened. He knew that he was pouring strong feelings of panic and sorrow into the bond, but his baby was miserable and so was he. He could feel sympathy and a little exasperation fed back into the bond (Pidge) in return, but no one said anything otherwise.

They activated a sword that left the Galra cruiser in ruins, debris floating in the endless void of space. Cold, lifeless bodies drifted in the aftermath, a stark contrast to the roaring energy that had just coursed through their veins.

Splitting from Voltron always felt like coming down from something electric, a high that left Shiro’s body buzzing with residual power. It should have felt like victory, when they hooted and cheered about being safe, being heroes, defenders of the universe.

But today he didn't care about that. His hands itched as he guided Black back to the Castle. The need to see Keith—to hold him—was gnawing at him like a festering wound.

The docking sequence was agonizingly slow, every second stretching into an eternity. The second his boots hit the hangar floor, he was already moving, his pace brisk as the rest of the team filed in behind him.

Fuck the debrief.

—

Turns out the debrief was the place he needed to be.

He was on the warpath to find his Keith, but it turned out Keith was already in the briefing room, curled up in Coran’s arms.

He had to quell the anger and thoughts of mine, mine, mine!, running through his head before doing a quick assessment of his baby.

Keith looked okay. Not great, but okay. His face was still puffy, his eyes red-rimmed from crying, but his breathing was steady, and he wasn’t sobbing anymore.

Shiro didn’t even think—he crossed the room in seconds, reaching out before he could stop himself. Coran, bless him, simply handed Keith over without question.

The relief that washed over Shiro the second Keith settled against his chest was overwhelming. 

Keith seemed to be relieved too, arms thrown around his caregivers neck in a tight hug, face burrowed into Shiro's shoulder as fingers found purchase in the fabric of Shiro’s sweaty flight suit.

Shiro let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his arms wrapping securely around Keith’s smaller frame as he reciprocated the hug.

“I know, I know, Bubba’s here,” he murmured, soothing as he pressed a gentle kiss to his soft hair. “I got you, baby.”

Keith sighed, his whole body going limp against Shiro’s chest.They were slotted together like puzzle pieces and Shiro was whole again. 

—

Shiro tried to focus during the debriefing. He really did. And to Keith’s credit, he was very good, snuggled quietly against Shiro’s chest, sucking idly on his pacifier and playing with the chestplate of Shiro’s flight suit, fingers tracing the divots where the suit allowed his torso to twist.

He hated thinking that Allura was droning on since there was real value into dissecting the strategy and assessing where they needed to better strategize their time, but Shiro needed this meeting to end ASAP. He was feeling antsy. By the time the debrief was finally dismissed, Shiro wasted no time getting back to his room, Keith sitting on his hip.

Stripping off the suit was a relief, the cool air of his quarters soothing against his overheated skin. He set Keith on the bed for just a moment, peeling away each layer of armor and fabric with a satisfied sigh. Keith watched him sleepily.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured, scooping Keith back up. “Let’s get clean, yeah?”

Keith made a soft noise of agreement, letting himself be carried into the bathroom without protest.

Shiro turned the water on, adjusting it to a comfortably warm temperature before stepping inside, keeping Keith securely against his chest as the spray cascaded over them.

The second the warm water hit Keith’s back, he made a tiny, pleased noise, sitting up and watching the rivulets of water trickle down his hand in wonder.

Shiro smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to Keith’s damp hair. “Feels good, huh?”

Keith just hummed contently.

As a treat to himself, Shiro took his time washing up, letting Keith sit on the shower floor beneath him, just within the warm stream of water. Keith blinked up at him, clumsily trying to catch the spray of the shower in his hands. His brow furrowed as the water trickled through his cupped hands as he tried again.

Shiro chuckled, reaching down to ruffle Keith’s hair. “Having fun, bub?”

Keith grinned up at him, forgetting what he was doing entirely as he basked in the attention.

Shiro leaned down, gently working shampoo into Keith’s hair, massaging his scalp with careful fingers. Keith sighed at the touch, tipping his head into Shiro’s hands like a content kitten.

The caregiver took his time, letting the warmth of the shower soothe both of them. The battle felt like a distant thing now, washed away with the grime, the tension melting from his muscles. He scooped up Keith from the shower and they got out, wrapping a towel around him and dipping and spinning him until Keith happily squealed. Humming softly as he dressed Keith, Shiro carefully guided pliant limbs through the sleeves of a soft onesie.

 He could already tell that Keith was a little bigger than before—not by much, but enough to notice.

His eyes tracked movements now, and not in a sluggish way or to look over when there was a sound. His eyes were following Shiro’s hands as he fastened the last few snaps. He wasn’t just staring into space anymore—he was watching. Engaged.

Letting out a slow breath, Shiro felt something like relief settling deep in his chest.

It wasn’t that he minded taking care of an itty bitty Keith—No. He loved his baby, no matter how small he got—but it was hard to look into those blank, unfocused eyes and know that Keith couldn’t tell anyone when he was hungry, or tired, or wet. Couldn’t even seek someone out when he needed comfort other than to cry.

So seeing him a little more present—even if just by a small margin—felt like a weight lifting from Shiro’s shoulders. He had gotten pretty good at Keith-charades but he wasn't always right when he guessed.

He cooed softly when Keith’s gaze lifted to meet his, big and glassy but steady.

“Ohhh, there’s my baby,” Shiro murmured, grinning as he hefted Keith up again, holding him securely against his chest (he knew his muscles would be sore tomorrow, but he couldn't deny Keith anything). “You’re looking at me today, huh?”

With an affectionate chuckle, he bounced Keith gently in his arms, giving his little bottom a few rhythmic pats. “That’s a good boy,” he praised, his voice warm and pleased. “I love seeing those pretty eyes, baby.”

Seeming pleased at the attention, Keith let out a soft, tiny noise, something between a coo and a hum, trying to stick his finger into Shiro's mouth as he tightly closed his lips with a laughing snort in response. 

It was so good to see Keith coming back up, even if just a little. It was great because Keith had needed this so bad and Shiro missed him more than anything when he was at the Blades. He knew Keith hated being Little, but Shiro always hated the part where Keith would tear himself apart before he dropped. Still, it was hard to reconcile that stubborn, self-destructive teenager with the very happy and cooperative baby in his arms.

Shiro couldn’t help but press a kiss to his cheek and coo at him. “You’re not gonna leave Bubba for the big scary Blades, huh?” he murmured in soft, playful babytalk, swaying gently. “Nooo, no you’re not! No Blades for my baby, not for a looong time, huh?”

A kicked leg and a happy coo met him in reply.

“I'm glad we agree.”

—

The castle was quiet when Shiro stepped into the common area, Keith snug against his chest. The unexpected battle had taken a toll on everyone. It was obvious in the way the team was draped over couches and tangled up in the still-intact blanket fort, their exhaustion palpable.

It was a warm kind of exhaustion, though. The kind that came from a fight won, from a job done, from knowing that for now, they were safe.

Shiro smiled as he stepped further into the room, gently lowering Keith onto a soft blanket under one of the fort’s smaller structures. His hair was still fluffy and frizzy from his shower and the sight of him made Shiro want to pick him back up and squeeze him. He settled for running his fingers through Keith's hair, lightly scratching his scalp. Keith let out a contented little sigh as he leaned up into it. He seemed a lot less wobbly and Shiro took that to be a good sign.

Moving towards one of the nearby couches, Shiro stretched, rolling his shoulders as he turned toward the couch where Lance was sprawled, one arm slung lazily over his face.

“Hey Lance, you feel ok?” Shiro asked, keeping his voice light. “You were still pretty small this morning.”

Lance peeked at him through cracked fingers, then groaned dramatically, sitting up with a stretch. He was used to Shiro's mother henning and had gotten the brunt of it when Keith had been MIA with the Blades. At some points it had annoyed him, but now he was just amused. “Naaah, I’m good,” he said, shaking his head. “Thanks for looking after me, though. I feel pretty great, actually.”

Shiro hummed. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I mean, not gonna lie—switching gears like that was rough, but I feel way more balanced now.” He flopped back onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Like I got the rest I needed, y’know? I don’t need to go back down right now.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Shiro nodded, pleased. 

Lance shot him a lazy grin. “You love it when we’re little, though, don’t lie.”

Shiro smiled with a flush, hands on his hips. Ok, yeah. That was true. He loved when they were little. It would be a lot to manage two squirming toddlers all the time, especially when they were fighting a war, but Shiro would do it in a heartbeat. “Mmhmm. I love knowing you guys are getting what you need. That’s what makes me happy.”

“Well, at least one of us still needs you, so don't go moping yet.” Lance teased.

Something very close to a pout crossed Shiro's face. “I don't mope.”

“Uh, yeah. You totally do.” Pidge said, letting out an amused puff of air from where she was laying lazily over the couch, propped up against Hunk.

Hunk looked over with an earnest face. “It's okay Shiro, I mope a little bit too. Theres a lot less chaos when there's itty bitties. Also Allura is nicer during training.” 

“Mmmm. Perhaps.” The princess hummed as the team let out amused chuckles.

The room settled into a comfortable quiet, the team lulled into some hard earned rest.

For now, everything was okay.

—

Shiro knew the peace wouldn't last forever and with Keith making a gradual ascent back up to being big, he wasn't surprised when the tiny baby stage was over that the toddler stage recovering from dropsickness might not be as smooth of a transition.

From the moment he woke up that morning, Keith was fussy.

That was to say, Keith was not happy.  

As the awareness had trickled back into his eyes, so had the discontent. Shiro had seen him in all states of regression—sleepy and too little to care about much other than when he was held and fed, a grumpy toddler who hated naptime, or a playful baby—but nothing, and he meant NOTHING—compared to when Keith was dropped and mad about being little.

He squirmed in Shiro’s arms as he was carried to the nursery his face scrunched into the most unimpressed little pout Shiro had ever seen. It would have been a little more intimidating if he wasn’t also sucking furiously on his thumb, his other hand fisted tightly in Bunny’s ear.  

It was ridiculously cute and in no way intimidating.

Shiro suppressed a laugh, knowing it would earn him an angry squeal and a clumsy hit (no matter how many times Keith was scolded) and he adjusted his grip as he sat Keith down on the changing table. “You are so grumpy,” he teased, booping Keith’s nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a baby so mad about being a baby.”  

Keith scowled harder, but his eyes went slightly crossed from the boop, and the sheer adorableness of it made Shiro's cheeks hurt from how hard he was grinning.  

“No baby,”  Keith grumbled, his words thick and mushy, garbled by his thumb.

Shiro gave him a knowing look. “Yes, baby,” he said sympathetically. Buddy, you’re always grumpy after you realize you've dropped. I dunno why you act surprised every time.”

Making a face like he wanted to argue, Keith's brow furrowed seriously but the expression was ruined by the way his lower lip wobbled, clearly caught between real frustration and being tired and fussy. Keith opened and then closed his mouth when Shiro pulled out a fresh diaper and a bottle of lotion, and whatever protests he was about to make vanished as his nose wrinkled instead. Oh yeah. He was wet.

He was laid down on the bed, his caregiver

gently tapping his thigh in the wordless signal to lift his hips. Keith obeyed automatically, still scowling as Shiro untaped his diaper and began changing him with the same practiced motions as usual. Keith made a displeased sound and with and air of nonchalance Shiro reached over and grabbed a soft rattling Kitty toy, shaking it in front of Keith's face and making it give Keith a kiss.

Sure enough, his lips parted slightly as he stared at the soft toy, his expression shifting from grumpy to completely entranced in the span of a second, like it always did when a toy was soft and made noise.

Shiro grinned.

Keith reached up, little fingers grasping at the plush toy as he tried to figure out where the rattling sound came from, his other hand firmly re-planting his still wet thumb in his mouth. “Kitty,” he murmured around his finger as Shiro wiped him clean and smoothed fresh lotion over his skin. 

“That’s right,” Shiro praised, fastening the tapes with practiced ease. “Good job, baby.”

The Little kicked his feet happily, clearly pleased with himself—only for his brain to catch up a moment later, his brows furrowing as he remembered he was supposed to be mad.

He looked at Shiro, then down at the fresh diaper and onesie he was now fully dressed in, and let out the tiniest little growl of frustration. “Bubba!”

Shiro barely contained his laugh. “What?”

“Big!” Keith argued in a whiny tone.

“Yes, yes. You'll be bigger soon, but you're not so big yet. Still my itty bitty baby.” Shiro scooped him up, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles. 

“Not too big for cuddles and a bottle I hope?” Shiro teased as he swayed back and forth. And Keith, weak to affection when he was small, all but melted against Shiro’s chest with a growl, but didn't disagree.

The older man smiled against Keith’s hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Mmhmm, yeah. Thought so.”

Keith sulked, but it was half-hearted at best, his fingers already curling into Shiro’s hoodie, the fight leaving him as his body relaxed further.

“C’mon, baby,” Shiro cooed, still swaying gently as he carried him toward the rocking chair. “Let’s get you down for a nap. I'm sure that you'll be much, much bigger by tomorrow.”

All he got in response was a whine in protest but the baby didn’t actually argue, already sinking deeper into the steady warmth of Shiro’s embrace.

Shiro just smiled, rocking them both gently.