I want a #sheith au where Keith runs a wildlife rehab clinic out of his desert shack.

Shiro is on his first sabbatical, alone at an all-but-abandoned observatory. Keith’s shack is the only sign of life for miles, but Shiro’s heard he doesn’t like company.

They meet one sunny afternoon when Shiro shows up at Keith’s door--scared, starting to sunburn, and wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

When Shiro signed on for a summer at the Calypso Observatory, his colleagues warned him about 3 things:

1. Heat exhaustion
2. Scorpions
3. The man who lives in the solitary shack just beyond the observatory property line

There’s a slew of weird rumors about the place. One person heard a chorus of chilling howls every night for a month; another claims to have seen a bobcat napping on the front porch in broad daylight while the man sat in a rocking chair beside it, casually sharpening his knife.

Some even say the man is a witch or an animal whisperer. The last grad student to stay there swears up & down the guy sicced a giant wolf on him for no reason at all.

(Lance is prone to exaggeration, but Shiro is inclined to believe whatever did happen was well deserved.)

Whatever the story, though, they all agree on one thing: the shack’s owner isn’t fond of other people.

Shiro came out here to get away from human drama, so he can appreciate the man’s desire for privacy. He figures he’ll just keep his distance & they won’t have any trouble.

Calypso is too far from town to justify a commute, so Shiro brings a pile of sleeping bags, a lone suitcase, and two duffel bags crammed with four different types of instant noodles to the observatory and settles in for the long haul. He tells himself it’ll be fun. Like camping.

He’ll admit he’s never really been the outdoorsy type, but he can make do. The dry air is good for his prosthetic, and he has everything he needs. Compared to NASA’s training regimen, this is a cakewalk.

And if he screams every time he finds a scorpion, nobody’s around to know.

(This is as far as Baby's First Thread will go for tonight, but I'm hoping to continue tomorrow! Thanks for checking it out! )

Shiro makes it exactly 13 days, 19 hours, and 22 minutes before he reaches his breaking point.

It all starts with a harrowing forty minutes spent trying to corral his latest eight-legged houseguest inside an empty ramen cup so he can release it outside.

(As horrifying as the scorpions are, it feels wrong to kill them when he’s the one invading their habitat.)

By the time he deposits the bug safely into a scrubby desert bush, his heart is hammering and his sleep shirt is soaked with sweat. It’s almost lunchtime now; he meant to be asleep ages ago, but the epic confrontation left him feeling jumpy, disgusting, and a little bit manic.

He’d love nothing more than to drown his nerves in a hot shower, but the water heater went out two days into his stay. The thought of spending another five minutes shivering miserably under the sputtering old faucet in the utility room is enough to drive him to desperation.

It’s in this moment of tragically fraying judgment that Shiro remembers the creek about a quarter mile away.

Under the scorching desert sun, it’s only logical to assume the creek water’s gotta be warmer than his sad excuse for a shower, right?

What could go wrong?

Shiro sets out, armed only with a clean towel, his phone, and a small bag of toiletries. His GPS betrays him halfway to the creek, but a screenshot of the map and his pilot’s intuition guide him the rest of the way.

He's in luck--thanks to record levels of rainfall this past winter and spring, the creek flows along at a gentle pace. The lukewarm water sloshes halfway up his thighs when he wades in.

It’s not exactly the steamy Japanese bath Shiro dreams of, but deep enough for his purposes.

Shiro wastes no time in stripping himself bare, leaving his folded clothes on a smooth rock near the bank. His prosthetic rests safely on top of the pile.

Twenty minutes later, he emerges from the creek feeling more refreshed than he has in days.

He gives in to the temptation to linger under the afternoon sun for a few minutes--it’s not like anyone’s around to accuse him of public indecency--before he dries off as best he can, tossing the towel over his shoulder to reattach his prosthetic.

When he reaches for his sweatpants, a flash of movement within the folds of fabric makes him freeze.

Shiro swallows hard. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself to breathe in and out.

He only caught a glimpse, but whatever it was, he’s fairly sure it was scaly. And slithering.

/Calm down./

He’s just exhausted, that’s all. The sunlight reflecting off the creek is probably playing tricks on his eyes.

He grasps a pinch of fabric between the trembling fingers of his prosthetic, and with painstaking slowness, he lifts up one leg of his sweatpants.

An elegant, diamond-shaped head emerges from the soft gray fabric, forked tongue tasting the air. Beady black eyes focus on Shiro’s face.

From the end of a sinuous, coiling tail, an unmistakable rattling sound rasps in Shiro’s ears.

Every man has his limits.

Shiro doesn’t scream. He doesn’t lash out. He does what any sane person would do when confronted with certain doom:

He drops the pants and runs for his life.

–

Okay. Shiro admits it.

He's well and truly fucked.

The sun hangs high in the cloudless sky, a bright, relentless heat lamp that makes him feel like a lizard trapped in a glass cage. Empty desert stretches out endlessly around him like a mirror image in every direction.

Thick beads of sweat roll down his temples, dripping into his eyes and plastering his white bangs to his forehead. He can /feel/ his skin sizzling across his shoulders and chest, not to mention his poor scarred nose.

As if his body isn’t damaged enough as it is.

He’s trying not to think about the state of his bare feet, but he’s pretty sure he can feel blisters forming.

At least he brought the towel with him in his headlong flight; he had just enough presence of mind to stop and tie it around his waist when he couldn’t run anymore.

It’s a small comfort, considering every other decision he’s made since before he stepped out the door has been complete and utter garbage.

He’s exhausted. His phone is still in the pocket of his sweatpants--and even if it wasn’t, who’s to say it would even have service?

And to add insult to injury, his traitorous stomach just started growling.

He’s almost desperate enough to take his chances with the rattlesnake, if he could find his way back to the creek. Unfortunately, that pilot’s intuition he’s so proud of seems to have abandoned him.

He’s not sure how long he’s been wandering this same stretch of desert--probably at least an hour. He remembers reading somewhere that when you get lost in the wilderness, it’s best to stay put and wait for someone to find you, but who the hell is gonna look for him out here?

Allura will worry when he misses his next check-in, but by the time she sends someone to check on him, all they’ll find are his bleached bones jutting out from the sand like in some old cartoon.

She’ll probably drag him out of the afterlife just to kick his ass.

With a scratchy, delirious laugh, Shiro lets himself sink to his knees on the rough ground for a moment, hands rubbing over his face.

He needs to /think/. There has to be /something/ he can do. He didn’t survive a re-entry disaster just to die in a place like this.

As his fingers slide down his cheeks, his eyes open to stare at the patch of ground in front of him. There’s a strange indentation in the dirt--a pattern of ridges, just barely visible under a sheen of dust. Shiro bends down for a closer look.

A tire track. It’s a /tire track./

Probably from some kind of dirt bike. And it’s not like Shiro’s any kind of expert, but to his hopeful eyes, it looks recent.

Shiro’s heart revs into overdrive. All at once, the warnings of his students & colleagues flood back into his sun-baked brain.

He’s not alone out here.

There’s also the reclusive, mysterious shack owner who may or may not be friends with wolves and bobcats.

Right now, Shiro doesn’t care if the guy is a literal space alien, as long as he has a phone Shiro can use.

Shiro scrambles to his feet, body hunched to follow the tracks. He can only hope the driver is still at home when he gets there.

And if the man decides to chase Shiro off with a shotgun or a pack of coyotes, well… Shiro will deal with that when it happens.

–

Shiro nearly weeps with relief when the shack comes into sight. It’s even smaller than he imagined, a compact, rectangular structure with a peaked roof and a few big windows. A cherry red dirt bike leans against the corner, next to some stairs leading onto a covered porch.

The porch is almost empty, save for a single rocking chair that looks handmade. But it’s the object at the foot of the porch that grabs Shiro’s attention: a huge, heavy duty animal cage with a covered top.

As Shiro creeps closer, a low growl rumbles from inside.

Shiro pauses at the bottom of the steps, squinting through the bars. He feels the hair on his arms stand up.

Tawny fur. Piercing golden eyes. A flash of sharp white teeth.

That…

That is a goddamn /mountain lion/.

Shiro stumbles back with a hiss, nearly colliding with the shack wall.

Holy /shit/. What kind of psycho keeps a /mountain lion/ locked up on his property? Shiro’s pretty damn sure that’s not even legal.

/No, calm down./

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply.

/Be cool./

He can call the national park service or the rangers or whatever agency is in charge of this kind of thing once he’s safe back at the observatory. Survival is more important right now. He’s got no choice but to rely on this guy if he wants to make it through the day.

Assuming the guy doesn’t kill him on sight.

Shiro gives himself a little shake, squares his shoulders, and marches up the steps onto the porch. He summons the most charming smile he can manage as he raps his knuckles twice on the door.

No response.

Shiro waits, smile faltering. He licks his lips and knocks again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

He glances back to confirm the red bike wasn't a mirage, and catches the mountain lion staring at him. It somehow manages to look both hungry and judging at once.

Time to change tactics.

Shiro knocks with his prosthetic this time.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry to bother you, but I need some help–”

The door swings open.

Based on the rumors, Shiro always pictured a grizzled old mountain man with a bushy beard, thick eyebrows, and sun-wrinkled skin, dressed in plaid flannel. The dirt bike probably should’ve made him reconsider that image, but he’s still not at all prepared for the man he sees.

He’s /young/--around Shiro’s age, if not younger--and clean-shaven, with knife-sharp features and a mane of silky dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He’s dressed in a simple blue t-shirt and tight black pants, with fingerless gloves on his hands.

And his eyes…

He has the most stunning eyes Shiro has ever seen. Dark blue--or are they violet?--and deep enough to hold entire galaxies.

Those eyes examine Shiro with soul-stopping intensity, sliding down over his bare chest and dropping to the all-too-revealing towel around his waist.

/Right./ The towel.

In his fear and desperation Shiro had almost forgotten his current state of undress. Now shame flares back with a vengeance, dyeing his cheeks, his neck, and his already sunburned chest the same ruby shade as the bike.

The man’s eyes snap back up to Shiro’s face, one perfect eyebrow quirked. His lips press into a thin line.

And Shiro seriously needs to stop staring and /say something/ before this beautiful man thinks he’s an exhibitionist or a nutcase or worse.

His mouth opens before he can think better of it.

“I’m not a creep!” he blurts.

The man blinks once. If anything, his expression grows more blank.

If a meteor would crash down from the heavens and bury Shiro in the earth right about now, that would be perfect.

(Stopping here for the night. I promise Shiro's day will get better soon. Thanks for all the support!)