Another victim of the Galra Empire. Alone and scared. Found by Voltron and sent back to the Castle of Lions to have your wounds treated. An unfamiliar place, surrounded by even more alien technology as a strangely flamboyant Altean man tends to your wounds.

"Relax, now. I know what I'm doing."

He said as he stood back to look at you, twirling the end of his moustache between his fingers. He moved into action a second later, having put you up on the bed of an infirmary that looked like it had been out of commission for a long time. He ducked down into one of the cabinets, retrieving a first aid kit. Despite everything, the nervousness added by being in a strange place with a strange man, something about him was a little comforting. Something subconscious that was making your heart rate lower. Still anxious, but not filled with adrenaline as much anymore.

"We could just put you in one of the sleep-pods. Get you all fixed up, but that might be a bit overkill."

It might have been a while, but Coran still remembered way back when. All those ten thousand years ago. Before the war, before being cryogenically frozen, before Altea was destroyed. When Allura was still just a little kid, running around and scraping her knees. Skinning her palms, getting bruises and getting stuck in trees. He may have only technically been a royal adviser, but he was the one to patch all those things up a lot of the time. He knew what he was doing--in some capacity. He had the instinct.

"You've got anything broken? Any underlying health conditions?"

He was asking those questions so weirdly. Talking like a concerned paramedic, but with the tone of a game-show host. It was a somewhat welcome change from the Galra. A bit jarring, but better. The next thing you knew, he had cotton in-hand and was already meticulously cleaning up one of the bloody marks on your arm. A mix of a cut and a scratch. He got right to work, leaned down at the hips. He was so animated, but he was listening, he was attentive.