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Lance feels like he’s been hit by a bus.
Or trampled by a herd of Galran soldiers. Hefty ones entirely comprised of muscle. The team has been working tirelessly for the last couple weeks. Busting a prison alongside the Blade of Marmora, liberating a planet, attending a handful of celebration parties— the usual stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary.
It’s the whole ‘no break in between’ that's been causing problems. Apparently, time really does fly when you’re having fun.
Not.
Lance’s sleep schedule is pretty much screwed, and he can practically feel the zits pushing to the surface of his skin. Leave it to Lotor to fuck up his beauty regimen. He’ll make sure to complain about it— at length— the next time they cross paths with that assface.
Heavy with exhaustion, Lance trudges into the dining hall. Everyone is already sitting around the table, eating their respective bowls of purple breakfast goo. The nearest open spot is beside Keith. Because of course it is. Lance groans, loud enough to get Keith’s attention, and drops into the cold seat.
Keith spares him a fleeting glance between bites. But nothing more.
No ‘hi’ or ‘look, it’s the most charming and beautiful paladin in the universe!’ Not even a death glare because Lance slept in a few extra minutes. What? Hell, he would kill for one of Keith’s bity remarks right about now. His early morning charm and wit. Anything but this unnerving silence. Especially since he and Keith have a habit of filling any breaks in breakfast conversation with their bickering.
“Good morning to you, too,” Lance mumbles and shovels a sizable glob of goo into his mouth. And, maybe it’s just his imagination, but it seems like it tastes sweeter than Hunk's regular batch. Weird.
Keith grunts out something unintelligible and continues eating. Lance leers at him suspiciously but doesn’t push the issue. He’ll deal with Keith’s pouting later.
Hunk and Pidge are strangely quiet, too. Occasionally, they look up from their food to seek out Keith’s gaze. Like a pair of cagey animals, wary of Lance. Neither say more than a couple words to him after he sits down. As if things couldn’t get any weirder.
“So, Lance,” Allura blurts from the head of the table. “How are you this morning?”
Lance freezes, spoon centimeters away from his gaping mouth. No, this is totally a dream. No way would Allura be the only person willing to talk to him. The one to make, what, small talk? Allura doesn’t do ‘small talk.’ At least not in Lance’s experience. Maybe he slipped into an alternate dimension— Slav would know.
“Good?” Spoken more like a question than an answer. Awesome. “I mean, uh. Yeah, I’m great! Never been better!”
The bags under his eyes say differently. But Allura wears identical dark circles, and Lance wonders how many long nights she’s already spent in the control room. Stressing over future diplomatic meetings. Honestly, they all look a bit haggard, pallid skin tones and sluggish movements.
“I must say,” she starts, offering Lance a tired smile. “Your skin looks radiant. Even with the, ah. Lack of sleep.”
Wait.
“What?” Realizing how harsh that might’ve sounded, Lance quickly lowers his voice. “Well, of course. I gotta keep up appearances and everything, you know? Maintain my status as the paladin with the most dashingly good looks.”
He expects Allura to huff, roll her eyes. He certainly wouldn’t be surprised if she reprimanded him. In a way, he deserves to be scolded. And, stranger still, Keith remains silent throughout the entire exchange.
Team Voltron’s been replaced by robots, Lance decides.
“It certainly shows. I may have to…” Allura trails off. Brow furrowed, she visibly contemplates her next words. “I may ask that you show me one day in the near future. Your beauty routine, that is.”
Lance feels the blood rush to his face. Allura’s seriously asking for beauty advice? From him? The boy who ceaselessly flirts with her every day? It makes no sense. He’s a nuisance. A pain in the ass, really. Allura should find him annoying. Lance used to get that a lot back on Earth, primarily from the superior officers at the Galaxy Garrison.
And yet… she’s asking for his guidance.
“What the quiznak,” Lance mumbles under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!” Lance squeaks. “Nothing, I just— I’d be more than happy to help a beautiful princess such as yourself.”
Finally, that comment earns him an eye roll. There’s something affectionate about the gesture, though, that catches Lance off guard. Like an exasperated sibling.
Curious, Lance peeks at Keith. He stares quietly into his bowl. Chewing. Lance swears there’s a quirk to the corner of his lips but that could also be a figment of his imagination. The rest of their meal passes without incident. Hunk and Pidge prompt Lance with a few questions about the last celebration party they attended, rediscovering their voices. Thank goodness. Meanwhile, Coran and Allura chat about diplomatic relations and the like.
And Keith doesn’t say a damn thing.
Lance gathers his plates to be washed and surveys the room once more before leaving. Something fishy is going on.
The universe, God, some higher power clearly doesn’t want to give the paladins a break.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hunk grumbles as the rest of the group files into the control room. “Another attack?”
“I’m afraid so.” Coran steps up, standing between Keith and Allura. “The Gollians are non-combative, really, a docile species. Not that it matters to the Prince… Easier to conquer, I suppose.”
“And you said the Galra are already there?” Keith asks.
“Ah, yes. It appears they hid themselves amongst the locals. Surely it was all part of the plan.”
“So… They’ve been there. But now Lotor is planning to destroy everything and take the planet for himself. Why?” Keith looks toward Allura and Coran. “Is there a reason he needs it?”
“Not necessarily,” Allura sighs. “It’s more like… a display of power. He wants to prove he can take whichever planets he pleases. Or possibly to prove his worth?” She shakes her head disappointedly. “It’s hard to say exactly what he may be thinking.”
“So, what do we do?” Lance has no clue where this conversation is going, but he has a bad feeling about it. “Go down there and kick some Galra ass? Or?”
“Half the planet is already in flames,” Coran mumbles. Uncharacteristically dejected. “The five of you could go, but… I’m not sure how much good it would do.”
The rest of the team goes silent. As Lance watches, a myriad of emotions flicker across Keith’s face. Confusion, fear, anger— and finally resignation. Which, in Lance’s humble opinion, is not a good look on him.
“Well, we can at least try, right?” Lance suggests. He steps into the middle of the group and lifts his hands in a placating gesture. Turning slowly, he makes eye contact with each of his teammates. “I’m sure there are people— well, Gollians— down there who are still very much alive. And in need of being rescued.”
“Lance…”
“It’s true, though! We can fit plenty of people on the ship— even more in each of the lions!” Lance steadily comes to a stop in front of Keith. Who pointedly dodges Lance’s gaze. “Sure, there’s nothing we can do about the planet itself. But we’re defenders of the universe, yeah? Meaning we defend and protect people. That includes saving them.”
Lance bends at the waist, trying to force Keith to pay attention, to incite a reaction. There’s a faint spark in his eyes. A fire Lance has grown accustomed to, especially during moments like this. Persistence and tenacity etched into the lines of his face. Eventually, Keith lifts his head.
“You guys do want to help people… right?” Lance prompts. He sure as hell knows he wants to. “There’s no way we can leave them behind to die.”
Tension hangs heavy in the air. Predictably, no one speaks up. Lance gradually lets his arms fall back to his sides and reclaims his original place in their impromptu team huddle. Well, whatever. He’s said his piece. Heart pounding in his chest, Lance crosses his arms and glares holes through the floor.
“Lance is right,” Coran announces.
Lance’s breath hitches in his throat. Woah, woah. Did Coran— he’s right? What?
“We’ll have to leave immediately. If we want to be of any service to them.” Coran flicks his attention to Keith. “Keith, my boy, you better get a move on.”
Keith nods and motions for the rest of the paladins to follow. “Alright, let’s head out.”
Before Lance gets far, Coran calls for him. “Lance? Do you mind hanging back for a second?”
Lance blinks. The words don’t process at first but, when they do, Lance offers a shaky, “Yeah, sure.”
Coran silently watches everyone as they leave. Once the doors hiss shut behind Hunk, he turns to Lance. The comforting weight of a hand drops on Lance’s shoulder. Grounding. It reminds Lance of their talk about Earth. Coran, flipping through the map of the universe until he reached the Milky Way. Quiet discussions of rain and puddles— of home.
“What’s up?” Lance settles on. He’s entirely too confused to come up with a better question. Well, a better and non-incriminating question. I fucked up back there, didn’t I? Or maybe, I was out of line, huh? Both open too many doors— doors Lance would rather keep locked shut.
“I wanted to thank you,” Coran trills. The familiar curve of a smile brightens his entire face. Mustache twitching like it has a life of its own. And Lance can’t seem to look away because holy quiznak is Coran praising him?
“For… what?” Lance manages.
“Your encouragement!” Coran pats him solidly on the back, and Lance lurches forward. “I think the paladins sometimes forget our purpose for fighting. Defending the universe. I couldn’t have said it better myself!”
Yep, that’s it. Allura’s interest in his skin regimen, Coran’s praise for his spur-of-the-moment speech— Lance has got to be dreaming. Or, new theory: he’s been captured by the Galra Empire. And now the Druids are filling his brain with hallucinations. The only logical explanation for both occurrences happening within the same day, within hours of each other.
“Heh, I mean,” Lance stammers, scrubbing nervously at the nape of his neck. “I couldn’t see us leaving all those people behind. They’re not lost causes. Besides, we’d want to charge in, guns blazing, if Earth were in trouble.”
“Of course you would. Which is why I’m glad you said something!” Coran pauses and squeezes Lance’s shoulder. His tone noticeably softens. “I’m proud of you, my boy.”
And Lance— he panics. He’s never been the best at accepting compliments. No, not passing remarks, dished out to shut him up. Genuine compliments. Like the sort Lance often heard from family members and, occasionally, Hunk and Pidge.
“I… thank you,” Lance gets out. And he means it wholeheartedly. “Seriously.”
Coran continues to stare at Lance with that same fond, almost fatherly look. Flustered, Lance clears his throat. “Uh—”
Coran suddenly claps his hands together. Lance swears he jumps a good three feet, like a startled tree frog. “Right! Now, get going.”
Lance's legs have forgotten how to function properly— thanks to Coran’s praise, geez— so he finds himself hurriedly ushered out of the room. For the next few minutes, as Lance makes his way to the Red Lion, he feels like his body moves on autopilot.
Coran’s words circle around inside his skull, along with Allura’s earlier admission. His brain hardly has time to focus on how well Red is starting to accept him as her temporary pilot.
(Which he'll most definitely rant about later because Keith's expression will be priceless.)
For now, he considers the day's events. As well as theories concerning the real Voltron paladins and how they were replaced. By robots or Druids or versions of themselves from a neighboring universe. Yeah… yeah, Lance will get to the bottom of this.
Smoke shrouds the surrounding area. Flames licking at the base of trees, burning pink blades of grass to crisps and tainting the air with the noxious odor of devastation. The Gollians run frantically in circles. Their screams are like something straight from a horror film, loud and desperate.
Lance groans and fiercely pushes himself harder. He needs to catch up to the rest of the group. There’s no hope for this place; Lance can see that now. But there are also people who can and will be rescued.
Except...
Mother of quiznak, there are so many people.
Keith motions for a massive crowd of the Gollians to follow. And, of course, they do. Not even a second of hesitation when he passes and beckons more to join their trek to the ship. Hunk carries a couple of the smaller ones on his shoulders, while Pidge and Allura yell at the stragglers to stay close. Lance is supposed to be at the rear, keeping everyone together. It’s agitating, though, with this much distance between him and the rest of the paladins.
What if Keith turns suddenly?
What if he forgets Lance is there?
What if they all forget Lance is there?
They won’t leave you, Lance assures himself. But it’s hard when Keith has only checked once to see whether he's still there. Which could be because he trusts Lance but— nah. Pretty big blow to his ego, honestly. And hardly the encouragement Lance needs right now as he struggles under the weight of weariness.
Up ahead, the castle ship feels like it’s miles away. Hundreds and hundreds of miles, littered with decimated shacks and fallen people. Lance falters. Fallen, as in probably not getting back up again. Dead.
Lance cringes, forcing the thoughts away. He can’t be thinking like that. He has to stay positive— for the sake of the team. His job is to make sure everyone else is smiling. To stay upbeat and cheery, even in the wake of destruction. Whether or not it’s an act on his part, no one else has to know. The upbeat seventh wheel… that’s him, right? Or sixth wheel...
Ugh, no. Not going there right now.
Then, Lance sees them. Kneeling alongside the gravel path, staring blankly ahead, is a child. Or at least Lance assumes so considering their small stature. Lips set in a hardened line, they clutch a stuffed animal against their chest. The raggedy octopus-looking thing appears to be missing a tentacle, as well as one of its beady eyes. Wispy curls cover the child's head, some strands plastered to their sweaty forehead. There are clear rips and tears in their dress. Round, lime green irises and the barely visible slope of their nose, salmon pink skin covered with grime, dirt, and scratches. And, standing right behind them, is a Galran soldier.
Lance doesn’t hesitate for a second.
Ignoring the frightened, indignant cries of the Gollians in front of him, Lance stops in his tracks. There's no way he's going to let someone die on his watch, not when he has the potential to stop it. And a child? No way in hell.
Adjusting his grip, Lance levels his gun and turns his focus to the child’s attacker. Memories of Slav’s rescue flash before his eyes. Back then, he did it. A single shot, and Lance recovered one of the most valuable additions to their team. Obnoxious at times, but valuable.
Lance inhales slowly, holds his breath for a moment, and exhales. Steadying his aim, he peers at the Galran soldier. Seven feet tall and stretched wide by broad shoulders and beefy arms. If Lance shoots the jerk in the leg, it won't kill, but it’ll certainly incapacitate him. Which should offer the perfect opportunity for Lance to swoop in and save the kid.
He’s fairly confident this will work. Okay, more than fairly. Enough that he decides to go through with his plan. His fingers flutter around the trigger, arranging themselves properly. Another careful inhale and— he fires.
As Lance hoped, the shot connects with the Galran soldier's shin. With an aggravated cry, he crumples to the ground. The child glances back, but they hardly even flinch at the sound of gunfire. Damn, that kid is tough.
Lance darts forward to retrieve Fun Size, as he’s dubbed the Gollian. He crouches down, face level with the child’s, and plasters on his best grin. It’s reminiscent of the smile he usually puts on after a grueling mission, when the team seems to need his smile most. Like after Shiro first disappeared. A devastated Keith, peering up into the maw of the Black Lion. And Lance, there at his side, trying to will away the pain with upturned lips and soft reassurances.
Not the time to be thinking about that either, Lance chastises himself.
The child has yet to make eye contact and resolutely glares at something in the distance. Lance steels himself. This should be fun.
“Hey, there,” he prompts, smile wide and— hopefully— inviting. “What’s your name?”
No answer. Not that it comes as much of a shock.
“Um, where are your parents?” Lance cocks his head to the side. Now that he’s closer, he gives the child a onceover. Glazed eyes, tear stains on their cheeks. Lance bites his lip and turns to gesture at the group of survivors trailing after Keith. “Are they up there?”
At first, Lance worries the fire and destruction has scared the poor thing speechless. But the thin rasp of their voice cuts through the air. “Up. There,” they reply, stilted.
“Yeah?”
A nod.
Lance quickly scoops them up in his arms without a second thought. “Then I guess I better take you to them, huh? I'm sure they're wondering where you are.”
Thankfully, the child weighs little to nothing. Lance calls on all those years of conditioning for swim practice, all those years of jogging down the beach, and pumps his legs. They carry him back to the end of the line where Hunk, the beautiful genius, waits. What did Lance ever do to deserve this man?
“Dude, hurry!” Hunk screams to be heard over the thunderous din of the crowd. “Before the next Galra ship touches ground!”
“Right,” Lance croaks. And, woah, it doesn't even sound like his own voice. Warped further by the incessant screaming and gunfire.
As Lance catches up to Hunk, he notes the sheer number of Gollians they managed to gather. At least a couple hundred, which is way more than Lance ever anticipated when he first suggested they step in and help.
“Hey, Lance,” Hunk calls. Fighting to be heard over the pounding footfalls of the survivors.
“Ye—” Lance loses his grip for an instant but catches himself before he can drop the kid. “Yeah?”
“I just wanted to say… good job back there.”
Good job. Lance almost stumbles over his own feet.
“I saw you,” Hunk explains. The pair of Gollians perched on his shoulders seem awfully content. One repeatedly slaps Hunk's helmet like a spherical, yellow drum. Meanwhile, the other gazes into the distance.
“Saw me…?”
“C’mon, dude, the kid?”
“Oh, yeah, the...” Lance peers down at Fun Size, curled against his chest. The smoke is definitely messing with his head. “Uh…”
“Like, that was super brave and heroic of you, dude. I'm impressed. And that shot?” Hunk flashes Lance a toothy grin. “That was awesome.”
Under any other circumstances, Lance would've preened at Hunk's praise. As it is, he can't help the swell of satisfaction that overcomes him. Lance did something… awesome? The child in his arms expresses their first emotion of the day and fixes Lance with a tentative smile.
“Thank you,” Lance whispers. But, of course, the surrounding noise drowns him out. “Thank you, buddy!”
The Gollians seated on Hunk's shoulders giggle and mimic Lance like a couple of overeager parrots. “Thank you, thank you!”
Lance shoots them a wink, and savors the peals of high-pitched laughter he earns in return.
He and Hunk crest the last hill standing between them and the ship. Lance’s pulse pounds in his ears. A curse slips past his lips at the slide of a rock beneath his feet. Lance hurriedly changes course and finds the best path down the hill. It’s narrow, but the dirt appears to be more packed, less gravel and scattered stones to impede his progress. The Red Lion is a welcome sight, its usual glimmer lost to the dark clouds overhead. Although, Lance can't help but stare longingly at Blue, directly on the other side.
“C’mon, Red, let's go!” Lance glides the last few feet and climbs into the Red Lion's waiting mouth.
A faint purr resonates through the cockpit. Almost like… she's pleased. And isn't that fascinating. Keith's overprotective guardian is content with Lance.
“Happy to see me again?” Lance teases.
The purring increases in volume. Lance sets the Gollian child down, thankful to see them standing on their own two feet. It doesn't look like they suffered any serious or lasting damage. Only a few cuts and scrapes, likely from tripping and falling while they ran. Which gives Lance an idea.
“Proud of me for saving the kid, Big Red?” Lance is really just messing with her at this point. He's come to find he almost— almost— enjoys getting a rise out of her as much as he enjoys getting a rise out of Keith.
But she doesn’t take the bait.
The resulting purr is even louder and yet, in a way, softer. It envelops Lance like a blanket. Warm, all-encompassing. Shrouding him like the fleecy throw he brought to the Garrison dorms. The baby blue one his mom practically begged him to take.
“Oh,” Lance gasps. “Uh. Thanks? I guess? Better be careful, though, or you'll make Blue jealous.”
How else do you respond when a giant, sentient robotic cat expresses affection for you? It's not like he can give her a bowl of weird Altean milk or a fuzzy toy to play with.
Unless...
“Mea.”
Lance startles, jerking his head in the direction of the voice. Feeble and reedy, barely audible. Lance almost wonders if he imagined it. But the tiny Gollian gazes up at him in wonder, a silent observer as he slides into his seat. When their eyes meet, the child clutches their stuffed animal tighter.
“Did… did you say something?”
“Mea,” they repeat. “My name. Mea.”
Clearly shy, they break eye contact and stare down at their feet, nervously kicking at the floor. Their demeanor rouses something inside Lance's chest. Buried and previously dormant. An urge to protect that's so strong and sudden it nearly chokes Lance.
The more Lance studies Mea, the more he realizes why he had to stop for them. Curly hair and big eyes, strength hidden behind a pleasantly heartwarming smile.
Mea reminds Lance of his niece, Amelia.
“What a pretty name,” Lance blurts, at a loss for anything better to say. Of course, he doesn’t mention his nickname for them. “I’m Lance, by the way. I should've said something sooner but, you know, duty calls and all that fun stuff.”
They nod, chancing a furtive glance at Lance. “You. I...”
In an instant, they dart across the cockpit. They secure chubby arms around Lance's leg and squeeze, burying a satisfied little squeal in his paladin armor. The noise pulls a laugh out of Lance. Surprised, he reaches down to ruffle Mea’s hair.
“You. Thank… you,” Mea chimes, nuzzling their nose into Lance's calf.
Lance lets his hand linger, carding his fingers through crimson ringlets. The urgency of their mission feels distant, like a thing of the past. He’s lost in the rise and fall of Mea’s chest. The press of tiny fingertips into the sensitive area behind his knee.
Voltron saves lives— keeps families together. How can they accept the title of ‘defenders’ without taking risks? Without sticking their necks out to rescue stragglers like Mea?
Lance can only hope they were telling the truth about their parents. He'd hate to see such a sweet kid, robbed of the ones they love by the Galra Empire. By sleazy Lotor.
“We'll get you all patched up,” Lance insists. And, with a scoff, motions to the stuffed… well, whatever alien creature it's supposed to be. “And your friend, too, of course.”
Once everything is sorted out with the Gollians, no one knows what to do with themselves.
Because this? This is the first honest-to-goodness downtime they’ve had in what feels like ages. Lance finds it hard to believe he can actually sit down, kick his feet up, and relax. At least for the next quintant, according to Coran.
A quintant is plenty of time. Considering how Lance’s last breather maybe lasted an hour at best. He fully plans on taking advantage of his precious quintant of tranquility. The only thing missing is an authentic, homemade pizza. Covered in delicious melted cheese...
“Hey, Lance?” Pidge sidles up next to him as everyone leaves the control room. Quite honestly, she’s the last person Lance expected to approach him. “Can I… talk to you for a second?”
“Uh, yeah. Of course,” Lance answers with a shrug, tugged away from his pizza daydreams.
The other paladins hurry out of the room, probably off to relish in their own methods of stress relief. Although, Hunk and Keith flash Pidge matching looks as they go. Suspicious... Lance squints in their direction, wondering if either will cave, but they keep walking. Keith lingers a bit longer than Hunk before slipping out the door.
Pidge waits until his luscious mullet is out of sight. The second they’re gone, she turns on Lance. Now, the only way he can think to describe her expression is… wicked, really. But not the usual sort that spells trouble. Is there such a thing as noble mischief? If so, Pidge has it down to a fucking science.
Wiggling her eyebrows, Pidge leans in close. Like she’s about to tell Lance some huge, earth-shattering secret.
“So… what would you say if I told you I found the space equivalent of Mario Kart?”
Lance audibly gasps. He slaps his hands over his mouth in an effort to stifle the sound; it doesn’t work.
“You what?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” Pidge elaborates with a wink. She turns on her heels and gestures for Lance to follow. Of course, he doesn’t need to be told twice. They scramble toward the couch, narrowly avoiding a collision, and Pidge pats the cushions, urging Lance to take a seat.
“Oh my God. I… Oh my God,” Lance babbles. His eyes dart anxiously around the room, in search of the blessed item itself, but he has yet to spot it. “Where is it? I mean, how are we even going to…?”
“I’ve been working on fixing up a console for the last couple weeks.” Pidge hops up onto the couch, right beside Lance. “Obviously, I had to keep it hush-hush to avoid getting lectured on ‘time management’ and ‘a proper sleep schedule.’” She accentuates each phrase with annoyed finger quotes. “And it took some work, but… it’ll make do for the time being.”
Lance stares in stupefied silence as she withdraws a plastic case from under her sweatshirt. The cover showcases a variety of alien characters, driving hovercrafts and other strange vehicles. Everything about the design is bright and colorful. It’s scary how much it resembles the Mario Kart design. One particular craft reminds Lance of the G-01 Firebird Keith nabbed from the Garrison.
“This is amazing,” Lance squeals. Antsy, he holds his hands out, crooking his fingers in a ‘gimme’ gesture. “Can I hold it? Like, to make sure it’s real, and I’m not dreaming? Or I guess I could pinch myself, but—”
Pidge shoves the game case into Lance’s hands. “Treat it with care,” she threatens. “Bartering is tough. Getting my hands on this bad boy wasn’t exactly easy.”
“How?” Lance asks. His fingers trace the outline of each character, each vehicle, and settle on the thick, bold lines of the game’s title. It’s written in a language Lance has never seen before. “How did you get this?”
Pidge scoffs. “You don’t wanna know, Lance. How about we focus on the actual playing part?”
Lance can deal with that.
She disappears for a few minutes and returns with a contraption Lance assumes is the makeshift console. Jet black and sleek, cube-shaped, it looks like the lovechild of an old Gamecube and Xbox console. Tucked under her other arm are two controllers, designed like actual steering wheels. She hands both over to Lance and quickly gets to work on setting things up.
Once every wire is connected and arranged in its proper place, Pidge slides the game cartridge into the machine. It hums to life under her touch. Then, she reclaims her original spot on the couch. “Hope you’re ready to have your ass kicked.”
Oh, it’s on. Lance expresses the same sentiment out loud, and Pidge merely laughs.
After a few minutes of gameplay, the truth becomes abundantly clear. Not only does Pidge lose the first race, she loses the first five. Lance feels bad for her, but he can’t quash the competitive side of himself that thrills in each victory.
“Pidgeon, what are you doing?” Lance jokes. Pidge slumps against the grey cushions and angrily scrutinizes the holoscreen. “You haven’t beaten me once. Don’t tell me your gaming skills have gotten… rusty.”
Lance is living on the edge. Because those, friends, are fighting words, and he’s fully aware of it. There are several things you never criticize Pidge for— one of those is her gaming prowess.
“I don’t know, honestly,” she sighs. “Either that or you’ve gotten better somehow. You and that stupid Sendak wannabe on a motorcycle are crushing me.”
“Heh, yeah, I’d want to fight me, t— wait, what?” Lance holds the controller in front of his face. “You were supposed to kill me for that comment. But— really? Nothing?”
Pidge tilts her head to the side. Blinking from behind her glasses, ogling Lance like he’s the crazy one here. “I’m just really off my game. And you're… you're on a roll.”
I'm on a roll. Lance slowly lowers the controller, certain that his precious face is no longer in danger of getting punched. Pidge, self-proclaimed video game master, said that I'm on a roll.
“Okay, what's going on?” Lance plops the wheel in his lap. He jabs an accusing finger in Pidge’s direction, forcing her to go cross-eyed. “You guys thought I wouldn't notice, but I totally did.”
Pidge’s mouth twists into a frown. “What are you talking about?”
“This!” Lance spreads his arms out. “All of it! First, Allura is hitting me up for beauty tips. Then, Coran is… is praising me for, what, being myself? For saying we should save people even though, duh, of course we should. And Hunk tells me I have great aim and the Red Lion is purring because I guess she likes me or something and then— the person who almost always obliterates me in video games claims I'm on a roll?”
Tirade over, Lance leans back. His chest is heaving slightly from the outburst. It's not like he meant to go all out but… when's the last time people praised him this much? Back after back, like it's a completely normal thing to do. Like Lance has earned every single word of it.
“Lance, calm down,” Pidge soothes, tone low and cautious. “I was trying to be nice, okay? Recently, I…”
She pauses to groan, purposely evading Lance's questioning stare. “Yeah?” Lance prompts. Inadvertently adopting the same gentle lilt of her voice.
(Which, by the way, is weird to think about because Pidge, gentle? Seems like nothing short of a miracle to Lance.)
“I... “ Worrying at her bottom lip, she fiddles with the buttons in the middle of her controller. “I miss Matt. Like, I know the three of us— you, Hunk, and I— used to sneak out to play games back at the Garrison but…” Her hand stills. “Playing with Matt was different.”
“I understand,” Lance answers. And he means it— he really does. His older siblings were always showing him new games whenever they came to visit. Or on the rare occasions during the summer when the McClain’s weren't making trips to the ocean.
“We used to play whenever Matt came home,” Pidge carries on. “One Christmas, he bought me the latest Nintendo console. And we played way past my bedtime, but Dad said it was okay. Seeing as he and Matt had to head back to the Garrison anyway.”
Well, Lance feels like an absolute dick. How long have he and Pidge been friends now? Roughly two years? When Lance thinks about it, the two were pretty much shoved together, thanks to the Galaxy Garrison’s team assignments. It isn’t like how he and Hunk sought each other out when they were young.
“I’m really sorry, Pidge,” Lance mumbles. “I didn’t mean to react like that. I’m super confused, that’s all.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Because your teammates are complimenting you? Praising you for your contributions to the group?”
“I mean...”
“You’re such a dork,” Pidge admonishes with a shake of her head. She snags the controller from Lance’s lap and pushes it into his hands. “Not giving yourself enough credit.”
“Pfft, of course I give myself enough credit!” Lance proudly grips the plastic steering wheel. “I’m the Sharpshooter. And the most charming member of Team Voltron.”
Pidge doesn’t seem amused, though. The expression on her face is far too serious and sends a nervous shiver down Lance’s spine. “You know what I mean, Lance.”
Scary Pidge is truly scary.
“Anyway,” Pidge huffs as she tucks her legs under her body, preparing for the next round of Space Racer. “Let’s get back to it. Oh, and uh. Thank you.”
“For what?” Lance glances between Pidge and the holoscreen. Blue and white light glint off the rim of her glasses, bathing her face in color.
“For hanging out with me tonight.” The faint sound of clicking buttons fills the air around them. “And playing this dumb game with me. I’m sure you would rather be doing something else right now.”
Is this… really Pidge? The girl who mocked him for his “mortifying flirting habits” and often hid random articles of clothing in the wrong drawers simply to fuck with him? She’d even gone so far as to stuff his socks with peanut butter once, after he accused her of having “no game.”
She clears her throat. “Like, oh, hanging out with a certain someone…”
Ah. Right. There she is.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lance scoffs. “Clearly, you’ve lost your mind. Maybe the space dust is getting to you.”
“No, I know exactly what I’m talking about. I may be younger than you, but I sure as shit wasn’t born yesterday.”
“You’re the worst, you know that?” Lance jabs her in the side with his elbow. On screen, her character swerves and careens straight into the nearest body of water.
“Says you,” she mutters. But her lips are set in the unmistakable curve of a smile.
Lance trudges into bed at some ungodly late hour.
After the day he’s had, Lance is fucking tired. He would give anything for a warm bed, pile of blankets, and a solid six to seven hours of shuteye. Eight, if he's lucky. That’s all. He’s a man of… simple needs, honestly.
Once the door glides shut behind him, Lance drops onto his mattress with a drawn-out groan. This is it— his best friend in the world. No offense to Hunk, but this bed owns his heart. Well, the bed, his mother’s cooking, Hunk, and… maybe someone else, but Lance isn’t going to dwell on that nonsense right now.
Or at least he hadn’t planned on it.
Keith had been acting awfully strange all day. In the morning, when Lance tried to strike up a debate with him, and he just sort of sat there. Quietly tolerating all of Lance’s bullshit. Because that's what it was— bullshit. An effort to get Keith's attention and hold on it for as long as he could.
And then later, during the mission briefing.
Keith behaves a lot differently now that Shiro’s gone. More closed-off, isolated. Which is quite a feat considering how guarded he was even beforehand. Moments of silence weren't uncommon for Keith, but… Lance saw it. That familiar gleam of interest and determination.
God, Lance misses that look. He misses the fire, simmering beneath Keith’s skin at the promise of a good fight.
And today, Lance thinks he possibly caught a glimpse of it. Buried beneath thick layers of anxiety, frustration, and longing.
Why today, though?
“You need to get changed into pajamas, you frickin’ bum,” Lance mumbles, cheek mashed against his pillow. Who knows what kind of filth is caked in his skin?
It takes a great deal of effort, but Lance rolls himself out of bed. A yawn forces its way up his throat. Stretching his arms over his head, he begs his tight muscles to loosen up. It'll be tough enough to sleep as it is. Achy neck and shoulders on top of that— no thank you.
Lance is seconds away from tossing his jacket over the back of his desk chair when he spots it.
At first, he can't understand what it is he's looking at. Lance takes a careful step forward and lifts the suspect item to eye level. Shiny silver, folded like a cupcake wrapper with brown peeking through haphazard streaks of blue… is that supposed to be icing? Did someone really bake him a cupcake?
Slowly, Lance turns the surprise pastry in his hand. It looks like it's been through a windstorm. Some areas have more icing than others, but, at the same time, there's an order to it. Like whoever frosted this poor cupcake poured their heart into fashioning it themselves.
And, weirder still, Lance swears they included a message for him.
Indigo frosting, yes, darker and very clearly supposed to spell something out. The handwriting is kind of loopy. Obviously, they struggled with the icing tube.
(Which automatically knocks Hunk out of the running. Interesting...)
Lance brushes his thumb along the cupcake wrapper. “Okay, let's see here.” He squints, tracing the letters with his gaze. “Ha… Happy. Bi… Bitch? No, oh God. Um… Bi… rth. Birthday. Geez, I think a five-year-old— wait.”
Happy Birthday.
The entire universe seems to grind to a halt around Lance. His fingers quiver around the cupcake, held loosely in his grasp. It's a miracle he doesn't drop it, really.
But there's no way… today couldn't possibly be Lance's birthday. Could it? No, no way.
More importantly, who remembered the date when the birthday boy himself forgot? Back at the Garrison, it was practically impossible to let it slip his mind. Hunk would surprise him with breakfast in bed, a cake at lunch and, most years, a trip in the evening. They would sneak out and either visit the arcade or movie theater. There weren't many… fun places within walking distance. And the trips to the shoreline from their childhood were no longer viable— not out in the desert.
But here, in space, they can hardly keep track of days as they pass, let alone dates on the calendar. It doesn’t help that a lot of alien species follow completely different calendars than back on Earth.
It feels like forever since Lance last checked one of those suckers. It had to be the morning before he helped rescue Shiro. The morning before he was whisked away on the back of Keith’s sick ride, only to end up piloting a giant robotic lion through space. And now? He can’t even recall what that date had been.
“July… 28th,” Lance mutters. His birthday.
Moving toward the bathroom is like sifting through the smoke back on Gollia. Memories of birthdays spent with his family push to the forefront of his mind. His nephew and niece running in wild circles around the kitchen as his uncle, mother, and grandmother cooked a delicious celebration dinner. Chatting amicably amongst themselves, laughing. They always put together a buffet of Lance's favorite foods, like garlic knots. And, of course, an incredible vanilla cake slathered with buttercream icing, handmade by his grandmother. Sometimes there was ice cream. In the living room, his older siblings gossiped about coworkers and interrogated Lance about the Garrison.
Yearning tugs at his chest, staggering in its strength. Lance can remember their enthusiasm, the overwhelming feeling of being loved and appreciated.
He misses it— the support of his family.
Did they miss him, too? Had they tried looking for him, pleading with the Galaxy Garrison to find their boy? Were his parents wondering where their son had gone? Were they sad they couldn't celebrate his birthday as a family? Did they even bother making the annual arrangements, cake and all?
Or did they spend the day mourning because they thought Lance died in a flight crash?
Lance staggers through the haze until he stops in front of the mirror, cupcake still clasped in his hand. He accidentally brushes his thumb through a glob of icing. It has a consistency more like food goo than traditional frosting.
Cautiously, Lance lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his thumb clean. And, regardless of the cupcake’s questionable aesthetic… the frosting tastes damn good. Vanilla with a hint of fruit, akin to blueberries. Huh.
“Well, better not let you go to waste,” Lance comments out loud. As if the cupcake can hear him. Considering the way the cake dips in the middle, it might be able to. There could be a miniature alien trapped inside, for all he knows. Stranger things have happened in the past.
Lance holds the treat up to his nose and sniffs. He gets another whiff of the fruity aroma, along with a scent distinctly similar to chocolate. Okay, okay. Lance grins from ear to ear. I can work with this.
After peeling away a portion of the wrapper, Lance takes his first exploratory bite. He makes sure to get a decent serving of icing and cake— to fully sample the goods.
“What the cheese,” Lance manages through stuffed cheeks.
Because, although it isn't the best thing he's ever tasted, it's better than the Alien Cupcake Surprise he anticipated.
When it comes to decorating and flair, Hunk is unparalleled. Well, out of everyone on the team. No neat swirl of icing on top, illegible writing— it had to be someone else. Someone who hardly ever sets foot in the kitchen.
As much as Lance would love to track them down and ask what the hell is going, the desire to sleep is winning out. Limbs heavy and mind clouded with fatigue, Lance would much rather take a nice, hot shower and call it a night. Wandering around the castle, in search of the culprit, sounds miserable.
Lance turns back to his reflection and takes another bite. Crumbs cling to his lips and around his mouth. But not a single bit of frosting on his nose. It’s kind of a bad habit of his. When he gets too excited, and the cake is too irresistible to not eat in four or five massive chomps. Because of course there are foods that are legitimately that good.
Tomorrow… tomorrow he’ll get to the bottom of this mess. Tonight? He’s going to finish this frickin’ cupcake, clean up in the shower, and sleep.
(And if he startles awake in the middle of the night, clinging to dreams of family members around the dinner table, singing and laughing over piles of gifts, that’s his own business.)
When Lance marches into the dining hall the next morning, it's with purpose. One sole purpose.
Everyone else is already seated, munching away. As if sensing Lance's mission, they collectively freeze as he enters. A huge clump of purple goo slips off the end of Pidge’s spoon, right onto her shirt, but she doesn't even recoil in disgust. Hunk grips the handle of his spoon with white knuckles. Allura pauses with her fingers just shy of her utensils. Coran visibly swallows when his eyes meet Lance's.
And then there's Keith.
Who, upon seeing Lance, immediately clambers to his feet. The spoon handle sticks out of his mouth at a crooked angle. His eyes bug out of his skull and, if the situation were different, Lance probably would've laughed until his stomach hurt.
“My friends. Fellow teammates, comrades,” Lance says by way of greeting. He swishes his arm to indicate the table full of dazed onlookers. “I’d like to talk about yesterday.”
He’s met with silence.
“July 28th. Back on Earth, at least.” Lance feels a half-hearted smile tug at his lips. “Right?”
Hunk and Pidge pale like they've seen a ghost. And Keith, still standing, opens his mouth as if to offer a rebuttal. But no sound comes out, other than the sound of the spoon clattering to the floor. It’s kind of like watching a spooked deer, standing in the headlights of an oncoming car.
“I mean, you guys are usually pretty nice to me, so don’t take this the wrong way, but…” Lance mulls over his next words. Don’t be a dick, he silently pleads with himself. “It was a lot? More than usual? The compliments and everything.”
“I’m sorry,” someone blurts, a slight crack to their voice and— it’s Keith.
Uh…
“I’m sorry, it's my fault,” he repeats, like Lance didn’t hear him the first time. And suffer through a great deal of inner turmoil because Keith apologized. “For not telling you… We’ve been so busy, and I’m— I told everyone to keep it a secret.”
Lance almost asks why, but Keith doesn’t look like he’s finished.
“I know how things have been around here lately, what with” —he grits his teeth— “Shiro being gone. And I also know how you get homesick sometimes so… I didn’t want to, uh. Make you upset.”
Warmth unfurls in the center of Lance’s chest, like the petals of a blossoming flower. Extending to every inch of his body. A tender progression that leaves Lance shifting nervously from foot to foot. Keith remembered? The same Keith he’s known since the Garrison took Lance’s homesickness into consideration. And instructed everyone to keep quiet to… avoid upsetting him.
“You— but,” Lance sputters. He sets his hands on his hips and stomps across the room. Effectively closing the gap between his flabbergasted teammates and himself. “Okay, okay. So, what I’m hearing is that you told the rest of the team to zip their lips. To keep me… happy?”
Keith turns crimson and jerks his head in a nod.
“Right… right, right, of course. Seems legit,” Lance babbles. His brain struggles to process the whole ‘Keith cares about my happiness’ factor. “And who told you?”
Lance didn’t realize Keith could turn even redder. But, oh, he does. It comes as quite a shock when smoke doesn’t come billowing out of his ears. He mumbles something under his breath, and Lance slaps his hands down on the table with a thwap, leaning closer.
“Who?” Lance gasps. “Oh, it’s gotta be Hunk. Right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Keith shakes his head, and raises his voice, barely above a whisper. “Me.”
“Aha! I knew—wait.”
A beat.
“You… wait, you remembered?”
“I, uh, had Coran tell me whenever the date came around. Because I…” Keith engages in a poignant staring contest with the floor. “It was hard for me to forget. You and Hunk always brought a cake to the Garrison commons and all the other pilots and engineers made a big deal of it.”
They did? Well, Keith certainly isn’t lying about the Hunk part. Any time Lance’s family couldn’t fly out to visit on his birthday, Hunk took it upon himself to bake a cake in his grandmother’s stead. He and a couple of Lance’s friends from class would scrounge together presents and share them at lunch. But it was never more than a few people. Keith made it out to be some huge party.
Lance knows for a fact it wasn’t.
If only Shiro were here— he’d have an unbiased opinion.
“And did you… were the compliments your idea, too? Having everyone praise me and say nice stuff throughout the day?” Lance’s own cheeks are starting to feel a bit warm. From the shitty air conditioning in this part of the ship, duh.
Another shaky nod. “Well, I— yeah, in a way. I told them to be… honest about it.” A hesitant smirk. “And not to overinflate that ego of yours.”
Okay, so it’s entirely possible Lance is caught in an alternate dimension. He isn’t knocking that theory just yet. Not with Keith— Keith Kogane— confessing he convinced everyone to shower Lance with compliments all day. As a genuine gesture of kindness, of thoughtfulness. And that stupid, teasing smirk? Capable of turning Lance's insides to mush?
Rest in pieces, McClain.
Keith may not be the perfect leader, but he’s clearly learning to be a considerate one. The kind who takes everyone’s feelings into account. In light of how he used to be, it's astounding.
Lance’s mind is blown for so many reasons right now; he doesn’t even know where to begin.
Then, realization slowly creeps up on him. “Wait… then why were you so quiet yesterday? Like you maybe said three words to me, and they were about the mission.”
To his surprise, that’s what reawakens the team. Hunk, at the far end of the table, lets out a huff of laughter. Lance glances inquisitively in his direction, only to catch Pidge snickering along with him. She buries her face in the crook of her elbow, body shaking. Allura and Coran busy themselves with eating. Identical smiles take shape on their faces as they shovel more breakfast goo into their mouths.
“Did you—” Keith pauses mid-sentence and raises his head. “Did you not see it?”
“See what?”
“On the… I made…” Keith makes a few helpless, indecipherable hand gestures. His expression shifts, though, and his features harden. Determined. “I left something on your desk last night.”
Holy. Shit.
“That was you?” Lance cries, incredulously. The redheaded stepchild cupcake, the very same one that sent Lance into a spiral of confusing emotions before bed. That was Keith’s handiwork? “You baked me the smushed cupcake?”
Keith bristles. “Smu— It wasn’t smushed! The frosting turned out weird so it was tough spreading it. And the stupid fucking icing tube was... I don’t even know. It was a mess, okay?”
Lance has nothing smart to say to that. This is Keith, who never bakes for the sake of enjoyment. As a matter of fact, Lance isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Keith in the kitchen. Hunk, of course, is a different story.
“He asked me for help,” Hunk butts in. As if he read Lance’s mind, which he honestly might’ve. “It’s a good thing our fearless leader isn’t in charge of planning our meals. He’s a little… culinarily challenged.”
“I tried! I still blame it on that mixer,” Keith huffs, crossing his arms. “And those eggs? What kind of alien creature even laid those damned things? I mean…”
Keith continues to rant, attention focused on Hunk. While Lance? He’s fighting to reboot his brain. Normally, he’d jump at the chance to tease Keith for not being able to bake a simple cupcake. But he’s far too put off by something else. The unspoken truth in all of this.
Not only did Keith care enough to make plans for Lance’s birthday, in secret. But the guy even went to the trouble of giving Lance a present. And not some random trinket from a space mall. A gift he made by hand. Lance can picture it— Keith uncertainly knocking on the door to Hunk’s room. Asking what he should do for Lance’s birthday. Or maybe he already planned to bake the cupcake and approached it with his usual straightforward manner.
Regardless, Keith had gone out of his way— for Lance.
Keith and Hunk have yet to cease their heated ‘baking struggles’ dispute. Pidge watches the events unfold with an amused smirk. Coran occasionally tosses in his input, but neither of the recent chefs acknowledge him. Allura pats Coran on the back, whispering encouragements. And Keith, he… he’s smiling.
It’s one of the most pure and unbridled smiles Lance has seen him wear since Shiro’s disappearance.
“Thank you,” Lance croaks. Because he has to; he has to say something. But the words feel inadequate on his tongue. Even when the entire room goes silent. “Wow, I… thank you.”
Keith’s features soften. Blue-violet eyes brimming with compassion and pride. A combination of feelings Lance never, in a million years, would’ve believed would be directed at him. And that only serves to make things worse. Lance is already trying his hardest not to choke up.
They’ve shed enough tears over the last couple months. Lance wants to let them know how much he appreciates what they’ve done. How ecstatic it made him, learning this ragtag group loved him enough to celebrate his birthday, even with the ever-present, looming threat of the Galra Empire.
“I’m so…” Lance gulps down the lump in his throat. “I don’t even know what to say? For remembering and for caring and the” — don’t cry, don’t cry— “the cupcake and the compliments.”
Now everyone is smiling, and it keeps getting worse and worse, harder and harder, not to let the dam break, let the emotions spill over like the unstoppable force of a coursing river.
Lance chokes out a watery laugh. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you all.”
And then Keith is there. Wrapping his arms around Lance, tugging him against his body. It’s a little awkward, but Lance can tell he’s attempting to copy Lance’s actions, from the times he hugged Keith recently. Fingers grasping at the thick material of Lance’s jacket. The tickle of his breath as he tucks his chin in the junction between Lance’s neck and shoulder. His technique needs some work, sure, but the intention is clear and— okay, yeah. Don’t cry.
Hunk follows shortly behind Keith. He wraps his strong arms around them both, squishing Keith even closer to Lance. Pidge trails behind. She circles around behind Lance and squeezes around his waist, face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades.
Allura and Coran claim their spaces in this group hug— because, wow, Lance is finally fulfilling his dream of being sandwiched in the middle of a group hug— and everything feels complete. Like when Lance’s niece and nephew tackled him in a hug, knocking him off his feet. Like when his older siblings greeted him at the door on holidays, when his parents heard about him moving up to fighter class at the Garrison and just about squeezed the life out of him.
Lance closes his eyes. Maybe the team could become a family after all. Maybe… maybe they could actually help Lance feel less homesick.
Family.
“You know,” Keith suddenly murmurs. “We should be the ones thanking you.”
Lance refuses to reopen his eyes— scared of what he’ll see. And wills himself to answer, but he can’t.
“For staying here. For supporting us whenever I… I can’t. I’m learning, but you were born for it.” Keith inhales sharply, and Lance feels it. “This team would fall apart if you weren’t around.”
You have no idea how much that means to me, Lance thinks but can’t force himself to voice out loud. Keith had always served as Lance’s motivation, his inspiration to work harder and improve. And, for the person Lance admired for years, the person he considered his rival and equal, to recognize his capability? It meant everything.
Instead, he settles on lightening the mood. “Aw, cheesy Keith is my favorite.”
And, boy, does it have the desired effect. Everyone else breaks out into laughter, tightening their holds on each other. Keith stiffens but doesn’t lash out or push out of the hug like Lance thought he might. He heaves a sigh, longsuffering and very clearly done with Lance.
A comfortable silence falls over the group. Lance savors the contact, similar to the blanketing appreciation he felt in the Red Lion's cockpit. In his heart, he knows this can't last forever. They're fighting a war— trying to start a revolution— so people will get hurt. It's inevitable.
And yet he needs this. Lance will shove this moment into the deepest corners of his memory. Available whenever he needs the encouragement but tucked safely away, separate from every negative or self-deprecating thought.
Whatever it takes, he'll protect these people.
“Hey…” Hunk stage whispers. “Guys?”
“Mm?” Lance drawls. He feels too pliant and tingly right now for a more coherent response.
“I just thought of something. What if… we call it Lance Appreciation Day?”
Lance's breath hitches. And a chorus of uh’s and um’s follow.
“Sorry, Keith, I take it back,” Lance confesses, throwing in an overdramatic sigh. “Cheesy Hunk is actually my favorite now.”
“Well, what if every day was Lance Appreciation Day?” Keith bites out. Like this is some sort of competition.
Which is, quite honestly, the funniest concept ever.
Lance chuckles softly to himself. “You guys are the worst.”