Chapter Text
That sounds stupid. Who would always want to hang out with a mean, grumpy person? That’s why I was always nice to Lizzie! Girls like it when you’re nice. You told me that.
Well, Lance, some people appreciate it when you show them your rougher parts, even if those parts are “grumpy and mean.”
I’m not going to yell at my girlfriend!
No one said you had to yell! But here’s a secret: you can yell a little. You can get mad at them.
Won’t they stop loving me if I’m angry?
Anyone worth loving will love you in your rage. You will fight, and you’ll be better for it.
Lance was jolted awake from his nap by a sharp rapping against the car window. Groggily, his eyelids pried open, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming into the car. As his vision adjusted, a face came into view, pressed up against the window.
“Shiro?” he grumbled, dragging a hand down his brow and rubbing at his eyes. “What?” Shiro’s nose was comically pressed into the glass, a big pout stretched across his lips. His head rolled over, taking in Keith’s unimpressed expression.
“As soon as I pulled into the driveway, he ran over,” Keith said. Lance yawned and shrugged, finally aware of their surroundings. Did he really sleep the entire drive? Not his finest co-piloting moment.
“Let’s see what he needs,” he decided, pressing down the button that rolled down the passenger window. Slowly, the glass peeled away from Shiro’s smushed face, which displayed puppy dog eyes that rivaled Keith’s. A short bark sounded from below the door, and Lance peered over to see Kosmo happily wagging his tail with a lolled tongue.
“Hey, Kosmo,” Lance greeted.
“I need your help,” Shiro immediately declared. The last dredges of sleep pulled out of Lance’s body, and he sat up, leaning an elbow on the side of the car. He gestured for Shiro to go on. “They said it was the dream house… they lied.”
“Your house is nice, though?” Keith sounded just as confused as Lance felt. Shiro shook his head, morose.
“I’ll show you. Come inside.” And with that incredibly specific statement, the older man turned on his heel and dragged his feet back into his picturesque new home, looking for all the world like he’d lost something precious. Kosmo followed jubilantly at his heels.
Lance frowned. Shiro wasn’t easily rattled; he’d survived Galra imprisonment, being replaced by a clone, and leading a bunch of kids to war. If something affected him this badly, it was probably serious.
“Let’s get in there, I guess,” Keith grunted. He rolled up the window and cut the engine, stepping out with a begrudged sigh. Lance was shocked.
“Don’t you want to help your brother?” he demanded, following Keith into the house and shucking off his shoes. Sand dusted the floor as he pulled off his sneaker, and whoops, that would need a vacuum. Not my house, not my problem.
“Sure,” Keith replied, tone flat. “But something tells me that this isn’t as big as he’s making it out to be.” Lance wasn’t convinced. Still, Keith knew better, so he tried to push off his concerns and figure out which room Shiro ended up in.
The sound of something snapping caught the attention of both of them. It was coming from upstairs, it seemed, and Lance nodded toward the staircase in silent question. Keith gave him a quick thumbs-up. With trepidation, the two men slowly made their way up the stairs and peeked into the room from which they could still hear rustling: their guest room.
What they came across was a horror scene. Shiro knelt before piles and piles of pink plastic, all in varying shades of flamingo, neon, and magenta. A small horse lay off to the side between a miniature hot tub and a four-post bed. Beside his knee was an open white booklet, as he glanced frantically between its pages and the front of a large cardboard box.
“The Dreamhouse,” he muttered. “It doesn’t make sense. How do these parts even fit together? And why so many pieces?”
“Oh, God.” Keith’s eyebrows had lifted in surprise. “Shiro, are you trying to build a dollhouse?”
“Yes!” His brother groaned, jumping to his feet and massaging his temples. “I swear, this thing has a more confusing floor plan than the castle. I’ve been trying to put this together for hours, and it just won’t work.”
“Deep breaths, Shiro,” Lance suggested, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure that this isn’t impossible–”
“You have to do it, please,” Shiro begged, whipping around to face Lance with wild eyes. “It's the only way.” Well, alright, then.
“We’ve kinda had a long day,” Keith began, but was cut off by Shiro shoving the manual at his chest and walking out of the room.
“Thank you guys!” he called back, the sounds of his footsteps fading as he jauntily walked down the stairs.
For a moment, Keith and Lance simply looked at one another, the entrails of a Barbie Dreamhouse littered around their feet. Unable to contain himself anymore, Lance finally let out a giggle, which dissolved into a full laugh. Beside him, Keith also snorted, a wide smile covering his face.
“What–” Lance choked. “The hell.”
“He’s never been much of a handyman,” Keith dryly informed, which only made Lance’s laughter louder as he clutched his stomach.
“So!” Lance managed, using the heel of his palm to wipe at his eye. “This is a thing, now?”
Keith nodded, eyeing the Dreamhouse remains with clear wariness. “Can’t be harder than fixing a bike.”
“For sure.”
With newfound determination, both men began to assess the scene, lowering themselves to be level with the disassembled dollhouse. Lance started to sort the pieces by shade of pink as Keith opened the instruction booklet and parsed through its neon pages. Occasionally, he’d glance over at the forming piles of clinking parts with curious eyes.
“Are you seriously going to offer up criticism of my form?” Lance remarked dryly. Keith shook his head and snorted.
“No. Just shocked that you can tell the difference between the colors. They’re all… pink.”
Lance rolled his eyes, picking up two from different piles and shoving them right under Keith’s nose. “Clearly you didn’t grow up with sisters. I am an expert in distinguishing between a magenta and a flamingo. Or pastel and fuchsia. These two are baby pink and watermelon.”
“Nonsense,” Keith argued. “But I think I understand the directions? We’ll start with the bottom level and work our way up in tiers.”
“This is what our military training was for.” Lance looked solemnly at Keith and stuck out his hand. “No matter the trials this Barbie house may put us through, we must maintain our teamwork. We will not let the Dreamhouse divide us.”
Keith grinned, playful and teasing, and Lance felt something click into place in his chest as Keith reached over to shake his hand. “Deal.”
With that, they began the hefty undertaking. Their pace wasn’t exactly speedy; it took them a solid ten minutes to establish a rhythm. Once they got going, though, Lance found himself enjoying every second. Sure, Keith occasionally insulted his “architecture skills,” and yes, Lance called him out for fucking up the walk-in closet.
But he’d missed this feeling, of being part of a team, the light banter and the joy in fucking up alongside someone else. Looking at Keith, Lance felt his stomach clench at the concentration etched into his narrowed eyes and fidgety posture, and he realized something. There was no other person in all the universe he’d rather be building this dollhouse with. As oddly specific a thought as that was, it terrified him to his core.
He knew this feeling intimately, a tug that pulled him to do insane things, like follow Keith into space or consider the future Keith had painted, an open seat in a Marmoran ship.
Lance bit his lip, mind racing between images: Keith at the helm of a vessel, sitting tall, looking every bit the leader Lance knew him to be. Keith at the doorway of a little blue house, Kosmo at his ankles, holding a bouquet of juniberries. Keith shrugging out of his clothes and letting his shirt remain on the floor simply because he can.
Keith, Keith, Keith.
“Lance? The A26?”
Lance squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them, centering himself. “Sorry?”
“I asked you to pass me the A26.” Keith regarded him with evident concern, a hand outstretched.
“My bad, samurai. I was a little zoned out.” He forked over the strangely shaped plastic, calloused fingers bumping against Keith’s.
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
Maybe Lance would always be 17, watching Keith’s back walk away from him while dreaming of being a constant at his side. Right now, though, he could build this damn playset and stop letting his mind wander. Rolling up his sleeves, Lance tackled their task with renewed vigor.
Fully absorbed, the two didn’t notice time passing until Curtis shouted “ Dinner!” up the stairs. Shocked, Lance peered out the window only to see that vivid oranges and pinks had begun to envelop the sky.
“Have we been here for over an hour?” Keith grumbled, leaning back on his heels to admire their handiwork.
“Anything for your future goddaughter.” Lance rolled his wrist, finding satisfaction in the small cracking sounds. “I’m starving, we can come back to this tomorrow.”
“We don’t have to.” Keith placed what he was holding inside the upper level of the Dreamhouse.
“We’re done?” Lance gasped, scooching over to shove Keith aside and get a look at the finished product. The dollhouse was massive, with three levels, a porch, a miniature pool, and itty bitty foods, soaps, and rugs. Every inch of it was some shade of pink, right down to the fasteners.
“She’s going to love it,” he announced, his heart skipping as he imagined an adorable little girl nervously entering a new home only to see this in her room. “Shiro’s already the best dad ever.”
“He is,” Keith said, looking distracted as he stared at the dollhouse.
“And you’re already the best godfather,” Lance added, his arm coming around Keith’s shoulder and squeezing. Keith’s tension unraveled slightly under his hand.
“ I’m not joking about dinner! ” Curtis’ voice boomed from below once more. Backs aching from hunching over on the floor, Lance and Keith groaned, heaved themselves upward, and headed to the dinner table.
Dinner was just as delicious and heartwarming as the previous night. Lance happily dug into Curtis’ cooking— tonight was dal with rice and cauliflower.
“I tried to help,” Shiro made sure to tell Lance. Keith looked relieved upon the news that Shiro hadn’t been invited to the cooking process.
“Setting the table is helping,” Curtis assured his husband, patting his arm.
Time passed far too quickly for Lance’s taste. Before he knew it, they were helping Curtis clean up the kitchen. Lance washed dishes while Keith dried, their aimless chatter only occasionally interrupted by Kosmo blinking between rooms with his post-walk zoomies.
As they finished, Shiro and Curtis wandered back in with what Lance could only assume they believed were subtle smiles. Curtis elbowed Shiro, who grunted, but locked eyes with Lance. Without words, Lance understood the expression Shiro was trying to convey: back me up, here.
“Hey, Keith?” Shiro began. “Have I ever mentioned how great a brother you are?”
Keith instantly put down the pot he’d been drying and spun to face Shiro with crossed arms. “What do you want?”
“Ice cream,” Curtis pleaded. “Shiro and I still have to hang a few paintings in the living room, and we were hoping to do it tonight. Prepping for a kid has gotten me craving ice cream, though. Specifically Häagen-Dazs mint chocolate.”
A laugh bubbled out of Lance’s lungs. “That’s not how that works, man.”
Curtis leveled him with an unflinching look. “Gay people can have pregnancy cravings.”
“If they’re pregnant– ”
“We’ll go,” Keith sighed, grabbing Lance’s upper arm and dragging him to the door. He picked up his keys from the front bowl, ignoring his brother and brother-in-law’s thanks chasing them out. As they crossed the threshold, the cooler air hit Lance quickly, making him shiver slightly.
It was just past sunset, and the stars had returned to the desert skies, twinkling merrily while the two men hopped into the van and kicked on the heater. Lance stuck his hands by the vents while Keith punched in directions to the nearest store.
“We’ll just go to the gas station,” he decided. “The car’s only at a quarter tank anyway.”
“Sounds fine to me. I just want my Oreo ice cream.” Lance rubbed his hands together. Keith wrinkled his nose as they backed out of the driveway, which of course meant Lance had to gasp in offended incredulity.
“What?” Keith frowned.
Outside the window, suburban homes eventually melted away to a mostly empty road with yellow lamplight breaking up the dark beginnings of nighttime. The car had sufficiently heated itself, allowing Lance to reclaim his hands and wave them in the air dramatically.
“I saw your nose do that scrunchy thing you do when you disagree with me, but you’re scared of saying something,” Lance spat out quickly. “You don’t fuck with Oreo ice cream.”
“Okay–”
“Up-bup-bup! I can’t believe this. After all I’ve done for you on this trip. What the fuck do you even like? I bet you go for boring shit, like vanilla.”
Silence.
“I knew it!” Lance crowed. “Well, that’s just typical. Big, serious, professional Keith can only have vanilla ice cream for his refined palette.”
“Do you see that car behind us?” Keith interjected.
“I don’t know anything about cars. You trying to change the subject?” Lance lifted a brow accusingly.
“No, no,” Keith waved off Lance. “I mean, it's been behind us since we left Shiro’s neighborhood. We’ve only made a few turns, but it's still behind us.”
Lance’s eyes locked on the rearview mirror, slightly rattled at Keith’s tone. He sounded less like casual-at-Shiro’s-house Keith and more like pre-mission-focus Keith. Sure enough, bright white headlamps were somewhat of a distance behind the van, though Lance couldn’t make out the exact shape of the car behind them.
“Maybe they’re just going the same way as us?” he suggested, fingers tapping his knee.
“Maybe,” Keith allowed. “But this gas station is kind of out of the way.”
“Well, how far are we from it?” Lance asked. Keith looked down at the glowing directions and back at the road with tense shoulders.
“Only two minutes.” On the wheel, Keith’s knuckles had turned white.
“Then I guess we should just drive over and see if they come in the parking lot after us.”
Thin-lipped, Keith nodded, rolling his shoulders against the driver’s seat with steely eyes. Gone was the atmosphere of lighthearted ribbing over ice cream preferences and chores at Shiro’s. Now, the air filled with thick tension, reminding Lance of the minutes just before a confrontation with Voltron.
Their quiet continued as they pulled up toward the flickering yellow lights of the gas station and pulled in beside a pump. Besides their car, the station was empty. Even the attendant looked to be missing, based on the dark interior of the attached cashier's building. Beyond the lights from the roofed pavilion was only desert darkness.
As they parked, Keith locked eyes with Lance, who was able to see a glimmer of determination. Then, his gaze skittered to a point behind Lance’s head.
Determination wasn’t always a good thing for Keith.
Lance shifted in his seat and looked out his window. A few yards away, at the next row of pumps, another car had driven in behind them and stopped. It was a black Chevrolet truck, dark windows obscuring the silhouette of the figure within.
“They’re following us,” Lance hissed, the hairs on his neck rising at the realization. “Is it someone from the government?”
“No.” Keith’s voice was strangled behind him.
“Wait, do you know this guy– ouch, Jesus! ” Lance’s voice broke as he felt a metal band snap around his wrist and yank his arm toward the driver’s side. “Did you just fucking handcuff me to the steering wheel?”
Keith paid no mind to Lance, already opening his driver’s side door and unsheathing his Marmoran blade from his jacket pocket. “Stay safe, here. I can deal with this.”
“You motherfucking asshole,” Lance seethed, fury boiling through him suddenly and violently, twisting with fear as he narrowed his eyes at Keith. “You planned this the second you noticed that car. I can help you!”
“It’s been a while, Lance,” Keith said distractedly, eyes trained on the other car. “Leave it to me.” With that, the other man shut the car door, muffling Lance’s expletives as he rounded the front hood and approached the truck.
Lance watched with mild horror as Keith approached the driver’s side of the truck slowly, blade drawn, his back to the van. He’d seemed to recognize who the driver might be, but Lance didn’t have the faintest clue. Who would Keith know to be following him, if not some Garrison lackey? Who would wait for an opportune moment when Keith was away from Shiro’s eyes and Garrison cameras?
Cold realization settled into Lance as the truck door swung open to reveal a tall, semi-armored Galra. A Zarkonite . Though their name was honestly incredibly dumb, in Lance’s humble opinion, he didn’t feel like laughing. The Zarkonite held a long spear in his clawed hands, yellow eyes slitted as he approached Keith.
Through the glass of the car, Lance couldn’t hear the brief exchange of words between Keith and the Zarkonite. He assumed it was something along the lines of “leave Earth” and “no, I would very much like to kill you, Keith Kogane,” because the next thing he knew, the Zarkonite was swinging his weapon.
Shit. Lance frantically tugged on the metal cuffs, examining them with his free hand for any secret release switches or buttons. No such luck. They bit into his arm as he tugged without any real hope of freeing himself, breaths coming in heaves.
As he tried and failed to get out of his bindings, Keith was out there , fighting for his life against a freakazoid Zarkon supporter. Clanging sounds dully passed into the car as the Galra went toe-to-toe with Keith’s luxite sword.
“If that Galra doesn’t kill him, I will,” Lance vowed under his breath.
A few moments passed of just pure, raw fighting. Keith was keeping up with every one of the Galra soldiers’ swipes, form still just as elegant and powerful as Lance remembered. One second, he was sliding under the spear, jabbing up and effortlessly jumping back when his hit landed with bruising force. The next, he’d be using the other fighter’s momentum against him, dodging behind to strike at his back.
Maybe he doesn’t need me to win this , Lance thought. Strangely, the idea wasn’t as bitter to him as it would have been when they were new to Voltron. If anything, it made him feel… proud.
Then, a sharp crash-kathunk sounded right next to Lance’s body. His heart skipped a beat, momentarily suspended in panic as glass rained down on his lap from the object that had hurtled through the window. Embedded in the dashboard of the van was Keith’s luxite blade, stabbed face down into the plastic.
Lance turned to see Keith’s gaze trained on the car, looking relieved while clutching his hand. A thin trail of blood dripped down from his fingers. The Galra stood over him with a wicked grin, clearly pleased to see Keith vulnerable and disarmed.
What happened next was a blur. The Zarkonite lunged at Keith, who tucked into a roll, already forced on the defensive. With speed he’d forgotten he possessed, Lance tugged Keith’s knife out of the dashboard and jabbed it into his cuffs, reveling in the way their metal cleaved around the luxite. There was a rhythmic pounding in his ears, which he ignored as he leapt out of the car.
Wildly, his head swung around, looking for anything that could be useful. There . Lance picked up the object in his right hand, Keith’s blade clutched in his left. He charged at the Zarkonite’s back.
“Hey, dickhead!” Lance shouted, voice as loud as he could make it. “Eat this!”
As the Zarkonite turned to see what had screeched behind him, Lance slid the knife across the pavement, not waiting to see if Keith picked it up. Then, arms held high, he brought down the long windshield squeegee on the Galra’s purple, furry brains.
In an out-of-body moment, Lance watched as the Galra stared down at him, unimpressed and entirely unharmed. Still holding the squeegee in front of him like a very ineffective shield, Lance froze.
“Are you also hoping to buy Häagen-Dazs?” he suggested to his new alien enemy. Sharp teeth jutted out of the Galra’s lips as he spun his spear, preparing to knock Lance away.
“Get out of my way.” His voice rumbled out of his throat darkly.
Lance scrambled back as the spear was raised above him.
“Move back!”
Lance obeyed, stumbling further and watching with wide eyes as Keith leapt to block the Galra’s spear with his luxite sword. A cruel smile emerged on the Zarkonite’s face at his target’s appearance. However, unlike before, Keith was moving with cutthroat, finite intensity. His swings were each pointed, feet driving forward relentlessly as he slashed and jabbed.
“Come on,” Lance muttered, hands fidgeting with the squeegee as Keith made quick work of the Galra. Even though Keith had gained the upper hand, Lance wouldn’t be able to properly breathe until it was over.
Finally, a yelp from the Galra sounded as Keith landed a hit in the soft spot of its armor. Keith grunted, going for the same spot again, which led to a growling noise.
Kick. Dodge. Swing. A drawn-out roar.
Then, Lance felt himself inhale, oxygen rushing back to his lungs. The Galra sank to its knees, then fell to the ground, its spear clattering beside its legs. Keith stood over its unmoving form with his blade hanging limply in his hand, chest rising and falling in a way that moved his entire back with the force.
With a big, heavy sigh, Keith walked over to one of the gas station pumps and lowered himself to the ground, sitting down with the pump as a brace for his back. Lance watched in fascination as he tilted his head back and simply sat there, breathing, hand loosening around the luxite blade and letting it fall to the pavement.
Before he could stop himself, Lance’s legs moved seemingly on their own until he was sitting at Keith’s side.
“Hey, Lance,” Keith said, blinking away post-battle exhaustion.
“You are the worst,” Lance snapped, and oh , he was angry. Now that he felt the fire bubbling through his body, choking his lungs, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it from exploding out. “You handcuffed me to Shiro’s fucking mom van to stop me from having your back! And nearly died for it! What the ever-loving hell is wrong with you, Keith?”
Keith’s head lolled sideways to meet Lance’s eyes. A wry smile tugged at his lips, sweat curling down the line of his temple and clinging to his jaw. “I knew you’d come after me if I needed it. Right-hand man.”
And, well, no.
“Keith, I can’t do this with you. I can’t keep doing this.” Lance threw down the squeegee he was still holding onto and clutched his hands together.
“Can’t do what?” Keith’s dark eyes pierced into Lance.
“Following you. All you ever do is run away, and honestly? I’m sick of it. I’m exhausted.” Lance looked away from Keith, staring out into the shadows beyond the gas station pavilion. “I’m done playing this game, where you keep running, like it’s some test to see if anyone cares enough to chase you.”
“That’s not fair, Lance,” Keith replied, tone gravelly low with apprehension.
“I think you’re just terrified to admit it. Yes, the Blades give you purpose, but you’re also so desperate to move because you’re scared to find out what you’ll be when you slow down.”
“We’re doing this, now?” Keith huffed, grabbing Lance’s upper arm. “Because the same could be said about you.”
“I don’t run.” Lance whipped his head around with a glare, fists balled.
Keith rolled his eyes, which only served to piss Lance off further. “No. You don’t move forward at all. Even though you hate it, you stay in one spot forever, trying to convince yourself that its what you deserve, that you’re happy.”
“Shut up.”
“We all worry about you, y’know. Shiro does, too. And you give me all this flak for running, when you so badly want to join me.” Lance felt something clench around his chest at Keith’s words, an indescribable pressure squeezing at his heart.
“How can I possibly join you?” Lance questioned him, waving a hand. “You don’t slow down enough to let me in. All I’m asking for is a moment, a moment where you stop avoiding it all. You have a goddaughter now, Keith! A goddaughter! You can’t carry on like this forever.”
Keith paused. He looked down at his knife lying prone at his feet. “I’d do it, you know. For you.”
“ What? ” Lance blurted, voice breaking.
“If you can’t– if you don’t want to come with me, at that pace– I’d change. I’d have a reason to.” Keith looked pained, twisting his hands as he spoke. As his hands circled one another, red smeared across his fingers.
“You’re hurt.” Lance snatched Keith’s hand, bringing it close to his face. Across his pale hand was a thin gash, slowly oozing vibrant red. “We need to take you to the ER.”
“Just listen to me,” Keith begged, letting his hand be maneuvered despite his words. “Lance, you know that I’ll stop if–”
“Don’t say it.”
“We admit that you love me.” Keith paused, his fingers twitching as Lance held them, numb. His pupils darted left and right, searching for something in Lance.
They were on the floor of a gas station. Keith was bleeding from his hand. Lance was sweaty, furious, and overwhelmed. He choked back the lurch in his throat, squeezing his eyelids.
“Fuck you.”
“You love me, Lance.”
It wasn’t a confession. They were long past those, after sharing intimacy in thousands of other ways. Lance knew Keith like a map to home, like the torn holes in the walls of a dingy old shack, like his own pulse thrumming. He could read between the words, even when he was burning with righteous anger. There was nothing Keith could even dream of hiding from Lance.
“Then stop running, and let me love you, here ,” Lance whispered, letting a tear slip down his cheek, then another. Keith gently tugged his hand out from Lance’s grip and used it to wipe away the steady trickle of tears that had started collecting across his cheek.
“I don’t need to go to the ER, it’s barely more than a papercut,” Keith argued, face warring between a restrained grin and the lightest edge of pain.
“But you love me,” Lance pointed out. Keith’s hand was undoubtedly leaving traces of red across his face as it swept away saltwater tracks; Lance couldn’t bring himself to care. “So you’ll go.”
Keith laughed, dragging his thumb down to Lance’s neck, pressing into his pulse point.
“Not much room for me to argue that.”
Shrugging out of his flannel, Lance wrapped it around Keith’s hand. When his wound had been sufficiently covered, he pressed their hands together, squeezing lightly.
“Hm?” Keith raised an eyebrow at him, and Lance rolled his eyes.
“Applying pressure,” he lamely explained, gesturing to their joined hands.
“So that’s what they’re calling it, now?” Keith squeezed back, though, and it cooled some of the whirling blaze that he’d sparked in Lance’s gut.
“Just get in the car, Kogane.”
The drive to the emergency room was only 20 minutes, but Lance felt the time creeping by at an agonizing pace. He forced Keith to sit passenger, choosing to leave the music off so he could process their conversation (fight) silently. Luckily, Keith didn’t interrupt his brooding time. Lance figured it was because he was an expert at recognizing when people wanted alone emo time, as an expert in the field himself.
All Lance’s musings from their trip could now freely dance in his head, with everything on the table as it was. Scenes would crash through Lance in sudden, powerful waves, tumbling his heart and twisting his stomach with dangerous hope. Flighty, picturesque ideas of Keith helping him do dishes after shared dinners, or fixing up a car in their driveway, or even building another dollhouse. Decorating a house with flowers.
Lance tried not to let his buildup of emotions show on his face. Still, he knew he had failed based on the way Keith’s wrapped hand would occasionally brush the back of his arm or his shoulder.
Keith, who was very much unabashedly staring at Lance, was sitting in the passenger seat of the minivan they’d now officially commandeered from Shiro.
Before they reached the ER, Keith made sure to call his brother and let him know that they were on the way to the ER, and explain that yes everyone is fine, I have a cut from an alien, we’ll be home before midnight. When they pulled up to the glass doors, though, Lance wasn’t so sure that they would.
A sound system beeped as they pushed into the brightly lit waiting area of the ER. Dozens of people lined the chairs, clearly triaged into later positions and all waiting to be seen. Lance turned his gaze away from the woman puking and avoided a kid holding his arm at a distinctly wrong angle.
“See? This place is a mess. I totally could have stitched this at home,” Keith whispered in Lance’s ear as they approached a woman in scrubs behind the front desk. A window of plastic separated her from the waiting area.
“We are taking care of this like normal fucking people ,” Lance shot back.
“Sir, what are you here for today?” the woman behind the counter asked. Lance read her name tag with a sideways glance.
“Harriet,” he began. Harriet raised an eyebrow, so he backpedaled a little. “Uh, ma’am. This man cut himself with a… knife.”
“Mmhmm.” Harriet jotted something down on a piece of paper. “First and last name.”
“Keith Kogane.”
“Spell that.”
Harriet walked through a few questions with Keith, who looked like he would rather die than be forced to engage in discussion with a stranger about his personal information. After he finished, Harriet wrapped up by shoving the papers she’d been writing on under her plastic window and having Keith sign them.
“Wow, your signature is messy,” Lance remarked. “Is that what you put for kids’ autographs?”
“Yes,” Keith admitted.
“Pretty privilege,” Lance hissed, pressing his lips together to hold in a smile at the sight of Keith’s ears turning red.
“One more thing,” Harriet interrupted their adorable little moment . She accepted the papers from Keith and put them aside. “We don’t have the room for buddies in the waiting room for non-emergencies ‘cause we’re full today. Only family allowed.” At that, Harriet made sure to level Lance with her most disdainful sneer. Lance sniffed, frowning, about to open his mouth and say something potentially rude. However, Keith got there first.
“He’s my husband,” he said easily, looking far too calm and collected as Lance gaped at the side of his head. Instantly, a flush rose on Lance’s cheeks.
“Is he, now?” Harriet flatly asked.
“Yes.” Lance nodded sharply. Keith then leaned in further, wrapping an arm around Lance’s waist. Maybe this wasn’t the ER after all, Lance decided. Maybe this was heaven.
“Fine. Sit down.” She waved them both away toward the chairs, boredly turning back to her paperwork. “Next!”
Lance and Keith didn’t have to be told twice. Attached at the hip, the two scurried off to the waiting chairs. Only one pair of chairs was left next to one another, shoved in a corner with a flickering light overhead.
Lance sat down next to Keith and reached for his wounded hand again. Pliant, Keith let him, smiling despite the specks of blood that had appeared around the makeshift wrap.
“We have to talk about it eventually, you know,” Keith reminded him softly. Lance let Keith’s hand fall into his lap, keeping a loose grip on it.
“About what?” Lance feigned ignorance. He rubbed his thumb along the back of Keith’s exposed knuckles.
“You loving me,” Keith said casually. Lance snorted. It was unfair how blunt Keith was, how easily he could call things out for being what they were. Lance was more one for flowers and embellishments.
“You mean you loving me,” he shot back. Keith elbowed his side
“That, too,” he allowed. His healthy hand moved over to grab Lance’s opposite shoulder so that they faced one another. Heat spread through Lance’s skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, fuddling up his brain.
“Well, what is there to talk about?” Lance asked, dazed by Keith’s sudden intensity.
“First, you should kiss me.” Now, Lance snapped into full wakefulness, too aware of the fluorescent flickering lights, cold hospital air, and coughing four seats down.
“We’re in the ER,” Lance pointed out.
“So?” Keith shrugged.
“This is a wholly inappropriate place for our first kiss.”
“Lance,” Keith started, grip tightening, head inching closer to Lance’s. “I’m bleeding out and dying. You have to kiss me.”
“I thought you said it was barely worse than a paper cut, samurai,” Lance challenged, lips stretching into a grin. He didn’t fully register that he was moving closer, too, until Keith’s warm breath dusted his nose.
“I changed my mind,” Keith whispered seriously.
“God, fine. You’re imposs–” Keith surged forward to capture Lance in a kiss, the hand on his shoulder moving to his back.
Blissfully, the hospital melted away. Flickering lights became warm sunshine, twisting around Lance’s limbs. Every voice that was constantly talking in his head went silent, replaced by a mantra of Keith. When Keith’s mouth moved slightly against his, it was a familiar rhythm, new but recognizable. He blindly placed his fingers on Keith’s knee and smiled into the kiss, causing them to break apart.
In reality, it was probably chaste. Maybe ten seconds– twenty, if he was generous, in the shitty plastic chairs at the edges of the ER.
But because it was Keith, it was perfect.
“I still keep a knife under my pillow,” Keith said, breaking Lance from his stupor.
“Huh?”
“You made fun of me for it at the shack. I still do it. You’ll see it, eventually, so I thought I may as well tell you now before you heckle me for it.”
“I figured,” Lance sighed.
“I don’t know shit about hair products,” Keith continued, worry lacing his words. “I still run a lot. And I’m scared to have a goddaughter. I don’t know the first thing about kids, I mean, you saw. I hardly was one.” Lance covered Keith’s mouth, an echo of the shack suddenly sparking fond amusement.
“Hey, red,” Lance said, warmth dripping from his tongue like honey. “Would I be here with you, in this hospital at close-to-midnight, if I didn’t want all your weird shit?”
“Mmph,” Keith spoke into Lance’s hand.
“Quiet. My point is, every single thing that makes you Keith is also what makes you mine .”
Keith’s shoulders sloped downward, and Lance removed his hand, rubbing Keith’s shoulder with it instead. Even though it was all kinda new, saying what he did just felt… right, like he’d been saying the same sentiment the entire trip. Or like he’d repeated it for years, since some nondescript point during the war.
“You’ll come with me? Even though I’m a little….” Keith trailed off, gesturing to all of himself. Lance shoved him lightly.
“We’ll make it work,” he retorted, firm. “I’m a mess, too. We figure it out together. Okay?”
“Okay.” Keith rested his shoulder into Lance’s side, letting the other man carry his weight. “I’m so tired.”
“Relax, I’ll let you know when the nurses call for us,” Lance promised. He tried to soften his posture so his bony edges stuck out less, letting Keith use him to rest on.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” Keith mumbled.
“Yeah,” Lance whispered in return, ignoring the way his throat squeezed tightly.
A chair arm was poking slightly against Lance’s side, and his head was heavy. The ER was far too cold, the light above them still flickered, and he was still hungering for ice cream they’d never bought.
Keith’s weight against his side pressed into him, vulnerable and trusting. Lance let his head fall atop Keith’s.
After years of it, Lance was done waiting, anticipating something that might never arrive. Lance closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and turned his face from the flickering lights.
He would move forward, intentionally.
Is there anything else, Mama?
Well, it’s a little subjective.
I need all the help I can get!
Alright! Alright. You truly know they’re the one when you can’t picture a future without them by your side. True teammates, in life.
So… you just imagine marrying them?
Not just that, Lance. You imagine coming home to them.