Chapter Text
The phone rings once, twice, and Lance is already out of his bed and standing, barefoot and shirtless with his chest heaving like he’s just run a few miles in the sticky heat of summer. It’s a knee-jerk reaction—one born of past years spent up in space, floating through life on a giant castle made of Ancient Altean metal and technology. Of days filled by endless training exercises, sweat-slicked under armor, and aching muscles. By now, his body has picked up the tendency to just react, slipping into battle-mode before his brain ever has the chance to play catch-up.
It takes a good four more rings for Lance’s heart rate to return to its normal rhythm, his palms damp and clammy as he takes a deep breath and reaches for his phone, plugged into its charger on his bedside table. The number that flashes up at him isn’t a familiar one. The area code is right, at least, but still. Could be spam. Lance finds himself compelled to answer anyway, hesitating only a beat before lifting the phone up to his ear and pressing accept.
Something hollow and tinny greets him on the other end of the line.
“Uh…hello?”
There is a bit of static, a long moment stretching between Lance’s last word and the next one that comes, shaky and strained and familiar. “Lance?”
Lance’s breath catches almost immediately against his own will—a hitch behind his ribs that urges him to lift his free hand and press it flat against his sternum. Thump, thump, thump; his pulse has picked back up, speeding like there’s no phone between them at all. Just Lance. Just—
“Keith? ”
“Um,” Keith’s voice comes back through the speaker, a husky, unconvincing laugh leaving him between breaths. “Yeah. Hey. I’m surprised you picked up.”
“You—you called.”
What is happening.
“It’s four AM.”
“Yeah, in Texas.” Lance can hardly keep his eyes open, much less understand why Keith is calling. Especially now, when it's so late at night. When anyone in their right mind should be fast asleep. Then again, Keith has always been a little out of the ordinary—not a bad thing, necessarily. Just something Lance remembers, the fact sticking out in his brain like a file cabinet only half-closed. “Where are you?”
“Um.” Keith says again. Then, “Well, I’m—uh, I’m sort of. At a payphone? In El Paso.”
Well. That would explain the unsaved number. And the area code.
“You’re—” Lance shakes his head, still lost. “Hold on. Start over, alright? What’s going on?”
That earns him another shaky laugh, a little hysterical, like the question itself is too much to begin to address.
“I just,” Keith takes a rattling breath, the sound of it so concerning that Lance finds himself having to sit back down on the edge of his mattress, his spine curving until his elbows poke into the flesh of his thighs. “I really…”
Lance swallows thickly, throat dry all of a sudden. His mouth tastes sour. “Keith.”
“I don’t know why I called,” Keith rasps, finally. Like it’s taken the length of the phone call just to work himself up to spitting out those six words. “I just…wanted to hear your voice, I guess. It’s been a while.”
He’s not wrong. Lance tries to think back to the last time he and Keith had seen each other in person, landing on a day almost two years ago when the team had met up on the anniversary of the end of the war. It makes Lance ache a bit, just thinking about it—about Keith, sitting there with slightly longer hair and a new jacket, at once so, so close and so far out of reach. If he digs around in his memory, Lance can pinpoint the exact moment he realized he was staring, eyes greedy in their silent cataloging of Keith’s every feature. Drinking him in like he might never get another chance, a fear that had proven sickeningly true.
At least until just now, when Lance blurts the question, “Where are you?” again, like Keith hadn’t heard him the first time.
Because really, he hadn’t.
“Um, at the same payphone outside El Paso, like I said—”
“No, no,” Lance shakes his head, huffing in frustration, “I mean, where can I pick you up?”
In all honesty, Lance spends most of the drive wondering if Keith will even show. Because yeah, sure, he’d finally given him an address—a Motel 6 that was apparently close enough to the payphone that Keith was able to walk—but who’s to say he won’t take off again before Lance has the chance to so much as glimpse him? He didn’t sound okay over the phone, not anywhere near it, and Lance’s fingers flex around the steering wheel, worrying that he might be just a few hours too late.
He still hasn’t gotten any answers as to why Keith had called; he has no idea what Keith is even doing here, down on earth and not up in space with the Blades like he’s supposed to be. All of this is strange, and confusing, and more than a little stressful. And, to make matters worse, Lance’s brain still feels a little like mushy soup, overlapping thoughts spinning endlessly like that little rainbow beachball on a computer screen.
He pulls off the highway and onto a long stretch of dirt road just outside the El Paso area. If he squints, he can just make out the beginnings of citylights, blinking in and out of focus a few dozen miles away. The Motel 6 comes into view a few minutes later, standing out in blue and red against the dusty beige of the surrounding landscape. Lance’s pulse begins to speed again just as soon as he enters the parking lot, a jumble of nerves in his stomach twisting and flipping and freaking somersaulting up his throat, for all he knows.
It’s just his truck and two other cars: a gray SUV and an old, beat-up minivan, a mess of overlapping bumper stickers decorating the back window. Keith didn’t drive here, obviously, so all Lance can do is ease the gear into park and keep the engine running, waiting with itchy impatience for some sign of him.
Three minutes pass. Five.
“Come on, Mullet,” Lance mutters to himself, molars grinding as his foot taps unhelpfully against the floor of the driver’s seat. “Come on, come on, come on…”
Lance isn’t sure he’s ever really believed in manifestation. It all sounds a little iffy to him, even after Rachel had sworn to him that it really does work, promise. You just have to believe hard enough. You just have to have faith.
Faith is a shaky thing for Lance these days. Ask him ten years ago, and he’d have told you faith could carry you anywhere like nothing else could. Hope. Trust in the universe that everything will magically find a way to just—work itself out.
Well. The universe is a whole lot bigger than Lance had previously believed it to be. A whole lot colder, too. Sometimes, it’s easier to simply accept circumstances as they are. Faith will never bring certain things back to him. Certain people. Certain shreds of his innocence, torn away bit by bit without his fists ever opening up to release them.
So, yeah, maybe manifestation is a load of bullshit. And maybe Lance is tired, and bleary-eyed, and bordering on nauseatingly hungry, but the furthest motel door opens to reveal Keith’s familiar figure with a backpack slung over his shoulder, and suddenly, the world isn’t half as bad as it used to be.
It goes something like this:
“Shit, man.”
And maybe Lance wants to cry a little, hopping down out of the driver’s seat to land on the gravel before he rushes around the front bumper and meets Keith halfway to the car, practically tackling him in a crushing hug that should probably make him feel just the teensiest bit embarrassed. It doesn’t—not yet, anyway, his senses entirely too overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations that hit him at finally having Keith back in front of him, close enough to pull tight to his chest. Reaching around his shoulders, Lance squeezes Keith like he might try to slip away, hooking his chin over the curve of Keith’s shoulder and releasing what feels like a whole two year’s worth of tension in a single whooshing breath.
Keith makes a sort of “oomph" noise on impact, but recovers quickly, hesitating only a beat before his arms wind their way around Lance’s middle, hugging him back just as tightly.
“Ha, hey, Lance,” Keith chuckles, a little breathlessly, as Lance probably just knocked half the wind out of him by barreling into his chest like a wrecking ball.
“Hi,” Lance rasps, debating between pulling back to look Keith in the eyes and staying here, just like this, with their chests pressed up against one another and Lance’s hands bunched in the back of Keith’s hoodie. His usual red jacket is missing, replaced by something soft and black and cozy, and Lance thinks about rubbing the fabric between his fingers a moment before he realizes that’s creepy and weird and he’s probably been hugging Keith for a little too long, anyway. He releases him with a wince, stepping back and sliding his hands up to Keith’s shoulders.
Of course, he's still just as muscular as Lance remembers him being. Ya know, grizzled, and whatnot. Were Lance a little less concerned with looking like an idiot, he might slide his hands down to grip Keith's biceps, feeling out the proof of two year's worth of Blade training.
“Hi,” he says again, dumbly, and Keith just grins. Grins. God, if Lance didn’t miss his stupid, idiot face.
Up close, he’s able to get a better look at him—remind himself of every slope and harsh line that makes up Keith’s face. The angle of his jaw. The bow of his top lip. The slight furrow that rests between his brows, even when he’s not conscious of it. His scar hasn’t changed much at all, except that it might have gotten a bit lighter in color since the last time Lance had seen it. That’s alright; it’s a change Lance can accept. Keith is still Keith, and his scar is still incredibly, infuriatingly attractive.
Lance wants to punch him, just a little. Then probably kiss it better.
“Hey,” Keith echoes, smile lines pinching at the corners of his eyes, and Lance reaches up, ruffling the top of his head where his hair has grown out a little longer than he remembers it.
“Still the same,” Lance sighs, wistfully, secretly glad that nothing much has changed about him. At least appearance-wise. And his hair is still so fucking soft. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
Keith shrugs, the movement causing the backpack slung over his shoulders to shift around. “Yeah, well. They didn’t really have many barber shops at the Blade headquarters, so.”
“So, what?”
“So, I’ve been cutting it myself.”
Lance’s smile stretches and aches at that, a statement so painfully Keith he can’t help but laugh. “Of course you have. No well-respected professional would leave it looking like a bird just made a nest up top.” Then, before Keith can so much as roll his eyes, “Come on, it’s too hot out here. I made sure to keep the AC in the truck running.”
Lance opens the back door to let Keith toss his backpack onto the empty seats, then jogs back around to the driver’s side as Keith climbs into the passenger seat. Lance is still a bit taller, which means he has a leg up on getting into the car itself. Keith, on the other hand, has to reach up to grab onto the handle that comes off the dashboard, just above the glovebox, hoisting himself up with a huff and getting situated against the backrest. His hair shifts and falls down over his eyes as he does, both of his hands coming up to shove it out of the way when Lance glances over, smirking.
“Not a word,” Keith warns, glaring.
Lance mimics zipping his lips closed, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He eases the gear shift into reverse, all the while appreciating the cool air that fans over his exposed forearms from the slanted AC vents.
“You hungry?” Lance asks, raising an eyebrow as he turns to look back, resting a palm on the shoulder of Keith’s seat and using it as leverage to peer backward and reverse out of the space. “The farm’s about two hours out, but we could stop for some breakfast in the city before we head back.”
Keith shrugs again, nodding a little. “I could eat, yeah.”
And just like that, they’ve made a date.
Well.
It’s not actually a date.
Lance tries to remind himself of this fact several times over the next hour. Once, when they’re walking into the restaurant—a breakfast place Lance found online, hoping it's mostly four star reviews could be trusted—and Keith reaches to open the door for him, just because. Because, because, because why, exactly? The question will probably haunt him for the next year or so, but sure. Fine. Whatever.
The next time when they’re seated, Lance’s hands resting atop the table just a few inches from Keith’s, fingers tapping atop the glossy wood to the rhythm of a Bowie song that plays through the speakers overhead.
And you, you can be mean
And I, I’ll drink all the time
‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact
Yes, we’re lovers, and that is that
“I hope you’re ready to deal with my family when we get back to the farm,” Lance says, breaking the silence that’s settled between them for the past few minutes or so. It’s not quite uncomfortable, since Keith’s never been much of a small-talker anyway and Lance is mostly used to that fact. They’ve known each other for long enough now that the silence is more an acknowledgement of their past, of everything they’ve experienced both together and apart.
Though nothing, will keep us together
We could steal time, just for one day
We can be heroes, for ever and ever
What d’you say?
Still, it’s not like Lance will ever not feel the need to fill empty space up with words—whatever comes to mind, really. For example, he could probably go on about the specific shade of Keith’s hair for more than an hour: not quite black. Almost purple when it catches in certain light, but with streaks of something deeper. It reminds him a little bit of a raven’s feathers, sort of shiny but not in a greasy, unwashed way. It’s strange; it’s beautiful. Lance wants to reach out and run his fingers through it, smoothing it down before it inevitably fluffs back to whatever spiky shape it held before. Wants to tug it, yank, hear the sharp intake of breath from between Keith’s clenched teeth as he arches back, offering up more of his throat for Lance’s face to press into, lips parted to leave sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against his skin until he’s panting, begging, whining when Lance’s teeth graze the very same spot, oversensitive and bruised and—
Lance clears his throat, shaking his head as if he’ll be able to dislodge the mental image from his mind. It isn’t a success, naturally, because Keith is evil, and he exists only to drive Lance out of his fucking mind for the rest of forever.
“Rachel will probably leave you alone if I tell her to back off, since you’ve already pretty much met. But I can’t really make any promises for the others.”
Keith nods slowly, his earlier grin having faded to something flatter. “I like your family.” He says, reaching forward to subtly adjust his glass of water on the tabletop. The plastic cup has begun to sweat in fat droplets that slide all the way down its sides. “I’ve always liked them.”
“Yeah, well, you say that now.” Lance huffs, “Sylvio is at that age where he asks “why” every five seconds about everything, so be ready to get philosophical.”
The corners of Keith’s lips quirk a little at that, his hands flexing atop the table before he slips them down into his lap. “Good to know. How old is he now?”
Lance sighs. “Nine. But I refuse to acknowledge the fact that he’s getting older, so he’s still like six in my head.”
“Six, then.” Keith says, decisively.
“I guess that would mean we’re still…nineteen-ish? Twenty?”
“Twenty-one,” Keith corrects, smirking. “I’m older than you.”
“O-kay. Sure. By like, six months.”
“It still counts.”
“And you’re still insufferable,” Lance rolls his eyes, falling against the backrest of the booth. “Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you. Who calls someone at four in the morning, anyway? Crazy people with mullets, that’s who.”
“Yeah, well,” Keith’s foot kicks out underneath the table, knocking against Lance’s ankle before hooking around the back of his heel. “Guess you have to be just as crazy to pick up.”
The ankle-hooking is a challenge, obviously, so they struggle like that for a bit, the soles of their shoes scuffing back and forth on the tiled floor before the toe of Lance’s boot jams into Keith’s shin a just a little too hard, earning a muffled “shit,” and the sharp sound of Keith’s knee jerking up to smack into the underside of the table. The silverware rattles, their water glasses sloshing, and Lance snorts a laugh before he can think better of it, slapping a palm over his mouth and earning a sharp glare from Keith.
When the waitress comes to take their orders, Lance gets a root beer float along with his chocolate-chip pancakes, because why the hell not, and Keith orders a plain omelet, because he’s boring and probably used to space goo that’s ruined his palette for the foreseeable future. Lance resolves himself to do something about that. Later, though. For now, Lance hands the waitress both their menus and goes right back to kicking Keith under the table, only stopping once an older couple a few tables over starts giving them weird looks.
More than once, Lance almost begins to press Keith on why he’d called. On why he’s here, now, with him, acting as if everything is normal and easy and just like it used to be—because in a way, it is. Somehow, though, the topic feels too heavy to bring up over powdered sugared pancakes and ice cream, so Lance tucks it away in the back of his mind and plans to return to it whenever the opportunity presents itself.
For the time being, Lance licks chocolate off his top lip and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving his napkin untouched. Keith calls him a slob, and Lance flicks a chocolate chip in his direction as punishment. He feels like he’s pretty much won at life when it gets caught in the side of Keith’s bangs, smearing onto his forehead when he tries to pluck it out.
And for now, this simple sort-of-something is enough.
Here’s the thing: Lance is pretty proud of his home.
It’s been a part of him for as long as he can remember, some of his earliest memories of him and Rachel in the living room, pushing around a set of toy planes on the rug and making them fly. Getting those same planes’ wheels caught in Rachel’s curls, then having to sit in silence and watch as their mother carefully untangled them without tugging too hard.
Once, when he was six, Lance had climbed up inside the chicken coup out in the backyard and simply sat there, grinning like he’d just pulled off some sort of grand heist before snatching a few eggs for breakfast. Luckily, the chickens themselves hadn’t seemed too offended, only going so far as to peck lightly at the backs of his knuckles and ruffle their feathers when he’d gone to reach underneath them. Lance had run back to the house afterward, his hoodie’s front pocket stuffed full of eggs and his face broken into a grin that tugged at the muscles in his cheeks, stretching wide.
Now, he leans back in the driver’s seat as the car approaches the farm’s front gate, aggressively drumming his fingers on the wheel with one hand and easing the gear shift back into park with the other. There’s a strange sort of tingling feeling sparking through his nerves, something that usually accompanies the tangle of anxious energy that’s taken up rent in his gut. He feels twitchy. A little hot, even with the AC blasting at a cool sixty-four degrees. So, yeah, you could say that even with his pride, and his memories, he’s more than a little nervous for Keith to see his home for the first time. For him to be re-introduced to his family.
Not that he’s introducing him as anything other than a friend—an old teammate. But. Still.
Keith is quiet as Lance climbs down from the driver’s seat and crosses the distance between the front bumper and the gate itself in a few long strides. The metal hinges swing open with a rusted whine when Lance pushes against them, clearing a space wide enough for the truck to pass through and drive the remaining length of the driveway. Once they’re moving again, Lance is sure to point out a few standout features—the cows, mostly speckled with brown and white markings, and his mom’s two horses, grazing lazily in their pasture.
“Do you ever ride them?” Keith asks, turning from the window to glance over at Lance. There’s a teasing glint in his eyes, because of course there is, and Lance scoffs, waving a hand in his direction.
“Do I ever ride them,” he echoes, incredulous. “Well, yeah, Keith. Obviously. How else do you think we get the cows to move around?”
Keith shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I just pictured you waving your arms and yelling until they started to walk.”
Which is. Well, that’s really just great. Lance honestly could not be any happier about the fact that that mental image is the one in Keith’s head.
“Stupid. You’re an idiot. Never speak again. Oh, look at that.” Lance waves his hand again, feeling like he’s been doing that a whole lot in the past few minutes. “We’re here.”
It’s only about nine-thirty, but the farm’s already been in operation for hours. The first item on today’s agenda had been to clean out the barn and replace the horses’ stalls with fresh hay. Now, Lance hopes Rachel might be willing to pick up some of the slack for him, what with his new tour guide duties taking precedence and all.
Releasing a nervous breath through the gaps in his teeth, Lance pulls the truck up by the main house and cuts the engine.
Keith says nothing as they climb out, his eyes lifting to stare up at the front of the ranch house before him. Just last year, Lance had helped his dad re-paint the exterior, a light beige that looks almost cream in the morning light. The shutters, stained a dark brown, hang on half-rusted hinges, some bits slightly worn away from years without retouching. It’s perfect, in Lance’s personal opinion. It’s home; it’s more than that, and once, a few years back, Keith had felt a bit like home, too.
The fact that Keith is actually here, now, apparently just because makes Lance want to slap himself a bit. Just to make sure he’s not dreaming.
After looking his fill, Keith turns away to retrieve his backpack from the trunk. Lance wonders briefly whether or not he should ask if that’s really all he has, then thinks better of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if all Keith ever traveled with was a single change of clothes, some money, and his blade. Still, it raises more than a few alarm bells in Lance’s head when Keith lifts the backpack with relative ease, jogging the few steps back to Lance’s side.
“You ready?” Lance asks, inclining his head toward the front steps. “I sort of…forgot to tell anyone you were dropping by, so they might be a little confused for a minute.”
“You—” Keith blinks, then blinks a few more times. Rapidly. “We don’t have to—you know. Make a big deal of it, or anything..."
That last bit is mumbled, half-intelligible if not for the fact that Lance is watching Keith’s mouth as he speaks, wondering how he’d ever managed to convince himself that he hated the shape of it.
“Yeah, there’s really no chance of avoiding that now. I haven’t brought anyone home in…” Lance reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, sucking in through his teeth. “Well. Shit. Ever, actually. You'd be the first.”
A beat passes. Then,
“Not that I’m like…bringing you home, or anything.” A nervous, much–too-breathy peal of laughter escapes him, just as the tops of Keith’s ears begin to flush pink. The sides of his throat are next, partially hidden beneath the neckline of his hoodie and the fringe of his hair, but visible nonetheless. Lance might as well have said something really crazy just to get the same reaction. Something like, I’d like to skip the family introductions and take you straight upstairs, thanks. This house has a no-shirt, no-pants policy. Strictly enforced. “I just. I guess I just mean—”
“Lance,” Keith huffs, shaking his head. “Calm down, alright? I know what you mean.”
He can’t possibly, because Lance isn’t sure he does either.
He nods anyway, “Right. Yeah.” and wonders if Keith can hear his throat click when he swallows. Also, has he been blinking an abnormal amount for the past few minutes, or is that just something his brain has now snagged on and become hyper aware of? Jesus fuck, it’s hot. And good God, when did his palms get so freaking sweaty? Lance flexes his fingers a few times, splaying them out before wiping both hands against the fabric of his jeans. “Come on, then. We might need some help, getting all your bags in the house.”
Keith shoots him a Look™ . “You know, just because you take your entire house with you when you travel doesn’t mean everyone else has to.”
“Oh yeah? At least I wear more than one outfit in a week.”
“More than one good outfit?”
Lance lets his mouth drop open, gasping in mock outrage. “Like you can talk. You are literally wearing a plain black sweatshirt right now.”
“Wha—” Keith frowns, pausing to look down at himself. Both of his hands have slipped into the front pocket of his hoodie, tugging the neckline down a bit to reveal a washed-out red t-shirt layered underneath. It's probably the laziest Lance has ever seen him dress; he wants to bite him. In a totally normal way. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Oh, Keith,” Lance sighs, stepping forward to sling his arm over Keith’s shoulder and begin walking him toward the front door. “Let’s handle one crisis at a time, shall we?”
In a move that is somehow unpredictable and also completely and totally expected, Rachel presents the first major obstacle.
“Wait, hold up a minute,” She says, interrupting a semi-flushed Lance who had gotten roughly halfway through his explanation before the nerves really started to hit him. “Start over. What do you mean, Keith is here?”
“Um,” Lance blinks. “I mean that he’s here? I don’t know how to make that any clearer. Do you want me to spell it out? K-E-I—”
“No, stupid,” Rachel shakes her head, still twisted around in her desk chair to face Lance, standing in the doorway to her bedroom. He moves all the way inside, easing the door partially shut and motioning for Rachel to lower her voice. She arches one eyebrow at him before continuing on, “I mean is he in our house? Like, here here?”
“No, he’s in the walls.” Lance deadpans. “Yes, obviously, he's in our house. He’s waiting for us down in the kitchen, actually, so if you would please just—”
“Uh-uh,” Rachel waves him away with a flick of her wrist, brows now furrowed with what looks like…concern. “Not so fast. Why is he here?”
Lance swallows. “Um.”
“Oh God,” she gasps, raising a hand to press the tips of her fingers over her lips. “Lance, what have you done? Please, please tell me you didn’t read him that stupid letter—”
Lance sputters, waving his hands wildly to signal for her to shut up before someone catches bits and pieces of their conversation from downstairs. “I wouldn’t—I—that’s not—I didn’t!”
“Oh, don’t act like you weren’t going to.”
“That was years ago.” Lance whisper-yells, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at the reminder. “And no, I have not done anything, thank you very much. Keith just,” Lance huffed, searching for words. “He called me. Last night, at like four in the morning.”
“Okay,” Rachel says slowly, urging him to go on. “And?”
“And something is wrong with him, alright?” Lance exhales heavily, letting his arms drop down to his sides with a muted thwack. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know why he came to me of all people, but I offered to go pick him up where he was staying in El Paso and bring him back here. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
It's just about the biggest understatement of his life, but, yes. That is technically it.
“And the fact that you’re still disgustingly in love with him didn’t impact this decision in the slightest, right?”
“Right,” Lance nods, then freezes, cold terror crashing down on him like a cresting wave. “Wait.”
“Ha!” Rachel exclaims with a cry, jumping up out of her seat to stomp over and shove a finger straight into the center of Lance’s chest. “Oh, man. Fucking finally—”
“Hey,” Lance cuts in, his face heating so quickly it feels like little pin pricks jabbing into his cheeks. He reaches up, grabbing the finger she has so pointedly inserted in his ribcage and shoving it away. “Cut it out, alright? Someone’s going to hear you and your big fat mouth! Someone being Keith.”
“My big fat mouth?”
“I would really love to have this argument with you another time,” Lance lowers his voice, the sides of his throat feeling increasingly itchy the longer this train wreck of a conversation goes on. “But right now, I really, really need you to back me up here, alright? Mom is going to think my bringing him back here means we’re getting married, and Sylvio is probably going to ask him why he’s so pale, and I don’t think he’s ever had a home-cooked meal in all his life, which is—alright, it’s probably not that relevant, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about and I really—I really just need this to go well-ish—”
“Alright, alright, hey,” Rachel cuts in, for good reason this time, her hands coming up to squeeze Lance’s biceps. The touch is grounding enough that Lance is able to wrangle his mouth shut, taking a deep, trembling breath in through his nose and holding it. One, two, three, four…
“That’s it.” Rachel encourages him, breathing along with him and making sure her grip stays firm. “A few more. Yeah. Good.”
It takes ten deep breaths for Lance’s pulse to return to a normal-enough rhythm. Rachel waits until he nods to let her hands drop, taking a few steps back and looking at him with an expression of thinly-veiled concern.
“Lance,” she says, softly. Like he might wince if she were to speak any louder.
“I’m fine,” Lance says, still inwardly collecting himself. “Sorry. That was just…I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Lance.”
“Keith is waiting for us.”
Rachel pauses, considering, then asks, “Did you really drive all the way to El Paso at four AM?”
“I—” Lance begins to lie, but quickly deflates at the warning look Rachel shoots him. “Yeah. I did.”
“He could’ve waited a few hours. You could’ve waited.”
Lance shrugs, feeling a little stupider about this whole thing by the second. “I haven’t seen him in two years.”
“Yeah, because he was up in space as of like, a week ago.”
“Screw space,” Lance says, a bit defensively. He’s not sure if Rachel picks up on the fact that he really doesn’t mean outer space at all. “I’m sick and tired of space. I just want—”
Hands. Lips. Teeth and tongues and touch, hot and heavy until it's bruising. Something more than that. Something tangible and real. Something with edges, and gravity.
Instead, he says, “I just want things to feel like they’re back to normal.”
“With him?”
“With everything.”
It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation. More than once, Lance has found himself overflowing with the weight of it all—spilling out like water from a cup left under the faucet. Because if he’s honest—really honest, shoving aside his attempts at optimism and appreciation for the small things in life—things haven’t felt quite right since the end of the war. Since before that, really, when everything got heavy. When earth was invaded, and all Lance could think of was getting back to his family. Wrapping them up in his arms and telling them—I love you, I love you, I love you. I never meant to leave. Not forever.
And it’d felt wrong, then, even thinking about up and leaving them again so soon after setting things right. Which is probably most of why he decided to stay. Why he’d pushed aside his hesitations and settled down in the same place he’d always known, putting his braver years behind him and embracing a slower, safer pace.
It wasn’t like it was all bad. He loved his family. Loved watching his nieces and nephews grow up. Loved being a part of their lives—having crazy stories to tell at the dinner table and knowing he’d never be faced with the smoking barrel of a blaster or a half-collapsed wormhole that spat him out in the middle of nowhere again.
And really, it wasn’t that he wanted to go back to space. Not yet. It still felt a bit like peeling at a half-healed scab, the skin flaking off in some parts and sticking determinately in others. It was just…
Well.
It was hard not to feel a little unfulfilled, having gone from interplanetary galactic defender to small-town family farmer, the only real trace of his past the two boomerang shaped marks framing the outer corners of his eyes and the spattered patches of scar tissue on his back.
“Look,” Lance sighs, dragging a hand through the front of his hair. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or the day after, or any time after that. I just need today to go smoothly.”
Rachel’s eyes soften a bit at that, the furrow of her brows flattening out. And Lance is sure, right then and there, that everything is at least 80% more likely to go well with her standing behind him.
“Alrighty, then,” she says, and steps forward to sling her arm around Lance’s shoulder, marching them both toward the door. “Operation ‘Convince Keith To Milk A Cow’ is officially a go.”
That was definitely not what Lance had been planning to call it, but oh well. You win some, you lose some.
And he was not going to lose this.