Work Text:
Lance knew he was in trouble the moment Allura smiled at him like that- soft, earnest, and just a little apologetic. It was the smile she used when she needed a favor and already knew it wasn’t going to be popular.
“You have the most free time on the ship right now,” she said gently, as if this were a neutral observation and not a personal attack. “And I would really appreciate your help.”
Her hand settled over his on the edge of the console, warm and steady, a quiet anchor meant to reassure him. Lance kept his smile in place out of long habit, even as it went a little stiff around the edges.
This was a bad idea.
He could feel it with the same certainty he felt right before a mission went sideways; an instinctive, bone-deep sense of don’t.
She continued explaining, something about efficiency and coordination and the importance of clear channels between Voltron and the Blade of Marmora.
Lance nodded in all the right places, tracked the sound of her voice, pretended not to notice the way his chest tightened at the mention of the Blade. At the mention of updates. Of reports.
Rerouting mission logs. Simple. Administrative. Boring.
His smile stayed fixed as the words slid into place, stacking themselves neatly into a shape he didn’t like. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought repeated itself, stubborn and unhelpful.
This is a bad idea.
But Allura was still looking at him, hopeful and trusting, and Lance had never been very good at saying no to that. He nodded once more, felt her hand squeeze his briefly in thanks, and told himself, firmly, that it was just data. Just words.
The Blade of Marmora.
Allura had said it like it was a concept. A collective. A title.
Lance didn’t think of it like that. He thought of one person.
Keith.
The thought hit him sharp and unwelcome, and his skin prickled as if his body had decided to react before his brain could stop it. He hadn’t meant to go there. He’d been trying very hard not to, to keep Keith filed away under resolved, under necessary, under not my problem anymore. Keith had left. Keith had made his choice. End of story.
Except apparently not, because now Lance was being asked to handle the paper trail of it.
He didn’t want to picture Keith out there, running missions that mattered. Moving with purpose. Making a difference in ways Lance could pretend he didn’t envy.
Keith, doing real work- the kind that didn’t come with speeches or photo ops or carefully curated victories. Keith, actually helping.
Meanwhile, Lance was here. Rerouting logs. Filing updates. Smiling for planets that needed hope more than strategy and telling himself that it counted for something. That he counted for something. That spreading the name of Voltron wasn’t just noise dressed up as heroism.
The thought sat ugly in his chest, heavy and familiar.
He flexed his fingers against the console, grounding himself, and forced his shoulders to loosen. This wasn’t about Keith. It couldn’t be. This was administrative. Necessary. Important, even. Someone had to keep things moving between the Blade and Voltron, and apparently that someone was him.
Still, the idea lingered, sharp-edged and persistent: Keith out there doing something worthwhile, while Lance stayed behind to make sure the paperwork arrived on time.
Lance exhaled through his nose and shook his head once.
Whatever. Fine. He could do this. He would do this.
Lance sighed, long and exaggerated, and snagged the datapad off the console before he could overthink it. If he was going to be stuck doing this, there was no universe in which he did it sitting upright at a desk. He flicked the screen dark and headed for his room, already rolling his shoulders loose.
He kicked the door shut behind him, tossed the datapad onto his bed, and followed it a second later, flopping back with a grunt of satisfaction. Logs were logs. Administrative. Boring. Entirely beneath him, but crucially, portable.
He propped the datapad against his knees and pulled up the backlog.
Mission report after mission report slid past in familiar cadence.
Yadda yadda. Successful engagement.
Yadda yadda. Civilian evacuation complete.
Yadda yadda. Planet saved, please clap for us.
Lance skimmed with practiced efficiency, fingers moving on autopilot as he tagged and rerouted. Planet AK398-2. Castle of Lions sign mark. Done. Next-
He blinked.
Then frowned.
Then leaned closer.
Signed.
K. Kogane.
“…Huh.” Lance sat up, more curious than anything else, eyes flicking back over the report. It was clean. Efficient. Dry. Exactly what you’d expect from Keith. He snorted, the corner of his mouth kicking up as the realization settled.
Well. Would you look at that.
Perfect, no-nonsense, sword-swinging Keith was stuck doing admin work too.
“Guess the Blade doesn’t get you out of paperwork,” Lance muttered, amused.
He read through it properly this time. Not because anything seemed off, but because he suddenly felt like it. He hummed along with the structure, noted the clipped phrasing, the lack of embellishment.
Yep. Definitely Keith.
Lance tapped through the reroute process and added a brief follow-up before he could talk himself out of it.
Rerouted.
No further action required.
He paused, staring at the screen. Then he chuckled, low and delighted, a distinctly evil sound, and added his signature with a flourish.
L. McClain
The message sent with a soft chime.
Lance laughed outright, dropping back against the pillows, datapad resting on his chest. “Ha!” he said to the empty room. “I saw you doing admin work, Keith. Suck on that!”
He thumbed the screen awake again and pulled up the next report.
His smile stalled.
K. Kogane.
“…Okay,” Lance said, squinting. He sat up again and flicked to the next file.
K. Kogane.
The one after that.
K. Kogane.
Lance flipped through the headers faster now. Date after date. Mission after mission. Same formatting. Same clipped precision. Same neat signature waiting at the bottom of every single report.
All of them Keith.
Huh.
The surprise lasted all of three seconds before something bright and wicked sparked behind Lance’s eyes. He leaned back against the headboard, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Well. This was interesting. Keith wasn’t just stuck doing admin work. Keith was apparently doing a lot of it. The same monotonous, thankless documentation Lance had just been drafted into. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor after all.
“Oh,” Lance murmured, already enjoying himself. “This is going to be fun.”
He adjusted the datapad into a more comfortable position, kicked his feet up, and started properly this time. No skimming. No half-reading. He worked through each report in detail, checking timestamps, verifying reroutes, flagging destinations with practiced ease.
This wasn’t a chore anymore.
This was a game.
And Lance had all the time in the universe to play it.
______
Time passed the way it always did aboard the Castle, measured in bruises, sweat, and the dull ache of muscles that never quite got a chance to rest.
Lance was currently measuring it by how hard Hunk could slam him into the mat. Hard, as it turned out. He hit the ground with a wheeze, the air punched clean out of his lungs, and lay there staring up at the ceiling for a second too long.
Somewhere above him, Hunk winced apologetically.
“Uh. You good, man?”
“Define good,” Lance groaned, rolling onto his side and rubbing at his cheek. “Because if we’re talking spiritually? Absolutely not.”
Before Hunk could reply, the doors slid open and Allura stepped into the training room, tablet tucked neatly under her arm. She took in the scene at a glance, Hunk hovering, Lance sprawled dramatically, and sighed fondly.
“Lance,” she said. “Have you finished today’s reports?”
Lance lifted a hand in a vague thumbs-up without fully sitting up. “Sure have, Princess. It’s not that hard.”
Allura nodded, visibly relieved. “Brilliant. If you’d like, I can make a rota, swap the task out between people so it doesn’t fall to just you.”
Lance waved the suggestion away immediately, pushing himself upright with Hunk’s help. “Nah, all good. Doesn’t take me long, and I don’t mind doing it.” He flashed her a grin. “Only for you, though.”
He punctuated it with an exaggerated wink.
Hunk groaned as he hauled Lance fully to his feet. “Every time,” he muttered.
Allura rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Well, thank you, Lance. They send updates quite regularly, so we’re still working through a backlog. I do wonder how they manage so many missions.” She tapped her tablet thoughtfully. “I suppose their sheer size helps. Either way, if it becomes unmanageable, or if you feel your training is suffering, please let me know.”
“Will do,” Lance said easily.
Satisfied, Allura gave them both a nod and headed back out.
From the sidelines, Pidge snorted, arms crossed. “You’re our admin now, Lance.”
Lance shot her a look, brushing sweat out of his eyes. “Laugh it up, Pidge. You’re up to spar with Hunk next.”
She just groaned and flopped down against the floor.
Lance sank down instead, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him as he picked up his datapad. The training room was still warm from sparring, the air heavy with the familiar mix of sweat and ozone. He thumbed the screen awake more out of habit than anything else.
Two new reports had come in.
He groaned lightly and let his head tip back against the wall. “Really,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in it. He had time. Might as well get them done now.
He opened the first report.
Yep. Sure enough.
Keith.
The formatting snapped into place immediately. Clean. Efficient. Exactly what he had come to expect. A smirk tugged at the corner of Lance’s mouth as he skimmed through, checked the routing, applied the Castle of Lions mark, and sent it along without hesitation. Routine.
He opened the next report, already settling into the rhythm.
Different planet. An unfamiliar designation. Lance slowed slightly as he read, attention sharpening. The structure was the same, still unmistakably Keith, but something caught his eye midway through. Not enough to stop him outright. Just enough to make him scroll back up.
There, between two perfectly standard lines, sat a sentence that did not belong.
Their ocean was blue.
Lance stared at it.
He blinked, then frowned faintly, reading it again. The sentence stayed exactly where it was. He scrolled to the bottom of the report, checking the signature.
K. Kogane.
Of course it was. He scrolled back up, eyes tracing the report from the beginning. Keith’s writing was usually precise to the point of austerity. No extra detail. No color. Nothing wasted.
That sentence had no tactical value at all.
Lance leaned his head back against the wall, gaze drifting as the words settled in his mind. The ocean was blue. The image came unbidden, bright and familiar. Sunlight on water. Salt in the air. Home.
He realized he was smiling and wiped it away with his thumb, mildly annoyed at himself.
Did Keith put that there on purpose?
Or was he just exhausted, running on too little sleep and too many missions, letting something slip through that shouldn’t have?
Lance exhaled softly and shook his head once. Either way, it wasn’t his problem.
He straightened, fingers moving with care as he rerouted the report, double-checking the destination and timestamp before adding the usual follow-up.
Report received.
No further action.
L.McClain.
The message sent with a quiet chime.
Lance stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary before locking the datapad and letting it rest against his thigh, the echo of that out-of-place sentence lingering just beneath the surface of his thoughts.
______
The chime pulled Lance out of his thoughts sometime later, soft but insistent in the quiet of his room.
He sighed into his pillow and rolled onto his back, staring up at the dim ceiling for a moment before reaching blindly for his datapad on the nightstand. The screen flared to life, flooding the room with light, and Lance squinted, groaning under his breath.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “I’m coming.”
One new report.
He unlocked the screen and opened it without much ceremony.
From Keith. Of course.
Lance shifted upright against the headboard, more awake now despite himself, and actually read the report this time instead of skimming. Colonies involved. Mission parameters. Extraction successful. Blade operatives listed by designation. Keith’s name was there, tucked neatly into the middle of the roster like it belonged.
The planet designation meant nothing to him. Somewhere far out, unfamiliar. Just another dot on a map he would probably never see.
He read every line anyway.
Not because anything seemed wrong. Just because he found himself looking for something, though he couldn’t have said what. When he reached the end without finding it, he exhaled slowly and scrolled down.
K. Kogane to Voltron’s new admin
Lance froze.
He stared at the words, then read them again. Voltron’s new admin. Casual. Dry. Intentional. Keith was acknowledging it now, plain as day.
A sharp bark of laughter escaped Lance before he could stop it. “Oh, real funny,” he muttered, sitting up straighter and pointedly ignoring the small, traitorous flutter in his chest.
He typed his response carefully, embedding it where it belonged, hidden neatly inside protocol.
Report received from Blade of Marmora long-running admin.
No further action required.
L. McClain
He smirked at the screen as he sent it off. Wicked, harmless fun. That was all this was.
Except his mind drifted back, uninvited, to that earlier line.
Their ocean was blue.
Lance hesitated.
He chewed lightly at his bottom lip, datapad warm in his hands, and before he could talk himself out of it, he opened a new outbound update. Official. Clean. Proper.
Mission update from Voltron:
Visited planet BDG67-T. Joined coalition after meeting with Princess Allura of Altea and Red Paladin Lance McClain.
He paused, fingers hovering.
Then added one more line.
The ocean was pink.
He sent it and set the datapad aside, heart thudding just a little too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke.
The screen lit up again almost immediately.
Lance grabbed it so fast it nearly slipped from his hands.
Report received from Red Paladin of Voltron.
Updated coalition logs.
K. Kogane
Lance let out a breath, equal parts relieved and embarrassed. Of course. The ocean comment meant nothing. Obviously.
He shook his head at himself and started to settle back against the pillows.
The datapad buzzed again.
He stiffened.
Further notes: Planet BDG67-T now also under BOM protection.
And their pink oceans.
Lance stopped breathing.
He stared at the screen, the words blurring for a moment before snapping back into focus. A breathy laugh slipped out of him, soft and disbelieving, his hand tightening around the datapad.
Keith was talking to him.
Really talking to him after so long.
Nobody had heard from Keith like this since he left. Not properly. Not beyond the occasional fractured video log when the stars lined up just right. And here he was, tucked into the margins of official reports, sending color back where it didn’t belong.
Lance pressed the datapad to his chest and laughed again, quieter this time, the sound curling into the dark of his room like a secret.
“Well,” he murmured to no one at all.
“That’s new.” He set the datapad down carefully on the nightstand, as if any sudden movement might break whatever fragile sense of normal he’d managed to build. Then he lay back and stared up at the ceiling, letting the low hum of the Castle seep into the room around him.
Keith.
Annoying, infuriating Keith.
Somewhere out there in the perceivable universe, Keith was sitting in a ship or a base or a borrowed corner of space, doing the exact same thing Lance had just done. Writing reports. Filing updates. Slipping messages into places they didn’t belong.
This was ridiculous.
Lance rolled onto his side and tugged the blanket up, pointedly not thinking about how long it had been since anyone had really heard from Keith. Not thinking about how easy it had been to read those words and know they were meant for him.
It didn’t mean anything.
He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face into the pillow, and forced his thoughts somewhere safer.
Eventually, sleep crept up on him anyway, quiet and unremarkable, and Lance let it take him before he could change his mind.
_____
Lunch was loud in the way it always was when everyone was actually in the same place at the same time.
Shiro was mid-sentence across the table, explaining something about patrol routes and fuel efficiency to Allura, who listened with the patient focus of someone already three steps ahead. Lance only half paid attention, poking at the food on his tray with a fork and making a face.
“This is definitely worse than yesterday,” he declared.
“That’s what you said yesterday,” Pidge shot back without looking up.
Hunk sighed dramatically. “I will cook soon, okay? I swear. Just not today.”
Lance’s head snapped up. “Today would be great, actually.”
“Can’t,” Hunk said apologetically. “Pidge and I are heading out on a supply run this afternoon. We’ll grab what we can, but I won’t have time to cook properly until a few days from now.”
Lance groaned and slumped back in his chair. “Why do I never get to go on supply runs?”
Allura glanced over, amused. “Because Hunk and Pidge need to test the planets for any signs of life while they’re out there.”
Lance hummed, unconvinced. “I could do that.”
Pidge finally looked up, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “Lance. If you can show me how to use the particle tester, I’ll let you drive my Lion.”
There was a beat.
Lance groaned louder and dropped his forehead to the table with a dull thud. “Fine. Fine. I get it.”
He lifted his head just enough to look at Allura. “So what am I doing this afternoon, then?”
Allura shrugged lightly. “Whatever you’d like. If the reports are all caught up, you’re welcome to help Coran with cleaning the pods.”
Lance made a noise somewhere between a whine and a plea and let his head fall back onto the table.
“Great,” he muttered. “Fantastic. Living the dream.”
Hunk leaned over and patted his back reassuringly.
Somewhere in the back of Lance’s mind, uninvited and persistent, a thought slipped through.
Bet Keith was doing something worthwhile.
The days settled into something like a rhythm after that.
Reports came in at odd hours, sometimes stacked neatly at the start of Lance’s shift, sometimes blinking into existence long after he should have been asleep. Lance told himself he didn’t notice the timing. Didn’t clock the patterns. Didn’t start checking the comms console before he checked anything else.
It was just part of the job.
Administrative. Predictable.
Mostly.
He handled them wherever he happened to be. On his bed, datapad balanced against his knee. On the floor of the training room between sparring sessions, sweat cooling on his skin as he caught his breath. Once at the mess table, until Pidge kicked his shin and told him to stop smiling at official documentation.
The reports stayed consistent. Efficient. Precise. Keith, through and through.
Mission objective completed.
Hostile resistance minimal.
Coalition assets secured.
Rerouted.
Castle of Lions mark applied.
No further action required.
Lance got fast at it. Faster than he needed to be. He stopped skimming and started reading, even when there was no reason to. He learned the cadence of Keith’s writing, which phrases repeated and which never did. Learned which missions had been rough by how bare the summaries were. Learned which ones had gone late by the delay in filing.
And sometimes, tucked neatly where no one else would look, there were lines that did not belong.
Blade team split into pairs.
Entry point secured.
Avoided ventilation shafts this time.
Lance snorted the first time he saw one of those, quick and surprised. He glanced around, half expecting someone to be watching him react, then went back to the screen, lips pressed together to contain a grin.
He never replied to those lines directly.
Except when he did.
Coalition meeting concluded.
No further hostilities observed.
Did not crash any diplomatic events.
That one earned him a quiet laugh and a muttered, “Hey. That only happened once.”
Keith never acknowledged the jokes outright. But the next report might reference split-second timing that felt familiar. Or a maneuver Lance had taught him years ago. Or a dry comment about marksmanship that Lance recognized immediately as praise.
The universe continued as normal around it.
Still, Lance’s datapad was always close at hand.
Still, he noticed when a report came in earlier than usual.
Still, he felt the small, unreasonable satisfaction of seeing the same signature waiting at the bottom of the screen.
K. Kogane.
Reports. Routine. Except that somewhere along the way, the margins between official lines had started to feel like a shared language.
Lance sat on the edge of his bed, datapad warm in his hands, reviewing the report one last time. New planet designation. Coalition status updated. Diplomatic meeting successful. All clean. All correct.
He bit at his lower lip, hesitating just long enough to be annoying, then scrolled back up and added the final section.
Voltron Green and Yellow Paladin out on supply run and searching for signs of life.
Black and Blue Paladin handling coalition meeting and strategy.
Red Paladin on reports.
He stared at the lines longer than necessary. It felt stupid to include. Unnecessary. He almost deleted it. Instead, he sighed and sent it anyway. He waited.
The reply came sooner than he expected.
Report of Voltron being broken up temporarily received. Alerted higher ups to avoid distress calls.
All paladins are busy. Working to stop the Galra takeover.
No further action required.
Lance frowned and read it again, slower this time.
All paladins are busy.
The words sat wrong.
Because clearly, Lance was not.
The realization hit all at once, sharp enough that he froze, datapad clutched loosely in his hands.
Was Keith trying to… comfort him?
The thought lingered, quiet and impossible to ignore.
Lance swallowed, set the datapad aside, and stared at nothing.
“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured.
But the words didn’t quite convince him.
____
The next report came in like all the others.
Standard formatting. Familiar cadence. Lance opened it without ceremony, eyes moving easily over the lines as he skimmed.
Mission objective completed.
Galra resistance neutralized.
Supply routes secured.
Coalition assets unharmed.
Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
Keith back in his lane, efficient and exacting as ever. Lance relaxed a fraction without realizing he had tensed in the first place.
He scrolled.
Reached the bottom.
Paused.
There, tucked neatly beneath the signature and routing metadata, sat a single line marked as a footnote.
Galra fighters could benefit from firearm training from Red Paladin of Voltron.
Lance stared at it.
Not long. Just long enough for the words to register fully, for the implication to settle somewhere low and unwelcome in his chest. He scoffed quietly and shook his head, lips twitching despite himself.
“Oh, absolutely not,” he muttered.
He rerouted the report with practiced ease and added his response beneath it. Short. Professional. Dismissive in exactly the way protocol allowed.
Report received.
Rerouted.
Red Paladin is rusty due to lack of missions. Denied.
No further action needed.
He sent it before he could reconsider, before he could soften the wording or acknowledge the small, traitorous thrill that followed. The datapad chimed softly as the message logged.
Lance leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, expression carefully neutral.
A few minutes passed.
Then the datapad chimed again. He frowned and picked it up, expecting another routine update. Instead, a new report resolved onto the screen.
Keith. Again.
It was shorter this time. Bare-bones. Almost aggressively normal.
Mission status unchanged.
Training schedules ongoing.
No immediate coalition concerns.
Lance scrolled to the bottom. Signed.
K. Kogane- Worth a try.
Lance stared at the words, breath catching before he could stop it. A quiet, incredulous laugh slipped out as he scrubbed a hand over his face.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.
But he didn’t delete the report. He just sat there for a long moment, datapad warm in his hands, the corners of his mouth betraying him.
The weeks that followed slipped by almost without Lance noticing, measured less by missions and more by the steady exchange of reports that passed quietly between him and Keith.
They were careful.
Nothing that couldn’t be explained away as context. Nothing that lingered too long in one place. A sentence here. A footnote there. Just enough for recognition.
Keith started it, mostly. Small things at first.
Local resistance minimal.
Terrain navigable.
Did not take the long way around this time.
Lance caught it mid-scroll and shook his head, lips twitching as he rerouted the file. He answered in kind.
Coalition meeting concluded.
No further hostilities observed.
You still would have complained about the stairs.
That earned him a quiet laugh and a muttered, “Hey. Now that's just rude.”
Keith never acknowledged the jokes outright. But the next report might reference split-second timing that felt familiar. Or a maneuver Lance had taught him years ago. Or a dry comment about marksmanship that Lance recognized as praise.
Some days the messages were practical.
Confirmed all Blade operatives accounted for.
And Lance replied, equally careful.
Voltron team likewise intact. No casualties.
Other days they were lighter.
Supplies secured.
Food was… adequate.
Lance responded without thinking.
Adequate? High praise from you.
They traded impressions of planets in fragments.
Atmosphere stable.
You would have liked the view.
Lance never replied to those directly. He just tucked his answers into the next available space.
Coalition established on first contact.
Locals friendly.
The sky was the wrong color.
They checked in without ever asking outright. Concern disguised as verification. Reassurance phrased as logistics.
The reports kept coming. The rhythm held.
Somewhere between rerouting files and signing his name, Lance realized he had stopped dreading the chime altogether.
Now, when it sounded, he smiled before he even opened the screen.
Lance was halfway through rerouting a report when a voice spoke behind him.
“Lance?”
He jumped, nearly fumbling the datapad as he ducked it down against his side and turned far too quickly.
Allura paused mid-step, eyes widening. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” Lance said immediately. Too fast. He plastered on a grin. “You just caught me multitasking.”
She glanced at the datapad, then back at him. “I wanted to check in. Are the Blade reports becoming too much? I can easily distribute the responsibility among the team.”
Lance shook his head at once. “No. No, it’s fine. I like doing them.”
That earned him a look.
Allura raised one eyebrow, mouth quirking. “You like administrative work? I find them dreadfully boring.”
Lance waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. It’s interesting. Seeing what they get up to.”
The lie slid out easily.
Allura studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well. If you’re happy to continue, I’ll leave it with you. Just let me know if it becomes too much extra responsibility.”
“Will do,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I can do much else anyway.”
Allura frowned, concern flickering across her face, but Lance waved her off.
“I’m gonna hit the training deck,” he added, already turning away. “Work off all this… thrilling excitement.”
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t think about why he was keeping this to himself.
He just knew he wasn’t ready to give it up.
___
The next report came in while Lance was stretched out on the training deck floor, cooling down after drills, sweat still clinging to the back of his neck.
The familiar chime sounded, soft and routine, and he reached for his datapad without looking.
He opened it.
And stopped.
The formatting was right. The structure was correct. The mission details were thorough and precise in the way Blade reports always were.
The signature was not.
Lance frowned, pushing himself up onto one elbow and scrolling back to the top of the file, then down again.
Different name. “…Huh.”
He sat up fully, confusion settling in as he reread the report, searching for something he might have missed. Maybe Keith had delegated. Maybe this one had come through a different channel. That happened sometimes.
Probably.
He rerouted it anyway, fingers moving automatically, and sent it on its way with the usual mark.
Then he waited.
Not deliberately, at first. He told himself he was just catching his breath, that he’d get up in a second. The datapad rested in his hand, screen dimming as the seconds ticked by.
Another chime.
Lance straightened immediately.
He opened the new report.
Not Keith.
His brow furrowed as he scrolled through it. Another Blade operative. Another clean, competent summary. Nothing wrong with it at all.
Except.
“Okay,” Lance muttered, tapping the edge of the datapad against his knee. “That’s weird.”
He checked the timestamps. The sequencing. The routing history. Everything lined up. The Blade was active. Missions were ongoing.
So where was Keith?
Was he busy? On a longer operation, maybe. That happened. Lance exhaled, trying to shake the creeping unease. Did he get a day off? The thought barely formed before he dismissed it.
Blades didn’t get days off.
Lance stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary, then locked the datapad and set it aside, telling himself it was nothing. Just a shift in assignment. Temporary.
Still, he found himself listening more closely for the next chime.
The next day found Lance sitting on the edge of his bed, datapad balanced loosely in his hands, one heel bouncing against the floor in a soft, restless rhythm.
He scrolled.
One report.
Then another.
Then another.
Four in total.
All from someone else.
Different names. Different writing styles. All competent. All correct. None of them wrong in any way that mattered.
Lance flicked back through them anyway, as if Keith’s signature might suddenly appear if he looked hard enough, tucked into a corner he had somehow missed.
It didn’t.
He let the datapad rest against his thigh, fingers tightening slightly around the edge. His foot kept bouncing, faster now, the movement unconscious.
Maybe it was nothing. A reassignment. A rotation. Temporary duty elsewhere. Keith had never said he would be the one filing every report forever.
Lance knew that
Still. Four reports.
He swallowed and leaned back, staring at the far wall without really seeing it.
Should he… tell someone?
Allura, maybe. She would know if something had changed. If Keith had been reassigned. If this was normal.
His foot stuttered, then resumed bouncing.
Lance pictured the words forming in his mouth. Hey, the Blade reports aren’t coming from Keith anymore. Casual. Easy. Like it didn’t matter.
The datapad felt heavier in his hands.
He huffed out a breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t be dramatic,” he muttered.
He locked the screen and set the datapad aside, fingers lingering for a moment before he pulled away.
Not yet.
He could wait one more report.
Just to be sure.
___
Blaster fire cracked across the open stretch of wasteland, sharp and echoing, kicking up plumes of dust where shots struck the ground.
Lance sprinted hard, boots pounding against packed earth as he cut between the rusted remains of abandoned structures, breath coming faster than he liked.
“Lance!” Shiro’s voice barked through the headset. “Fall in! You said you could handle them!”
Lance swore under his breath and vaulted over a low barrier, nearly clipping his shoulder on the way down. “Well I obviously thought I could, no?” he shot back, breathless, ducking an incoming strike and spinning on his heel. His blaster went off twice in quick succession, dropping two rogue Galra before they could close the distance.
The shots weren’t as clean as usual.
That annoyed him more than the fact that more were already moving in. He skidded to a stop behind a half-crushed cargo crate and pressed his back against it, chest heaving as another volley sparked against the metal edge. Lance glanced down at his blaster, adjusted his grip, and frowned.
Too slow.
His hands felt sluggish, like they were moving a half-second behind where his brain wanted them to be.
“Status?” Shiro demanded.
“Working on it,” Lance muttered, peeking out just long enough to fire again. The bolt went wide.
He cursed and ducked back down, heart hammering. “They’ve got numbers, okay? And they’re way more annoying than advertised.”
“Lance, pull back,” Shiro said, sharper now. “You’re overextended.”
“I’m fine,” Lance insisted automatically.
He rolled to the side as a heavy blow cracked the crate where his head had been a second earlier. He scrambled up, threw a punch that landed but lacked its usual force, and felt the jolt run painfully up his arm.
Not fine.
He ducked again, breath ragged, vision swimming at the edges. Sleep had been optional lately. Broken. Shallow. He’d told himself it was nothing.
Another shot glanced off the ground near his feet. Lance hissed and pressed his forehead briefly against the crate, eyes squeezed shut. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay, okay.”
He pushed back out into the open with a shout, firing as he ran. Momentum carried him forward even when his body lagged behind. A blast clipped his shoulder, barely deflected by his armor, and he stumbled, catching himself at the last second.
“Lance. Now,” Shiro said, low and tight.
Lance gritted his teeth and fell back, retreating toward the others with less grace than usual. He slid into cover near the team, breathing hard, pulse roaring in his ears.
He didn’t look at anyone.
Didn’t joke.
Didn’t say anything at all.
As the fighting shifted, Lance checked his comms out of habit more than hope. No new messages. He locked the screen and shoved the thought aside.
Focus. He raised his blaster again and stepped back into the fight. Lance popped up from behind cover and fired.
Too slow.
“Lance!” Pidge slammed into him from the side, knocking him hard out of the way as a blast tore through the space where his head had been. He hit the ground shoulder-first, dust filling his mouth. “Get with it!” Pidge shouted, already moving.
Lance barely had time to push himself up before a Galra tackled her from behind. The impact sent them both skidding. Pidge snarled, twisted, and drove her palm into its chest.
Electricity cracked. The Galra convulsed and went still.
Pidge stood, breathing hard.
Lance stared at her a beat too long.
Anger flared, sudden, sharp.
No. He thought. Not at Pidge.
Never at Pidge. At himself. At the slip. At the fact that she’d had to cover for him at all. “Sorry,” he muttered, already moving.
The rest of the fight passed quickly after that.
By the time they regrouped at their Lions, the adrenaline had burned itself out, leaving only exhaustion. Lance climbed into his Lion without a word. He gave clipped confirmations over comms, offered nothing extra. No jokes. No commentary. The channel felt too loud anyway.
Finally, Shiro exhaled. “Okay. Not our best run. Team meeting back at the Castle. Everyone present.” Lance said nothing as the Lion lifted off.
The hangar doors hadn’t fully sealed before Lance yanked his helmet off and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the far wall, spinning once before skidding to a stop.
Lance didn’t wait to see who noticed.
He stalked toward the briefing room, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he was holding something back by force alone.
Shiro stood at the table, hands braced against it, breathing slow and deliberate.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s talk about what went wrong out there.” Lance didn’t sit.
He laughed; sharp, humorless and dragged a hand through his hair. “It was me,” he said flatly. “I’m what went wrong.” Every head turned.
“We don’t need a whole meeting where we pretend it was everyone,” Lance continued, words spilling faster now. “You might as well be talking to me directly.” Silence pressed in.
Shiro straightened. “Everyone,” he said evenly, “fall out. Lance, let’s chat.” Pidge and Hunk hesitated, eyes flicking back to Lance. Pidge frowned, like she was missing a piece of a puzzle. Hunk just looked worried. Allura moved quietly between them, resting a gentle hand on each of their shoulders.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Give them some space.”
They let themselves be steered out, though both glanced back once more before the doors slid shut behind them.
The room felt too large with just the two of them in it.
Lance stood rigid, arms crossed tight over his chest, staring anywhere but at Shiro as the hum of the Castle filled the silence. Whatever he’d been holding together all day was fraying fast now, threads pulled too tight.
Shiro watched him for a moment. “Sit down,” he said gently. Lance didn’t.
He shook his head sharply when Shiro gestured again. “I’m not sitting,” he said. “This isn’t a heart-to-heart.”
Shiro’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer. “Lance,” he said carefully, “are you… okay?”
The question hit too close. Lance barked out a laugh, sharp and brittle. “I’m fine. I just clearly fucked up.” He paced a short line across the room, hand dragging through his hair. “Just tell me what went wrong. I’ll acknowledge it, we’ll fix it, and we can move on.” Shiro didn’t answer right away.
He watched Lance instead, eyes tracking the restless movement, the tension that didn’t bleed off no matter how much Lance moved.
“Lance,” Shiro said finally, voice low, “have you slept?”
Lance scoffed. “Yes. I’ve slept.”
Too fast. Shiro tilted his head, gaze narrowing. After a beat, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You haven’t.”
Lance groaned and scrubbed his hands down his face. “Shiro, I don’t need a lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing,” Shiro replied. “I’m worried.”
“Great,” Lance said, laughing without humor. “Add that to the list.”
Shiro sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Lance,” he said, softer now, “you’re acting like Keith.”
The name landed like a blow.
Lance froze.
Keith.
The long nights. The broken sleep. The constant low-grade tension. The way everything felt half a step out of sync.
No. Absolutely not.
He turned for the door. “I’m done. I need air.”
He took one step.
Shiro caught his wrist.
“Lance,” Shiro said gently, though his grip was anything but, “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”
Lance looked at him.
For half a second, he almost did.
Then the thought cut through it, cold and grounding.
This was Keith’s brother.
He couldn’t put this on him when he didn’t even understand it himself.
Lance pulled his hand free and stepped back. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. Safer.
“I just…” He exhaled sharply, then laughed. “I feel like Voltron isn’t even about anything anymore.”
Shiro blinked. “What?”
“What are we doing?” Lance said, spreading his hands. “We parade around like ‘oh look, it’s Voltron,’ but all we’re really doing is surviving. Reacting. There’s no plan.” He laughed again, wild at the edges. “I’d rather be back on Earth. Let someone else deal with this.”
Shiro stared at him.
Lance kept going. “We show up, we scare people, we leave. That’s it. We’re not rebuilding. We’re not fixing anything long-term.”
“That’s not fair-” Shiro started.
“It is,” Lance cut in. “Because I read the Blade reports. All of them.” He laughed, breathless. “They’re everywhere, Shiro. Disrupting supply lines. Pulling people out before the Galra even get there. They’re doing things.”
He turned back, frustration etched deep into his face. “And we’re what? Playing house in the Castle?”
Shiro blinked. “Lance.”
“I’m serious,” Lance said. “I’d rather be out there actually making a difference than pretending this is enough. Than pretending I’m useful.”
Shiro caught that instantly. “Useful?”
Lance waved it off. “You know what I mean.”
Shiro studied him. “This isn’t about the mission today.”
“No kidding.”
“And it’s not about Earth,” Shiro continued.
Lance didn’t answer.
“It sounds like,” Shiro said slowly, “you might be feeling… left behind.”
Lance stared at him.
“Wow,” he said flatly. “You really think you’ve got it all figured out.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Shiro replied. “I’m trying to-”
“No,” Lance snapped. “You’re deciding. And you’re wrong.”
Shiro held his gaze. “Then tell me what I’m missing.”
For half a second, Lance almost did.
Then he shook his head.
“Forget it.”
He turned for the door.
“Lance-”
“I’m done,” Lance said. “I don’t need this.”
He shoved the door open and stormed into the hallway. Everyone was there.
“Lance, what happened?” Pidge asked.
Hunk stepped forward. “Hey, man-” Lance groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“Did you all get your fill?” Hurt stretches across his friends faces.
"Lance,” Hunk said gently. “Come on, let’s-”
“Not now.”
Lance yanked his chest plate loose mid-stride and slammed it onto the floor. Metal rang sharply down the corridor.
“Just leave it,” he said, voice tight. “All of it. All of you.”
He turned the corner and was gone, boots pounding hard against the floor. Shiro stood there a moment after the echo faded, shoulders sagging. He pushed the door open. Pidge was already glaring at him.
“What did you say?” she demanded. Shiro blinked, caught off guard.
“I just asked if he was sleeping,” he said, hands lifting slightly in a helpless gesture. “I tried to figure out what was wrong and I-”
He trailed off, rubbing at the side of his face with a tired hand as the frustration settled in. “I don’t know. I thought I was helping.”
Pidge huffed, arms crossed tight. “Well, congrats. He stormed off.”
Hunk shifted awkwardly beside her, glancing down the hall where Lance had vanished. “I’ve never seen him like that.”
Shiro followed his gaze, eyes lingering on the empty stretch of corridor. The absence felt louder than it should have. Lance’s usual energy. The constant chatter. The jokes, the flirting, the unearned confidence he wore like armor. None of it had been there today.
“I think,” Shiro said slowly, choosing his words with care, “Lance might be feeling a bit… out of the loop.”
Allura frowned. “Out of the loop?”
“He keeps talking like he’s not doing anything that matters,” Shiro said quietly. “Like he’s watching everyone else move while he’s standing still.”
They fell silent, all of them watching the hallway as if Lance might reappear any second, all sharp smiles and forced humor. But the corridor stayed empty.
Pidge’s glare softened into something closer to worry. “That’s not like him.”
“No,” Hunk agreed. “Not at all.”
Shiro exhaled again, heavier this time. “We’ll give him space,” he said. “For now.” Even as he said it, his eyes stayed fixed on the path Lance had taken, unease curling low in his chest. Because whatever was going on with Lance, it was not something any of them had seen before.
The control room was dim at this hour, lit mostly by the low glow of consoles and the steady pulse of stars sliding past the viewport.
Lance leaned against one of the tables, datapad in hand, thumb scrolling through the day’s logs with mechanical precision.
No new reports from Keith.
He frowned and scrolled again, as if the name might appear if he gave it another pass. It didn’t. Just the usual rotation of Blade operatives. Clean signatures. Efficient summaries.
Lance locked the screen with a soft huff and set the datapad down.
Then, almost immediately, picked it back up again.
“Come on,” he muttered.
He reached out and absently adjusted one of the control sliders on the table, nudging it up and down without really looking, then switched over to the comms history. Last contact with the Blade. Last confirmed transmission. He skimmed timestamps, eyes narrowing as he traced the gaps.
He didn’t even know why this was bothering him so much.
He hadn’t cared when Keith left for the Blade. He’d been annoyed, sure. Hurt, maybe. But he’d understood it. He’d made his peace with it.
Right?
Lance scoffed quietly and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Okay. That was a lie. Definitely a lie.
The datapad chimed softly as another system update rolled in. Lance glanced at it out of habit more than hope.
Still nothing. He leaned back against the table and stared out at the stars beyond the viewport, jaw tight. He hadn’t been this keyed up over Keith in months. He’d adjusted. He’d moved on
So why did it feel like something important had slipped just out of reach again? Lance exhaled, slow and shaky, and forced himself to look back down at the datapad.
This was bothering him more than he was willing to admit.
Footsteps echoed softly across the floor, uneven and a little rushed. Lance didn’t look up, but he felt the presence before the voice came.
“Hey,” Hunk said gently. He slowed as he approached, a little out of breath. “It’s just me. Everyone else is giving you some space to wind down.”
Lance let out a sharp breath through his nose but didn’t answer. He flicked through the Blade logs instead, scrolling faster now, eyes skimming signatures and timestamps with growing impatience.
Looking for one name.
Not finding it.
Hunk noticed, of course. He always did. He chose a seat nearby, careful with the distance. Close enough to be there. Far enough not to crowd.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asked quietly. Lance shook his head, jaw clenched.
Hunk nodded once, accepting it without comment. A few seconds passed.
“Okay,” he said. “What’re you up to, then?”
Lance froze mid-scroll.
The question wasn’t invasive. It wasn’t loaded. It was just Hunk, trying to be present in the only way he knew how. And Lance hated himself a little for the way he’d been shutting him out. He stared down at the datapad, the screen blurring slightly.
Of all people. Hunk. His best friend. The guilt settled heavy in his chest.
“Damn it,” Lance muttered.
He locked the datapad and stood abruptly, turning toward Hunk. Hunk barely had time to react before Lance crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. Lance let his head drop onto Hunk’s shoulder, the tension finally giving way all at once.
“Oh,” Hunk breathed, immediately standing and hugging him back, arms firm and steady. He held on like Lance might shatter if he loosened his grip.
“Hey,” Hunk whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
Lance nodded against his shoulder, the motion small and uneven. His throat burned as he pressed his face into the familiar fabric of Hunk’s jacket. Hunk’s hand moved slowly up and down his back.
“I’m sorry,” Lance murmured.
Hunk tightened his hold just a fraction. “You don’t have to be.”
But Lance stayed there anyway.
Hunk’s hands kept moving, grounding and patient, until the tension in Lance’s shoulders eased just enough for the shaking to become noticeable instead of overwhelming.
Hunk glanced down, eyes flicking briefly to the datapad Lance had dropped on the table. He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t crowd.
“What’s happening with the Blade?” he asked gently.
Lance let out a long sigh, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against Hunk’s chest.
“So much,” he said quietly. “Everything. All of it.”
Hunk nodded like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah,” he said. “They’re pretty hardcore.”
Then, carefully, “Kinda wild to think Keith’s all up in that.”
Lance froze.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
Just enough that Hunk felt it.
Hunk’s hands stilled for half a second before resuming their slow, steady motion. He hesitated, then swallowed.
“Is Keith… mentioned at all?” he asked carefully.
Lance shook his head, the movement small. Almost embarrassed. Hunk sighed, the sound easy and reassuring.
“Ah. Well, that’s probably good,” he said. “Means he’s busy kicking some Galra ass, right?”
Lance didn’t answer. His fingers curled into the fabric of Hunk’s jacket, trembling now that he wasn’t trying so hard to hide it. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, words sticking somewhere behind his teeth.
The datapad chimed.
Lance startled and reached for it instantly, pulling back from Hunk as he opened the screen with practiced speed. His shoulders sagged almost immediately.
Another Blade report.
Another unfamiliar name.
He sighed, long and quiet, and locked the screen again. Hunk watched him for a second, then gently guided him down to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He didn’t say anything. Lance stared at the datapad resting in his hands, fingers unsteady. Whatever was happening with the Blade, whatever was happening with Keith, it wasn’t as simple as Lance had been pretending. Hunk reached out slowly and took the datapad from Lance’s hands before he could pull away. He didn’t look at the screen. He just set it aside and turned fully toward him, expression open and patient.
“Lance,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”
Something in his voice did it. The calm. The certainty that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Lance swallowed hard, staring at the floor. He debated it for a few seconds too long.
“I’ve been… speaking to Keith,” he whispered finally. Hunk’s eyes widened a little. Then he smiled, bright and genuine.
“Oh! That’s great. How is he? We haven’t heard from him in so long."
The smile lingered.
Then he really looked at Lance.
“Lance?” he said carefully. Lance’s resolve collapsed.
“We’ve been talking through mission logs,” he said, words rushing now. “He’s been hiding messages for me in them. Checking in. Joking. Just… talking.” His voice shook. “He did every single report for three weeks. Every one.”
Hunk nodded, listening.
“And then he stopped,” Lance went on, breath hitching. “He’s not doing them anymore. It’s been days.”
Hunk tilted his head. “Okay?”
“Okay?” Lance said, voice breaking. “Hunk, it’s radio silence.”
Hunk nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah. I get that.” He hesitated. “But… could he not just be busy?”
Lance dragged his hands into his hair. “Yes. He could be. That’s the problem.” He laughed, strained. “What if he’s not? What if something’s wrong?” His voice wavered. “We were talking every day. And now it’s just… gone.”
“I can’t help feeling like-”
“Okay,” Hunk said softly, leaning in just enough to ground him. “Lance. Stop for a second.”
Lance froze.
“Breathe,” Hunk murmured. “You’re spiraling. And I’m right here.” Lance swallowed, nodded once, and tried. Hunk stayed quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Keith is probably fine,” he said gently. “You know how he gets. He overworks until someone makes him stop.”
Lance groaned and tipped his head back. “That’s exactly what I’m scared of.”
Hunk nodded, like that made sense. A small smile tugged at his mouth.
“It’s… nice. That you care this much.” He glanced sideways. “We all kinda thought you were glad when he left.”
Lance shook his head slowly.
“No. It wasn’t okay.” His voice dropped. “I’m the reason he left.”
Hunk’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“I was going to leave,” Lance said. “Voltron. When Shiro got back.” Hunk stilled.
“I told Keith,” Lance continued. “I said I didn’t think I fit anymore. That I felt like an extra.” He swallowed. “He told me I was needed. That there’d be a Lion for me.”
He laughed softly. “And then he leaves.”
His voice dropped to almost nothing.
“Feels like he took my place.”
Hunk grabbed Lance’s arm immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“He left because he found his place,” Hunk said firmly. “Because he found answers. That was his choice. Not yours.”
Lance stared down at Hunk’s hand.
“It just lines up too well,” he muttered.
“Correlation isn’t causation,” Hunk said gently. Lance leaned back, exhaustion finally catching up.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” he said quietly. “I can’t function. I’m just… stressed.” He looked at Hunk. “Don’t tell anyone. Shiro will worry.”
Hunk nodded. “Okay.”
He leaned back and opened his arms. “Power nap. I’m a good cuddler.”
Lance snorted softly, then curled into him anyway. “You’re the best,” Lance murmured. “I’m sorry.”
Hunk stroked his hair. “I think you needed that today.”
Lance huffed. “Rude.” Hunk chuckled.
____
Lance lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The Castle hummed softly around him, a constant, distant presence that usually helped him sleep. Tonight, it did nothing. His thoughts kept looping back to the same place no matter how hard he tried to steer them elsewhere. Five further reports.
None from Keith.
He swallowed and turned his head slightly, eyes tracking the faint line of light where the door met the floor. Guilt crept in next, unwelcome but persistent. The way he’d snapped. The way he’d stormed off. How everyone had been left standing there, confused and worried, because he couldn’t get a grip on himself for one bad day.
He had woken up tangled with Hunk and Pidge, warmth and weight anchoring him back to the world. He’d apologized immediately, words tumbling out before he was even fully awake. Pidge had groaned, shoved his shoulder, and told him to shut up and forget about it.
That had helped.
A little.
Lance sighed and swung his legs off the bed, feet hitting the cool floor. Lying there wasn’t doing him any favors. He pulled himself up and slipped out into the hallway, letting the door slide shut quietly behind him. The Castle was mostly dark, corridors lit only by the soft glow of standby panels. Lance wandered without much direction, hands shoved into his sleeves, until he noticed a faint light spilling out from the kitchen. Someone was awake.
He hesitated, then headed toward it. Shiro sat at the table, shoulders slumped slightly, a glass of water in front of him. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than lack of sleep, eyes unfocused as he stared down at the surface of the table. Lance cleared his throat softly. Shiro looked up so fast his chair scraped back.
“Lance! I-”
Lance lifted a hand immediately. “Please don’t.” He winced. “I should probably apologize.”
Shiro shook his head at once. “No. Don’t.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s my fault for pushing. For trying to diagnose and-”
“No, you were right,” Lance said quietly, already moving toward the counter.
Shiro blinked. “I was?”
Lance filled a glass with water, staring at the stream a second too long.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do feel a bit useless.”
The words sat between them.
He turned and took the seat across from Shiro, fingers curling around the glass. Shiro didn’t interrupt.
“I got defensive,” Lance went on. “That’s on me. I’m just… angry about it.” He huffed. “Which is super attractive, I know.”
Shiro almost smiled.
“I mean-” Lance stopped himself, shaking his head. “Nope. Too late to spiral now. I’ll work on it.”
He leaned back, shoulders lowering as the tension eased in small increments. They sat in silence for a few beats. Then Lance spoke again, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
“How do you think he is?”
Shiro turned his head. “Who?” Lance hesitated, thumb tracing the rim of his glass.
“Keith.”
“Oh,” Shiro said softly. His expression gentled. “I’m sure he’s doing us all proud.”
Lance nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
Shiro stared ahead for a moment, then inhaled slowly. “I miss him.”
The words landed heavier than Lance expected.
“Yeah,” Lance said quietly. “I… I think I really do too.”
Shiro looked at him, surprised. “You do?”
Lance let out a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
He stared down at the table. “Does he get off on making us worry?” he asked bitterly. “Because that feels like something he’d deny while absolutely doing by accident.”
Shiro huffed softly.
“We can’t see him,” Lance went on. “We can’t check his vitals. We can’t stick him in a pod and pretend everything’s fine.” His fingers tightened. “We just wait.”
“And I hate just waiting. Waiting to hear that he ran blind into something he shouldn't have. That we're getting him back but not alive.”
His voice softened. “My sparring’s been garbage. I keep missing beats. And it’s stupid, but if he were here, he’d call me out on it. Or tell me to stop overthinking and just shoot.”
Lance laughed weakly.
“He was kind of my partner. My rival. The guy who always knew when I was bluffing.” He leaned forward and dropped his forehead onto the table.
“And now he’s just… gone.”
Shiro stayed quiet, letting it land.
Eventually, Lance lifted his head. “Sorry. That was a lot.”
“It was needed,” Shiro said.
After a moment, Lance asked quietly, “Do you think he’ll come back?”
Shiro looked away, fingers tapping the table.
“I don’t know,” he said. “To stay? No. I don’t think he will.” Lance nodded once.
“But,” Shiro added, meeting his eyes, “I don’t think you’ll never see him again. Talk to him. Tell him you miss him.”
Lance scoffed. “And what? He’ll come running back because I have feelings?”
Shiro chuckled. “I think you think Keith’s heartless.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” Shiro agreed. “But you’re acting like it.”
He paused. “Keith will be missing you as much as you miss him. That I can guarantee.”
“How do you know?” Shiro took a slow drink of water.
“I know Keith,” he said simply. “What you’re upset about? I guarantee he is too.”
The silence returned.
Lance stood slowly. “I’m sorry for shouting at you.” He gestured vaguely at the table. “And… thanks. For this.”
Shiro snorted. “I won’t tell anyone.
Lance laughed softly. “Yeah. I’ve got a reputation. Keith number one hater and all that.”
“Night, Shiro.”
“Night, Lance.”
___
Lance lingered in the doorway to the control room longer than necessary, watching Allura and Coran gesture animatedly at one of the larger displays. Something about patrol routes, maybe. Or energy readings. He didn’t really absorb it.
Seven reports today.
Seven different Blade members.
He cleared his throat lightly.
Both of them looked over at once.
“Ah, Lance, my boy!” Coran beamed immediately. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lance said with an easy chuckle as he crossed the room. He leaned in and gave Coran a quick hug, more out of habit than anything else. “Fit as ever.”Coran patted his back fondly before returning his attention to the console. Lance lingered just long enough to convince himself this was normal, that he had a reason to be here beyond the way his chest felt too tight.
“Actually,” he said, carefully casual, “have either of you heard from Keith recently?”
He kept his tone light. Curious. Offhand.
Seven reports.
Seven signatures.
None of them Keith.
Allura’s brow furrowed slightly. “Um… no. Why?” Her voice shifted into something more measured. “Is there something in the reports?”
Lance took a half-step back, palms lifting in a reflexive shrug. “Ah, no. Nothing like that.” He laughed softly, like the idea itself was ridiculous. “That’s kind of why I was curious. I mean… we haven’t really heard anything about him. He kind of just left, and I was just wondering if you’d heard how he’s doing.”
He tilted his head, smile easy, practiced. “Since none of us seem to be on the receiving end of his datapad.”
Allura studied him for a moment, then sighed.
“Lance,” she said gently, “he left for a great opportunity.” She glanced back toward the screen, shoulders easing. “He’s probably just too busy. The Blade are… very dedicated.”
“Yeah,” Lance said quickly. “Totally.”
“We could ask Kolivan for an update,” Allura continued. “Or ask him to reach out. We do have a scheduled meeting this afternoon.”
Lance nodded at once. “I mean, it’s not that deep,” he said, waving a hand as if to brush the whole thing aside. “Just curious, you know?”
He took a step backward toward the door. “No worries. Let me know what Kolivan says.”
Coran smiled after him. “Of course! Always happy to check in on our extended family.”
“Yeah,” Lance said, already turning away. “Great.”
He left the control room with the same easy stride he always used, shoulders loose, expression unbothered. Seven reports echoed in his head all the way down the hall. And none of them answered the question he hadn’t asked out loud.
Later, the Castle was quiet in the way it only ever got late at night, when even the hum of the engines felt muted and distant.
Lance lay on his back on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. His thoughts had been circling the same useless loop for hours now, skimming close to something he refused to land on.
The chime cut through the silence.
Lance closed his eyes.
For a second, he didn’t move. He already knew. He could predict the shape of it before he reached for the datapad, could picture the unfamiliar signature waiting at the bottom of another clean, competent report. Someone else. Anyone else.
He sighed and rolled onto his side, dragging the datapad off the nightstand. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, more tired than annoyed as the screen lit the room in soft blue.
One new report.
He opened it, posture slack, attention half there as he started working through it the way he always did now. Mission designation. Coordinates. Objectives achieved. Lance routed it automatically, fingers moving from muscle memory rather than thought.
Mission parameters met.
Hostile presence neutralized.
Extraction successful.
Tag. Route. Confirm.
He scrolled, already bracing himself to reach the bottom and be disappointed all over again.
Then he stopped.
Mission success.
Blade Kogane out of infirmary due to mishap on battlefield. Will resume position and log updates with Voltron from here on out.
Commander Kolivan notes: Red Paladin has inquired about Kogane’s status.
K. Kogane
Lance’s breath caught. He stared at the screen, heart stuttering as the sentence rewrote itself in his head again and again. Out of infirmary. Mishap. Battlefield. His grip tightened on the datapad, knuckles whitening as the implications settled.
Keith had been hurt. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. Lance pushed himself upright so fast the bed creaked beneath him. Out of infirmary meant recovery, meant survival, meant after, but that didn’t stop the image from forming anyway, uninvited and vivid.
He didn’t scroll. He didn’t double-check.
He just opened the reply field and started typing.
Mission report received.
Voltron glad to hear Blade Kogane is alright.
His fingers hovered above the screen. The line was safe. Professional. Exactly what was expected.
Lance swallowed, the rest of what he wanted to say crowding at the back of his throat. Seven reports with seven different names. Days spent pretending it didn’t bother him. Everything he’d shoved into margins instead of saying out loud. He typed the next line before he could talk himself out of it.
Don’t go dark on me again.
I was worried.
No further action required.
L. McClain
The message sent with a quiet chime. Lance dropped the datapad onto the bed beside him and let himself fall back, staring up at the ceiling again. He dragged in air that didn’t quite feel like enough. His hand came up to press flat against his chest as if that might calm the frantic rhythm there.
Idiot, he thought distantly. You’re such an idiot. The datapad pinged.
Lance was already reaching for it. He grabbed it with both hands, thumb fumbling as he unlocked the screen, eyes scanning desperately before the whole message had even fully loaded.
Confirmation received.
I won’t.
That was it. Lance sagged back against the pillows, a breathy laugh slipping out of him before he could stop it. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the datapad to his chest like it might anchor him, like it might make the relief settle instead of shaking through him all at once.
“God,” he muttered softly, voice rough. “You’re unbelievable.”
But this time the words weren’t sharp. They were fond, unguarded in a way he hadn’t meant to allow.
When he finally set the datapad aside and turned onto his side, sleep came slowly. But it came without the tight knot of dread that had followed him for days.
___
By the time Lance had confirmation that Keith was back, the messages between them had stopped pretending to be subtle.
They still lived in reports. Still hid in plain sight. But the footnotes had grown bolder, fuller, no longer just fragments or testing lines. Somewhere along the way, they had turned into conversations.
Quiet ones. Ongoing ones. It had been a week, and Lance wasn’t letting him out of his sight… or, well. His reports.
Today’s was Lance’s.
He filed a standard coalition update, fingers moving easily as he summarized the meeting. A planet he recognized immediately. One he and Keith had scoped together once, boots dusty, comms crackling as they argued over vantage points and escape routes.
At the very bottom, after the formalities, he added:
They remembered you. Asked if I had tanned since we last arrived.
Lance signed it off with his name and sent it through, then set the datapad aside and carried on with his day like the message hadn’t made his chest feel lighter.
The Castle felt different lately.
Not fixed. Not perfect. But brighter. Nobody mentioned Lance’s breakdown. It had been a week now, and the silence around it felt intentional rather than awkward. He was sleeping better. Training better. Laughing more easily.
Shiro, in particular, had been… attentive. He paired up with Lance more often during sparring, pushing him harder, calling him out when his form slipped. It felt familiar in a way Lance hadn’t realized he’d been missing, like Shiro had subconsciously stepped into the space Keith used to occupy.
It helped. More than Lance wanted to admit.
The datapad pinged.
Lance opened the thread carefully, already smiling.
Report received.
Added planet to coalition protection.
Can’t believe I got so tan in space.
Lance chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Then he remembered the conversation he’d had with Shiro a few days ago. The one that still sat heavy and unresolved in his chest. He bit his lip before typing.
Meeting scheduled with Kolivan in six vargas. Please confirm if going to be in attendance.
We all miss you, Keith.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then turned the datapad off and set it aside. Pidge was elbow-deep in a project when he wandered over, brow furrowed in concentration. She glanced up when she noticed him and smiled, immediately shoving a small metal box into his hands.
“Here,” she said. “Galra drone. Encryption’s weird.”
Lance sighed dramatically. “Of course it is.”
He got to work anyway, fingers already moving as he knelt beside her. Somewhere behind him, the datapad chimed again. Hunk reached it before Lance could, picked it up, and glanced at the screen. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at Lance for a second, something knowing in his expression, before passing it over.
"Thanks,” Lance said softly.
He opened it.
Meeting scheduled.
Kolivan in attendance.
I miss you too.
Lance stared at the words for a long moment. Then he smiled. He set the datapad down on the floor and turned back to Pidge, throwing himself fully into the task at hand like nothing had happened.
Later, when the Castle had settled into its low, evening hum, Lance’s datapad pinged one last time. He picked it up automatically, thumb already moving.
Meeting starting soon.
Can confirm who is in attendance?
Lance replied without hesitation.
Confirmation received.
Princess Allura of Altea and Black Paladin Shiro will be holding the meeting.
The response came almost immediately.
Received.
Will Red Paladin be in attendance?
Lance froze. A virtual meeting meant screens. Feeds. Live transmissions. If Keith was asking that, then
He glanced up just in time to see Allura and Shiro collecting their tablets and moving toward the strategy console.
Lance typed quickly.
Received.
Depends. Not normally. Is there a request for the Red Paladin to be involved?
Are you going to be there?
He sent it, then lifted his head.
“Hey, Allura?” he called.
She paused. “Yes, Lance?”
“Can I…” He hesitated, then forced the words out. “Can I sit in on the meeting?”
Shiro and Allura both stopped. Allura frowned slightly, confusion flickering across her face.
“I’m not sure why you would need to be present,” she said carefully. “This is only a briefing.”
Lance’s eyes flicked to Shiro. “This is with Kolivan, right?”
Shiro’s expression shifted as something clicked into place. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Are you interested in observing how the Blade briefings work?”
“Yes,” Lance said immediately, nodding perhaps too fast.
Allura studied him for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Very well. There’s no reason you cannot be present. Join us. It’s about to begin.”
Lance followed them to the console, datapad still warm in his hand. It pinged again.
Another report.
He barely skimmed the top, eyes going straight to the bottom.
K. Kogane
Below it, a final line:
Blade Kogane will be in attendance at meeting. Arms crossed.
Lance’s breath caught.
Virtual or not, that meant live. That meant seeing him. Hearing him. No footnotes. No margins. No hiding behind protocol. He locked the datapad and set it aside with hands that were suddenly not as steady as he would have liked.
Lance took his seat at the long table, a few chairs down from the centre where Allura and Shiro sat side by side. He was barely in frame for these kinds of meetings, but that was fine. He didn’t need to be seen.
“If you don’t mind,” Allura said, glancing his way, “could you take notes for us, Lance?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course.”
He opened a fresh document, stylus ready. His knee bounced under the table despite his best efforts to keep still.
The screen flickered.
Lance held his breath.
The feed went live.
Kolivan appeared first, composed and imposing as ever. Two Blade members stood just behind him, one on either side.
They were both wearing masks.
Lance’s shoulders slumped a fraction.
Great, he thought dryly. Thanks, Keith. No idea which one is you.
Kolivan launched into the briefing. Lance watched closely, eyes flicking between the two Blades, searching for something familiar.
Nothing obvious.
He glanced down at his datapad, intending to start typing.
Instead, his fingers opened the last message Keith had sent.
Blade Kogane will be in attendance at meeting.
Arms crossed.
Lance swallowed and looked back up. One of the Blades had their arms crossed tight across their chest, posture rigid and unmistakable. The other stood loose, hands at their sides.
A smile tugged at Lance’s mouth.
There you are.
The tension drained from him all at once. Keith was here. Standing. Breathing. Still doing that thing where he pretended to be unreadable while broadcasting exactly where he was if you knew how to look.
Lance settled back in his chair.
As if sensing it, the Blade with crossed arms shifted and lifted two fingers in a subtle, seamless half-wave, barely breaking posture.
Lance’s smile widened.
He dropped his gaze to his datapad, scribbling a few very legitimate notes about coalition expansion. After a moment, he lifted his hand to scratch lightly at the side of his head, fingers briefly mirroring the same two-finger gesture.
You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t looking for it. And he hoped Keith was.
Lance typed a few more words, grin lingering.
What? A guy couldn’t be happy about how many planets were joining the coalition?
The next report came in later that evening, long after the meeting had ended and the Castle had slipped back into its familiar rhythm. Lance opened it on instinct. Keith. Of course.
The report itself was standard. Mission parameters. Status updates. Coalition notes. Lance skimmed through easily, fingers already moving to reroute and log it like second nature. He reached the bottom and paused, like he had learned to do by now.
Tucked neatly beneath the formal sign-off, like it had always belonged there, was a single line.
Are you sleeping okay?
Lance stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he smiled.
The tension he hadn’t realized he was still carrying eased from his shoulders as he typed out his response, careful to keep it where it belonged. Professional on the surface. Familiar underneath
Report acknowledged.
Rerouted successfully to Planet GDIE-T.
Wasn’t. Now I am though.
He hesitated, lips quirking upward, then added one more line.
What? My eyes not as dazzling as you remember?
He sent it before he could overthink it, chuckling softly to himself as the confirmation ping echoed through the room.
Somewhere out there, Keith was reading it.
And for the first time in a long while, Lance didn’t feel like he was waiting anymore.
They stayed up all night, reporting anything and everything they could think of, just so the conversation had somewhere to live.
Lance:
Do you plan on visiting anytime soon?
Keith:
No missions have come up with the opportunity.
Lance:
Wow. Tragic.
The ocean on a planet I visited today was black.
Keith:
Volcanic activity?
Lance:
No.
Like your soul.
Keith:
Rude.
Do you still do that ridiculous skincare routine?
Lance:
Of course I do.
You don’t get cheekbones like these without commitment.
Keith:
I knew it. You’d survive the war, but your moisturizer wouldn’t.
Lance:
Wow. Confidence in me. Love that.
Still, I miss sunlight that doesn’t try to kill me.
Keith:
Still missing home?
Lance:
Yeah. More than I thought I would.
Keith:
What part?
Lance:
The noise. The way everything smells like salt and food and people.
The ocean not being classified as “potentially hostile terrain.”
Keith:
Sounds nice.
Lance:
You wouldn’t hate it.
You’d pretend to. But you wouldn’t.
Keith:
After the war, I think I'd like to see Varadero Beach.
Lance:
…How do you even remember that?
Keith:
You talked about it a lot.
Lance:
Did I?
Keith:
When you were nervous.
Or couldn’t sleep.
Lance:
And you listened?
Keith:
I always listened.
Lance:
You hate sand. And crowds. And people.
Keith:
I lived in a desert, Lance.
Sand doesn’t scare me.
Lance:
Okay, but beaches are different.
There’s music.
And tourists.
And I will absolutely drag you into the water.
Keith:
I can handle it. Sounds like you just don't want to take me.
Lance:
That sounds like a challenge.
Keith:
It’s not. I just thought maybe you'd be the one to take me.
Lance:
…Yeah. I’d like that.
Keith:
Good. So would I.
Lance:
We don’t really talk about it.
How weird it is not being in the same place.
Keith:
No.
Lance:
But you miss us. Right?
Keith:
I do.
Lance:
Miss me?
Keith:
Yes.
Lance:
Good. Because I miss you too. Like. A lot more than I pretend.
Keith:
I know. Me too.
Lance:
I’d like you to come back.
Keith:
I know.
Lance:
But you won’t.
Keith:
Not forever.
Lance:
Guess we’ll have to save the universe so we can go home. Would you stay then?
Keith:
I don’t know how much longer I can do this before I get caught.
Lance:
Why can’t you message me?
Keith:
Don’t have access.
Lance:
Well then get access.
The alarm tore through the room, loud and relentless. Lance groaned, rolling onto his side and shoving his face into the pillow. “Okay, okay,” he muttered hoarsely, reaching out blindly to silence it.
His hand brushed cold glass instead of fabric.
He froze.
Lance cracked one eye open. His datapad was sitting upright on the bed in front of him, screen still lit, the last conversation faintly visible.
The alarm kept blaring.
Oh.
That wasn’t an alarm.
“Oh, shit,” Lance said, suddenly wide awake.
He swung his legs off the bed and was on his feet in seconds, muscle memory snapping into place. The Castle’s lighting had shifted to emergency mode, panels pulsing red along the walls, the distant hum of systems climbing in pitch. Attack.
Lance didn’t stop to think. He grabbed his Paladin armour and pulled it on in practiced motions, fastening clasps and snapping pieces into place with hands already steady, adrenaline burning away the last of sleep. The comms crackled to life mid-motion.
“Paladins to stations,” Shiro’s voice cut through, sharp and controlled. “Unidentified hostile contact. Defensive protocols engaged.”
Lance shoved his boots on and grabbed his helmet, heart pounding as he moved for the door. “No rest for the wicked.”
He didn’t slow as he sprinted down the corridor toward the hangar, armour locking into place with each step. He nearly collided with Hunk coming the other way, both of them skidding to a stop just long enough to register each other.
“Dude, what’s going on?” Hunk demanded, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s the middle of the night!”
“I know,” Lance shot back, already moving again. “I literally haven’t slept yet.”
He vaulted into the chute without breaking stride, the sudden drop stealing the breath from his lungs as he slid straight toward the Red Lion’s bay. “If this is another fake emergency,” he muttered, “I’m haunting whoever triggered it.”
The chute released him onto the platform. Red powered up immediately, cockpit lights flaring to life as Lance jumped inside and strapped in. The familiar hum of the Lion settled his nerves in a way nothing else quite did.
Screens flickered on one by one as the others connected.
“All right, team,” Shiro said calmly. “Sound off.”
“Green online,” Pidge replied.
“Yellow ready,” Hunk added.
Lance gripped the controls as Red surged forward, hangar doors parting to let him rocket into open space. “Red is up.”
“Ready?” Shiro asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Lance replied as Red accelerated hard, stars streaking past the viewport. “Come on. I wanna go back to bed. If we could all just be badass and finish this quickly, I would really appreciate it.”
A soft laugh crackled through the comms.
“You got it,” Allura said, amused.
Lance smirked as Red banked toward the incoming threat, muscles loose, instincts sharp.
Then the comms crackled sharply.
“Change of plans,” Shiro said, urgency cutting through his tone. “It’s not us. It’s a distress signal.”
Lance straightened in his seat. “From where?”
“The next galaxy over,” Shiro replied. “Blade of Marmora signature. One colony ship.”
The words landed heavy.
Allura was already moving, fingers flying across her console. “I’m locking onto the signal now. It’s weak. Intermittent.”
“Requesting backup?” Hunk asked.
“Yes,” Shiro said. “And they’re not being subtle about it.”
There was no hesitation.
“Then we go,” Pidge said immediately.
“Agreed,” Allura added. “If the Blade is calling for aid, the situation must be dire.”
Lance didn’t say anything.
His hands tightened around the controls of the Red Lion as they surged forward together. His mind raced ahead of the data.
One Blade ship.
Which one?
There were dozens of them. Squadrons, patrols, scouts. It could be anyone. A routine ambush. A disabled engine. A calculated risk gone sideways. But his chest felt tight anyway.
“What ship?” Lance asked finally, forcing his voice to stay even.
Allura hesitated. “The signal doesn’t include a designation. Only a Blade transponder and a priority distress code.” Lance swallowed.
Priority meant lives. Priority meant someone hadn’t had time to be careful.
Red jumped to lightspeed with the rest of Voltron, stars stretching into blinding lines. Lance leaned forward unconsciously, jaw clenched.
Don’t do this, he thought, not sure who he was directing it at. Don’t let it be you.
His thoughts betrayed him immediately.
He could picture Keith’s ship without trying. The way it flew. The way Keith pushed it harder than necessary. The way he never asked for help until he absolutely had to.
Lance gripped the controls tighter.
Please let it be someone else.
Please let him be fine.
The countdown to drop-out ticked down, each second loud in Lance’s ears. Whatever waited for them on the other side, Lance already knew one thing for sure.
If this was Keith’s ship- He didn’t finish the thought.
Voltron burst back into realspace, alarms flaring as the battlefield resolved in front of them. Lance flicked the comms switch without thinking, opening a private line. “Shiro-”
“Lance,” Shiro cut in immediately. “We don’t have time for what-ifs. Let’s just get there, okay?” His voice was tight, controlled but strained. “You with me?”
Lance swallowed hard. “I’m with you.”
The channel closed.
Voltron surged forward as one, engines roaring as stars resolved into jagged lines of light and shadow.
Then the space ahead of them lit up. Galra ships. Too many of them. They spilled across the stretch of space like a net snapping shut, dark hulls bristling with weapons. Lance barely had time to register the scale before something else came into view.
A Blade ship.
Large. Scarred. Fighting to hold position.
The comms crackled, interference tearing at the signal before it stabilized into a familiar silhouette. Kolivan’s image flickered onto their screens, expression severe but unmistakably tense.
“Allura,” he said urgently. “They are close to boarding. We require immediate backup.”
Allura didn’t hesitate. “We’re here.”
Lance barely heard her.
Close to boarding meant inside the ship. Close quarters. Blades fighting without space to maneuver. Without distance.
His pulse roared in his ears.
Kolivan meant Keith’s ship.
Red seemed to feel it before Lance fully did.
Her engines flared, responding to the pressure of his grip and the spike in his adrenaline. She surged forward, accelerating hard, slipping past the others in a burst of speed.
“Lance!” Hunk shouted. “Formation-”
“Red, pull back!” Shiro barked.
Lance didn’t answer.
Warning lights screamed across his console as he flew straight into the chaos, lasers lighting the void as Red dove headlong toward the Blade ship.
There was no plan. No formation.
Just one thought, loud and unrelenting, as the fight swallowed him whole.
Hold on.
_
The corridor shook beneath Keith’s boots as he sprinted toward the docking bay. Blades were everywhere. Shouting. Running. Scrambling into fighter jets as alarms blared overhead, red lights strobing against dark armor and steel walls. The air smelled like heat and ozone, thick and wrong.
Keith spotted his jet just ahead.
Almost there.
The ship lurched violently.
An explosion ripped through the bay before he could reach it. The blast threw him sideways, slamming him hard into the bulkhead as fire and debris tore through the docking station. Jets went up in flames one after another, shrapnel ripping through hull plating as emergency shutters slammed down too late.
“Fuck!” Keith shouted, shoving himself upright as the floor buckled beneath him. Smoke poured through the bay, alarms shrieking louder now, overlapping warnings blaring in rapid succession. Blades scrambled, some dragging others toward cover, some frozen in shock as wreckage burned around them.
Keith didn’t wait.
His jet was gone.
No time to worry about that.
He spun on his heel and bolted back down the corridor, heart hammering as another tremor rocked the ship. He ripped his knife free from its sheath as he ran, grip tight, the familiar weight grounding him just enough to keep moving. The other docking bay. It had to still be intact. He tore around the corner, boots skidding slightly on the metal floor, lungs burning as he pushed harder. Overhead, something detonated again, the lights flickering violently before stabilizing.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on.”
If he could just reach the second bay. If he could get airborne before the Galra finished locking them down.
Keith didn’t slow.
He ran straight into the chaos, knife in hand, hoping he’d make it there before the ship tore itself apart. He tore past a reinforced viewport, boots pounding hard against the deck. Something flashed red at the edge of his vision.
Keith snapped his head around without thinking.
Red.
She streaked through the void like a comet, flying low and impossibly fast, movements sharp and precise as she carved through the Galra formation. Lasers rained down in ruthless arcs, explosions blooming in her wake as ships broke apart under her fire.
Keith skidded to a stop. For half a second, the alarms faded. The smoke. The chaos. All of it narrowed down to that familiar shape moving exactly how he remembered.
“Lance,” Keith breathed.
Then the rest of Voltron slammed into the fight.
Green cut through the fleet with surgical bursts. Yellow plowed straight through a cruiser like it was nothing. Blue froze ships mid-fire before shattering them apart. Space lit up with color and force and motion, a coordinated storm tearing the Galra line wide open. Hope hit Keith hard, sudden and dizzying. They’re here.
They’re going to be fine.
Keith forced himself to move again, breaking into a run as the ship shuddered beneath him. There was still work to do. Blades to protect. Boarding parties to stop.
Lance had bought them time.
Now Keith was going to make sure it mattered.
_
Red screamed a warning. Lance ignored it.
He rolled hard to port, narrowly missing a Galra blast that shaved past Red’s flank and sent the cockpit shuddering. Alarms flared across his console, angry and insistent, but his focus was locked dead ahead. The Blade ship. Too close. Too many enemy signatures clustered around its hull.
“I’ve got eyes on the boarding craft,” Lance snapped over comms, fingers flying over the controls as he lined up a shot. “Red engaging.”
“Lance, pull back!” Shiro barked. “You’re out of formation!”
“I know,” Lance shot back, jaw clenched. “I’m fixing it.”
He fired. Red’s cannons tore through a cluster of Galra fighters, explosions lighting the void as debris scattered in every direction. Lance pushed her harder, cutting in low and fast, flying closer to the Blade ship than was comfortable, than was safe. A warning klaxon blared. Red took a hit along her side, shields flaring bright before stabilizing.
“Red took damage,” Pidge called. “Lance, you’re pushing too far.”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
He wasn’t.
His hands were locked tight on the controls, knuckles aching, breath coming fast and shallow. He barely registered the ache in his shoulders or the way his heart hammered too hard, too fast. All he could see was the Blade ship’s scarred hull. Another Galra cruiser veered toward the Blade’s exposed side. Lance swore and dove straight for it, engines screaming in protest as Red accelerated beyond recommended limits.
This is stupid, a distant part of his mind supplied.
This is reckless.
This is exactly how Keith used to fly.
The thought hit him so hard it almost threw him off-course. Lance swallowed and corrected, forcing himself to breathe as he lined up the shot and fired again. The cruiser detonated in a burst of light, shockwaves rattling Red violently.
“Lance!” Hunk shouted. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Lance said, voice strained. “I’ve got it.”
Even as he said it, Red shuddered again, another hit glancing off her shields. Warning lights stacked across his display, overlapping alerts flooding the cockpit with noise.
Shiro’s voice cut through it, sharp and commanding. “Red, disengage. That’s an order.” Lance hesitated.
Just a second. Just long enough to see movement on the Blade ship’s hull, boarding pods trying to latch on, Blades fighting them off with limited cover. He couldn’t pull away.
“Not yet,” Lance said quietly. “Almost-”
Something streaked into his peripheral vision.
Fast. Controlled. Familiar.
A fighter cut in between Red and the incoming fire, cannons blazing as it laid down precise cover, forcing the Galra back from the Blade ship’s hull.
Lance’s breath caught.
He knew that flying.
He knew the way it curved instead of strafed. The way it anticipated instead of reacted. His comms crackled, but he barely heard them.
For the first time since the battle started, Lance eased his grip on the controls just a fraction.
Keith was here.
And Lance wasn’t flying alone anymore.
He didn’t question it. The moment the fighter slid into position beside Red, Lance eased back on the controls and let Keith take the lead, trusting the cover without needing confirmation. Incoming fire splashed harmlessly against the fighter’s shields instead of Red’s weakened flank. “Okay,” Lance muttered, fingers already moving. “Okay, Red, breathe.”
He kicked Red into a tight roll and disengaged the forward cannons, diverting power where it mattered. Cooldown initiated. Systems rerouting. Warnings screamed as heat bled off her engines, the Lion shuddering under the strain.
Shiro’s voice cut across comms, sharp and urgent. “Lance, pull back! You’re flying compromised!”
“I know,” Lance said under his breath, not opening the channel. He didn’t take his eyes off the HUD. Just a few more seconds. Come on.
The fighter stayed glued to Red’s side, precise and relentless, carving through anything that got too close.
Keith flew like he always had. Not flashy. Not reckless. Just devastatingly efficient.
Red’s systems flickered. Cooldown complete. Green indicators flooded the console all at once.
“There you are,” Lance breathed.
He shoved the throttle forward and Red roared back to life, surging ahead with renewed force. Lance didn’t hesitate. He dove straight back into the fight, falling seamlessly into Keith’s rhythm like they’d never stopped flying together.
No words.
No callouts.
Just motion.
Lance cut left as Keith cut right, Red’s cannons lighting up the void while the fighter swept in behind, eliminating anything that slipped through. They boxed a Galra cruiser between them and tore it apart in seconds, explosions blooming where their fire overlapped. Shiro was still barking orders in Lance’s ear, voices overlapping on the channel, but Lance barely registered it now. Everything had narrowed down to the space between Red and the fighter beside her. To the familiar pull and push of shared instinct. For the first time since the alarms had sounded, Lance felt steady.
He wasn’t overreaching.
He wasn’t alone.
He trusted Keith to cover him.
And Keith did.
Every single time.
Stupid, perfect Keith.
Lance couldn’t stop the smile that brushed across his face.
The battle folded in on itself after that. What had been chaos turned into pattern. Red and the Blade fighter moved as one, cutting clean lines through the Galra formation while the rest of Voltron pressed the advantage. Yellow smashed through heavy cruisers. Green dismantled systems with surgical precision. Blue locked down escape routes in bursts of ice and force. The Blade ship stabilized under the cover. Boarding pods detonated before they could latch. Galra fighters scattered as Voltron and the Blades reclaimed the space inch by inch. Lance barely noticed the passage of time.
He flew. Trusted. Reacted.
Every time Red surged forward, the fighter was there. Every time Lance overcommitted, Keith compensated without hesitation.
The battle ended not with a dramatic final blow, but with a slow, inevitable retreat as the remaining Galra ships jumped away or were torn apart in their wake.
Silence followed. Not complete. Not empty. But relieved. The Blade ship drifted, battered but intact, engines flaring as emergency crews worked to seal breaches and stabilize power. Voltron regrouped automatically, forming up in the familiar loose arc around the wounded vessel. Only then did Lance realize his hands were shaking.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as Red’s systems settled back into green across the board.
The fight was over.
They had won.
Shiro’s voice cut back into the comms, sharp with leftover tension. “Everyone all right?” A chorus of confirmations followed, overlapping and messy but intact.
“All units accounted for,” Allura said a moment later. “Kolivan is allowing us to board.”
Shiro didn’t hesitate. “Good. Everyone, meet me straight after. Briefing room. Now.”
The channel cut off abruptly.
Lance let out a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The noise dropped away, leaving only the low hum of Red’s engines and the ringing in his ears.
His hands were still trembling where they rested on the controls. Adrenaline bled out of him all at once, leaving exhaustion in its wake. He rolled his shoulders and forced his grip to loosen, flexing his fingers until the shaking eased enough to function. Any second now, he thought distantly, Shiro’s gonna tear into me.
Breaking formation. Ignoring orders. Taking hits he shouldn’t have. He should care. He knew he should.
But as Red eased into position alongside the Blade ship and docking clamps engaged, Lance found he couldn’t bring himself to worry about any of it. Keith was alive. And he was here. In person. A section of the Blade ship’s hull peeled open, revealing a wide hangar set into its side. Red drifted in carefully, massive paws locking onto the guidance rails as Blades rushed forward to secure her, magnetic clamps snapping into place around her legs.
“Easy, easy,” Lance muttered as Red settled, systems powering down one by one. The canopy released with a soft hiss. Lance swung himself out and nearly stumbled on the way down, legs shaky now that the adrenaline was gone. A couple of Blades were already there, masked and efficient, moving around Red’s frame with practiced precision. None of them spared him more than a passing glance.
Lance’s eyes darted anyway.
Masks. All of them. His gaze skimmed over each one, heart jumping stupidly at every familiar height or stance. Nothing. No recognition. No crossed arms. No sign. He swallowed and forced himself to move. Lance snapped his helmet off as he stepped into the main corridor, the air inside the ship cooler and carrying the faint metallic scent of recycled oxygen and scorched wiring. He shook his head once, trying to clear it and then spotted a familiar mop of brown hair disappearing around a corner.
“Hey,” Lance called, jogging to catch up. “You know where we’re going?”
Pidge didn’t slow. She shot him a sideways look and scoffed. “Yeah. We’re going to your funeral, buddy.”
Lance snorted despite himself. “Wow. Comforting.”
“Just being realistic,” Pidge replied, smirking as they rounded the corner together.
It was, in fact, Lance’s funeral. They barely made it into the briefing room before Shiro rounded on him.
“What the hell was that out there?” Shiro demanded, voice low but edged sharp enough to cut. “You broke formation, ignored a direct order, and nearly got yourself taken out.”
Lance groaned and dropped into a chair, letting it creak under his weight. “Oh my god, Shiro. Everyone was fine.”
“That is not the point.”
“We didn’t have time to all fly up holding hands and singing kumbaya,” Lance shot back. “There was a Blade ship actively being boarded.”
Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was counting to ten. “Formation exists to keep everyone safe,” he said tightly. “It’s not optional. It’s not a suggestion.”
“And sometimes,” Lance snapped, leaning forward, “you improvise because the situation is falling apart in real time!”
Shiro’s hand dropped. “Improvising doesn’t mean charging in alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Lance shot back immediately.
Shiro’s jaw tightened. “You were until the rest of us caught up.”
“And if I hadn’t gone in?” Lance fired back. “Those pods would’ve latched. Blades would’ve been fighting Galra in hallways instead of space. That ship would’ve taken casualties.”
The room went quiet for half a second.
Shiro exhaled sharply. “You don’t get to make that call by yourself.”
“Someone had to,” Lance said, voice rougher now. “You saw how close they were.” Shiro stared at him, eyes searching his face like he was trying to figure out where the line had shifted.
“You scared the hell out of me.” Lance blinked, thrown for just a moment.
“Well,” he muttered, leaning back again, arms crossing defensively, “join the club.”
Shiro closed his eyes briefly, then looked back at him. “I need you flying smart, Lance. Not reckless.”
Lance huffed. “I was smart.”
“You took hits you didn’t need to.”
“And we won,” Lance said, quieter now but firm. “Everyone’s alive.” Shiro held his gaze for a long beat.
“…You got lucky,” he said finally.
Lance shrugged. “Sometimes that’s enough.”
Shiro didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. “This conversation isn’t over,” he said. “We’ll finish it later.”
Lance nodded once, rolling his neck. “Cool. Can I not be grounded in the meantime?”
Shiro sighed. “Don’t push it.” Lance grinned, tired but unapologetic. The doors slid open again before Shiro could say anything else.
Kolivan entered with measured steps, two Blades flanking him. “Voltron,” he said evenly. “Your assistance was timely. Without it, this ship would have suffered significant losses.”
Allura inclined her head. “We’re glad we arrived when we did.”
Lance barely heard either of them. His eyes flicked immediately to the two Blades behind Kolivan. One was tall. Too tall. The other moved wrong, posture stiff in a way that didn’t match what Lance had seen in the fight.
Not him. Kolivan continued, tone grim. “The distress signal was triggered after the Galra began coordinated boarding attempts. We believe they have been tracking Blade movements for some time.”
“That would imply a leak,” Allura said carefully.
“Yes,” Kolivan replied. “We are already thinning our ranks and isolating potential spies. Until we are certain, no Blade will be moving freely without clearance.”
Lance shifted where he stood, arms folding tight across his chest. He waited. Counted breaths. Tried to be patient
Failed.
“Sorry,” he blurted, wincing even as the word left his mouth. “I know it’s busy, but-”
Kolivan sighed, long-suffering, and cut him off. “He is in the docking station.” Lance froze. The room seemed to tilt slightly.
“…Who?” Lance asked, though his voice had already given him away.
Kolivan frowned. “You are referring to Kogane, yes?” Allura shot Lance a look that promised consequences later. Shiro let out a quiet, tired sigh.
Lance’s face flushed hot. “Well, maybe I wasn’t going to say that,” he argued weakly.
Shiro didn’t humor it. “Lance,” he said firmly. “Go.”
Lance didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, sharp, grateful and bolted for the door, already moving before it had fully opened. Whatever lecture was waiting for him could wait. Lance moved fast.
Not running, exactly, but close enough that anyone watching would know better than to get in his way. The Blade ship’s corridors were narrower than the Castle’s, utilitarian and scarred, lights flickering where power was still being rerouted. He followed the docking station signs on instinct, heart pounding harder with every step.
He skidded to a stop at the open doors.
Inside, the damage was worse than he’d imagined.
The docking bay was a mess of twisted metal and scorched flooring, the skeletal remains of fighter jets still being hauled away by Blade crews. Debris littered the ground, scorch marks climbing the walls where explosions had torn through earlier. The air smelled sharp and acrid, smoke not quite cleared yet. Lance swallowed. Blades moved through the wreckage with quiet efficiency; masked, focused, lifting panels, cutting away ruined sections, checking one another for injuries. No chatter. No wasted motion. Just clean up after something that had gone very, very wrong. “This was rough,” Lance muttered under his breath, unable to stop the wince that crossed his face.
He took a hesitant step forward, eyes scanning the bay despite himself, searching through armour and masks and motion for one person he already knew was there.
Somewhere in all of this.
Alive.
Lance lingered at the threshold for a second longer, letting the weight of what had almost happened settle heavy in his chest then forced himself to move.
Lance was done waiting. His patience had been wore down thin over the last few days. He scanned the docking bay again. And again. Rows of Blades moved through the wreckage in overlapping paths, masked faces and identical armor blurring together until it all looked the same. Too tall. Too broad. Too quiet. Every time his heart jumped, it immediately fell again. Nothing. More Blades poured in through the far doors, adding to the chaos, and Lance let out a low, frustrated groan.
Of course.
Of course Keith would be impossible to pick out right now. Like some kind of universe-approved cosmic joke.
Keith was literally Where’s Waldo.
And Lance, standing there in bright red armour, helmet tucked under his arm like a beacon, absolutely was not.
How was Keith not seeing him and making himself known?
Lance huffed, scanned the bay one more time, then made a decision.
“Lance, think about this,” he muttered, already regretting it.
He climbed up onto a nearby crate stacked with supply containers, wobbling slightly before he found his balance. Once steady, he cupped his hands around his mouth, inhaled deeply, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“MULLET!” The word echoed through the bay. Metal clanged somewhere. A cutter powered down. Several Blades froze mid-step and slowly turned to stare at him. The room went very, very quiet. Lance winced internally, but stayed put.
Well, he thought. No taking it back now.
He straightened up on the crate, planting his hands on his hips like he’d just been elected mayor of the docking bay. A Blade near the edge of the crowd recovered first and stepped forward, visor tilting up toward him.
“Paladin,” the Blade said flatly. “You need to get down from there.” Lance didn’t even look at him. He cupped his hands around his mouth again and raised his voice even louder.
“KEITH KOGANE,” he shouted, voice ricocheting off the metal walls. “I AM LOOKING FOR A KEITH KOGANE. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.”
A ripple went through the bay. More Blades stopped what they were doing. A few turned fully now, body language stiff with confusion. Someone dropped a tool. Somewhere off to the side came a very quiet, very offended, “Ladies?” Lance squinted theatrically from his elevated perch, scanning the stunned crowd.
“Medium height,” he added helpfully. “Bad attitude. Questionable haircut.” The Blade beside the crate pinched the bridge of his nose. “Paladin-”
“Nope,” Lance said cheerfully, waving him off without looking. “I’m committed now.” The silence stretched, thick, awkward, vibrating with barely contained chaos. Dozens of masked faces stared up at him. And somewhere in that crowd, someone had to be dying of embarrassment. Lance inhaled deeply, chest puffing out like he was about to deliver a keynote address.
“Last name Kogane,” he continued loudly, pacing a step along the crate like a stage. “First name Keith. Answers to ‘idiot,’ ‘hothead,’ and ‘don’t do that!’”
A Blade somewhere actually snorted.
Encouraged, Lance pressed on. “Enjoys dramatic exits, overworks like it’s a competitive sport, and has a deeply committed relationship with danger!”
The Blade beside the crate tried again.
“Paladin, this is a secured-”
“-area, yeah, yeah,” Lance waved him off again. “Look, I’m just trying to locate one emotionally repressed swordsman who owes me about eight weeks of stress.” A few Blades exchanged looks now. Someone leaned in to whisper to another. The silence had shifted, from stunned to curious. Lance grinned, cupping his hands again.
“KEITH,” he called, voice ringing out. “IF YOU’RE HIDING BECAUSE YOU THINK THIS IS EMBARRASSING, I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW IT’S TOO LATE.”
He paused, then added thoughtfully, “Also, you fly like an idiot when you’re worried.”
That did it.
A Blade near the back stiffened, just for a fraction of a second. Arms crossed tighter. Weight shifted.
Lance’s grin went feral.
“Oh,” he murmured to himself. “There you are.”
He straightened one last time and called out, triumphant and utterly unapologetic.
“YOU CAN STOP PRETENDING YOU DON’T KNOW ME NOW."
The docking bay held its breath asLance jumped down off the crate. The moment his boots hit the floor, the adrenaline bled out of him all at once. The noise of the docking bay rushed back in, the clatter, the voices, the lingering smell of smoke and scorched metal. The weight of it all. The what ifs he’d been shoving down since the alarms first went off. His hands started to shake.
Blades were staring again, but Lance barely registered them now. One of them broke away from the crowd and started walking toward him, head ducked slightly, posture tight with something that looked a lot like embarrassment.
Lance stayed where he was.
Every step felt impossibly loud.
The Blade stopped right in front of him.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Lance let out a small, unsteady breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
The Blade lifted a hand, hesitated, then reached up and hooked his fingers under the edge of the mask. He pulled it free slowly, like he was bracing for impact.
Keith.
His face was flushed red, jaw tight, eyebrows furrowed so deeply it almost hurt to look at. He looked equal parts mortified and overwhelmed, eyes bright in a way Lance hadn’t seen in months. Something in Lance’s chest finally loosened.
A laugh bubbled up, soft and disbelieving, and before he could stop it, a wide, genuinely happy smile spread across his face.
“Hey,” Lance breathed, warm and wrecked all at once.
Keith opened his mouth like he was going to say something sharp. Nothing came out. He stood there another second, still flushed, still visibly processing the fact that Lance was actually here, not hidden in a report footer or delayed by comms.
Then, despite himself, a smile crept up at the corner of his mouth.
It was small. Reluctant. Very Keith.
A Blade passing behind him gave him a solid clap on the back, clearly amused. “Who's this, Kogane?” they muttered before moving on.
Keith shot them a look that promised retribution later, then turned back to Lance. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the exit. “Out of the dock.”
Lance opened his mouth.
Nothing happened. His brain was still somewhere between relief and holy shit, so instead of forcing it, he just nodded and followed. His boots felt strangely light as they stepped into the quieter corridor beyond the docking bay.
The door slid shut behind them. The noise dropped away. Keith let out a short, breathy laugh that sounded like it surprised even him. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
“You broke formation,” he said, snorting softly. “Shiro must be so mad at you.”
Lance shrugged, loose and unapologetic, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You too.”
That did it.
Keith stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Lance, tight and sudden, like the space between them had been an illusion all along. One second there was air, the next there was warmth and solid weight and the unmistakable certainty of someone real. Lance froze. Just for a heartbeat. Then instinct took over. He grabbed onto Keith just as tightly, fingers curling into the back of his armour, arms locking around him like letting go wasn’t an option. Like if he did, Keith might disappear again.
“Oh,” Lance breathed, half laugh, half something dangerously close to a sob. Keith’s grip tightened, forehead pressing briefly against the side of Lance’s head. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. They stood there in the quiet corridor, armour creaking softly where it pressed together. Lance felt the tension drain out of him in waves, knees threatening to give if Keith hadn’t been holding him up just as much as he was holding Keith.
For the first time since the reports went quiet, since the alarms, since the waiting, Lance let himself believe it. Keith’s voice came quiet against his ear, warm and rough around the edges.
"Thanks for saving me, Red Paladin,” he whispered, a snort sneaking into the words. Lance let out a long, happy sigh that melted into a soft laugh. His grip tightened reflexively.
“God,” he murmured, voice thick and honest. “I missed you, Keith.” Keith laughed, low, real and squeezed him harder.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
Lance pulled back just enough to really look at him. Up close. No mask. No distance.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Lance breathed, like the moment might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
Keith smiled, arms still resting comfortably around Lance’s neck. “You could say I did good,” he teased. “Because I’m pretty sure I ran rings around you out there.” Lance gasped, offended on a spiritual level.
“You’re joking.” He pulled back another inch, incredulous. “Did you see the same fight I just did? I was like whoosh, boom-zzzip.” He gestured wildly. “That was one of my best performances!”
Keith laughed, really laughed, and it hit Lance straight in the chest. His hands tightened automatically on Keith’s waist, grounding himself.
“You look happier,” Lance whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Keith stilled, smile softening into something quieter. He hummed thoughtfully.
“It’s been… rejuvenating,” he admitted. “Being here. Learning about myself. My heritage.” He glanced down, then back up. “It’s been… fulfilling.”
Lance nodded slowly, taking him in, the steadier posture, the ease in his shoulders, the way his eyes didn’t look so haunted anymore.
“You look great,” Lance said simply. Keith rolled his eyes, but the blush still crept up his cheeks.
A throat cleared behind them.
Lance and Keith both startled, turning at the same time.
Shiro stood a few steps back, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral in that way that meant he was holding about six different emotions behind it.
Keith’s face changed instantly. “Shiro,” he breathed.
He didn’t hesitate. He let go of Lance and crossed the space between them in two quick strides, wrapping Shiro up in a tight hug. Shiro stiffened for half a second; surprised, caught off guard, before his arms came up around Keith’s shoulders, grip firm and unmistakably relieved.
“You idiot,” Shiro murmured, voice rough. “Don’t do that again.”
Keith huffed a quiet laugh into his shoulder. “Missed you too.”
“Hey!” Pidge protested immediately, pushing forward. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to skip the line. It’s my turn.”
She wedged herself in with zero regard for personal space, arms wrapping around Keith’s middle. “You disappeared,” she muttered. “Rude.” Hunk followed without ceremony, looping an arm around all of them and pulling them closer.
“Group hug,” he declared. “Non-negotiable.”
Keith laughed, genuinely laughed, as he was passed around between them, hugged and shoved and scolded in equal measure. It was chaotic and loud and warm in a way the Blade ship hadn’t been in a long time. Lance hung back just a step, watching it all with a soft, disbelieving smile. Hunk eventually broke away and drifted over, giving Lance a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You feeling okay?” he asked, smile knowing and kind.
Lance looked at him, chest still buzzing, heart light in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.
“I’m feeling great,” he said, beaming. He laughed easy, real. Across the corridor, Keith glanced back at him, eyes catching on Lance like it was instinct.
He smiled.
And Lance smiled right back.
_
Lance emerged from the shower with a yawn, towel slung over his shoulder and hair still damp. He tugged on a clean shirt, rolled his shoulders once, and caught his reflection in the mirror just long enough to register the smile he hadn’t bothered to suppress. Huh. That’s new. Still half-asleep, he padded down the hall toward the kitchen, drawn by voices before he even reached the doorway.
“Come on, Pidge,” Hunk was saying, clearly amused. “Keith’s only here for a few days. He deserves the priority.”
“No!” Pidge shrieked back. “I do not get to eat space goo when Keith gets actual food. How is that fair?”
Lance snorted and stepped into the room. Everyone was already gathered around the table. Shiro leaned back in his chair, Allura perched neatly beside him, Hunk hovering near the counter like he might start cooking again out of spite. Keith sat comfortably among them, elbow on the table, looking more at ease than Lance had ever seen him here.
They all looked up at once.
“Morning,” Hunk said.
“Hey,” Allura added warmly. Lance lifted a hand in a lazy wave, then groaned theatrically when his eyes landed on the unmistakable bowl of green goo sitting in the middle of the table.
“Oh no,” he muttered. “Not today.”
His gaze slid sideways. Keith’s plate held something golden and solid and unmistakably not space goo.
Lance gasped, pointing accusingly. “Why does Keith get that?”
Pidge threw her hands up in vindication. “Thank you! Because apparently Keith’s the favorite now!”
Keith chuckled, ducking his head slightly. “If it helps, I didn’t ask for special treatment.” He nudged his plate toward Pidge. “Here. Have mine.”
Pidge groaned and shoved it back. “No, because I can’t take that from you. That just makes it worse.”
Lance laughed and dropped into the empty chair, the sound easy and unguarded. He leaned back, taking them all in. The table, the noise, Keith actually here, actually laughing.
“Wow,” he said lightly. “I miss one crisis and suddenly the hierarchy changes.” Keith glanced over at him, smiling, eyes bright.
Lance smiled back.
The kitchen doors slid open with their usual lack of warning.
“KEITH, MY BOY!” Coran burst in at full speed, nearly tripping over a chair as he wrapped Keith up in an enthusiastic hug. Keith yelped, half-laughing as he clung back just enough to keep them both upright.
“Oof- hey, Coran.”
“It is so wonderful to see you!” Coran beamed, finally releasing him. “Are you staying with us today?”
“Yes,” Keith said, still smiling. “Just a couple of days. Kolivan said it would be good to rest.”
“Excellent!” Coran clapped and dropped into a seat. “We shall house and water you!”
He leaned forward, eyes bright. “I must say, it has been quite enjoyable reading how you were doing. But seeing you in person is even better!”
The room stalled. Keith went very still. Lance froze mid-reach for his glass.
Pidge slowly turned in her chair. “…Reading?”
Lance shot upright. “He means heard,” he said immediately, hands waving. “Like, heard about it. Verbally. With ears.”
Coran tilted his head. “No? I meant the mission reports!”
Silence slammed down hard.
Keith’s ears went red instantly. He snapped his head toward Lance, eyes wide with panic.
“You didn’t delete them?” he hissed.
“I thought you meant eventually,” Lance whispered back, face already burning. “They’re archived! I didn’t think anyone actually read the footnotes!”
Keith closed his eyes. “Lance.”
Pidge leaned back slowly, eyes lighting up. “Footnotes,” she repeated. “Plural.”
Coran nodded happily. “Yes! Such thoughtful additions. I found them most enlightening.” Keith and Lance stared straight ahead like condemned men.
“For example,” Coran continued cheerfully, “the concern regarding sleep schedules was quite touching.”
“Nope,” Lance said loudly.
Keith reached over and tried to cover Coran’s datapad. “Please stop talking.”
“Oh! And the repeated references to oceans,” Coran went on, gently reclaiming it. “Pink oceans, black oceans, and the trip to… where was it… ah! Varadero Beach.” The room detonated.
“VARADERO BEACH?” Pidge shrieked. “YOU SAID VARADERO BEACH?”
“STOP SAYING IT,” Lance and Keith yelled in perfect unison.
Pidge was already on her feet. “I’m reading these,” she declared, yanking the datapad out of Coran’s hands.
“NO!” Keith lunged for it, barely stopped when Hunk grabbed his sleeve.
Shiro stared, baffled. “Is it… that embarrassing?”
“Yes,” Keith said instantly. Lance groaned and dropped his face into his hands.
Pidge’s eyes flew across the screen. “Oh wow,” she said. “These are… very specific.”
“They’re not,” Lance snapped.
“They are,” Pidge replied, delighted.
Hunk cleared his throat gently. “Uh. For context,” he said to Shiro and Allura, trying very hard to sound reasonable, “Varadero Beach is where Lance grew up. His family’s there. It’s… kind of a big deal to him.”
Lance’s head snapped up. “Hunk.”
"What?” Hunk blinked. “I’m just explaining why it’s important.”
“THE EXPLANATION IS NOT NEEDED,” Lance shouted, face turning an impressive shade of red.
Shiro’s eyebrows climbed. Slowly. “Oh.”
Keith stared very intently at the table.
Pidge grinned like she’d won something. “So you don’t casually mention that place unless you trust someone.”
“It was a question,” Keith muttered.
“It was one sentence,” Lance added weakly.
Allura folded her arms. “You used official mission documentation to exchange personal context.”
“They were hidden,” Lance protested.
“In footnotes,” Pidge said again.
Coran nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, the tonal shift was quite noticeable. Early reports were efficient and stern. Later ones were… warmer.”
Keith buried his face in his hands. “I’m never sending a report again.”
Lance slumped back in his chair. “I’m transferring admin duties to literally anyone else.”
Pidge hugged the datapad to her chest. “Too late. These are going in my mental archive forever.”
Hunk patted Lance’s shoulder sympathetically. “If it helps, man, it’s kinda nice knowing you weren’t just yelling at spreadsheets.”
Lance groaned. “I hate all of you.”
Keith glanced over at him, embarrassed, flushed, and smiling despite himself.
Still.
Worth it.
_
Lance lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Keith was here. Actually here. Down the hall. In the Castle. Laughing at the table earlier, arguing with Pidge, letting Coran fuss over him like nothing had ever gone wrong. The thought settled warm and steady in Lance’s chest.
He didn’t know what it all meant. Not really. Not yet.
But it felt good. And for once, that was enough.
He rolled onto his side, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders. Sleep still wasn’t coming, but he didn’t mind the quiet. The Castle hummed softly around him, familiar and safe.
Then his datapad chimed.
Lance cracked one eye open, eyebrows lifting. At this hour? He reached over and picked it up, squinting as the screen lit the room. A Blade of Marmora header filled the display. His smile widened before he even finished reading.
Mission Report:
Blade Kogane temporarily stationed at Castle of Lions.
Morale greatly improved.
No further action required.
K. Kogane
Lance barked out a quiet laugh, pressing the datapad briefly to his chest.
“How did you even?” he murmured, shaking his head.
It didn’t matter.
The datapad chimed again, almost immediately. This one wasn’t formatted. No headers. No pretense.
I’m on the training deck, sharpshooter.
Bring a blanket and a pillow.
Lance stared at the message for a second, warmth blooming all the way to his fingertips. He typed back without thinking.
Be right there, samurai ;)
He set the datapad aside and swung his legs out of bed, the smile still firmly in place as he stood. Whatever tomorrow brought, whatever this turned into, whatever words they did or didn’t find.
Tonight, Keith was here.
And what kind of guy would Lance be if he kept him waiting?