Lance's family felt like they should be happy. Their youngest was back, safe and alive. He looked stronger, more confident, more alive than ever. He was back home.

But was he really?

Because his body returned, yes. It would hug them. Kiss them. Cuddle. Laugh. Joke. Sing. Dance. Smile that brilliant smile that gave the Sun a run for its money.

But his mind wasn't there with the body. It was back at the war. Its hugs felt like a promise to protect. Its kisses felt like a promise to return. It avoided contact. It somberly stared ahead. It focused on the strategy of their next battle. It would sing with a rough voice about days filled with peace. It danced with fight moves. It had forgotten how to smile with the eyes bright enough to make the stars jealous.

They could see it.

They hated it.

They understood it.

They hated it.

Not him, never him.

But what he was forced to become.

They hated how easily he used alien words, sometimes forgetting the actual English words and having to resort to using Spanish—it was a relief to know he at least hadn't forgotten his mother language. They hated how comfortable he was with alien costumes, looking as if he never left home to begin with.

But, above all, they hated how battle ready he was.

Even after years, he always looked like he was expecting something to happen.

And, yes, all the people who fought the war—team Voltron especially—had the same problems. They all dealt with it differently. Shiro was still a bit jumpy and had a lot of horrid flashbacks and nightmares. Keith would not go anywhere without a weapon and the posture of an animal ready to attack the smallest threat. Hunk had yet to leave his house for more than a few hours without having a panic attack, staying in his family's safe arms. Pidge had so many nightmares it was a wonder if she slept at all, Coleen made sure to put the whole family through therapy and no one complained—Shiro actually accompanied them. Coran, Allura and Romelle, differently from Hunk, could not stay at one place, trying to keep their minds occupied in the hopes of shoving the bad memories to the back of their minds.

But Lance, oh, Lance and his ways.

He decided that the best way to deal with trauma was to keep it to himself and go forwards. He decided to deal with it alone. And the worst was that he was such a good liar he was able to convince himself he was fine. Which made it easier to convince the others who didn't knew him like his family—and there was no one who did—that he was fine.

He wasn't.

Not when the first thing he did when entering any room was to localize all the exits and then stay somewhere that would make the escape or the battle easier.

(How many times had this boy done that?)

Not when he so attentively listened to every sound around him, reacting to the smallest note out of tune.

(How many times it had saved his life?)

Not when his hands fidgeted nervously with potential weapons—they had no idea someone could stop a robbery with a pencil.

(How many times had he improvised when he found himself cornered?)

Not when he immediately jumped in action the moment something even remotely looked like could go wrong—again, nobody saw that speeding car until Lance had the child under him on the opposite side of the street.

(How many times had he protected his team without thinking?)

The rest of the population saw him as a hero.

His team saw him as a soldier.

Family saw him as the tired warrior he was.

As the scarred boy he was.

Lance's body was on Earth with his family, they hoped it wouldn't never leave.

Lance's mind was still on the war, maybe it wouldn't never leave.

Lance's heart was with himself, too broken to be given to anyone.

Lance wasn't home.

But they would be damned if they wouldn't try to bring him home.