Summary: Voltron. A place to seek companionship. Support. The consolation of like-minded people. That was what it was built for. It was what those who signed up for a membership sought. For the so-named paladins of Voltron, it is just that.

Sometimes, the people we need aren't so easily found. Sometimes we need to find them for ourselves and even then we don't realise they're found until everything just... clicks. For a patchwork of sorry people, the friendship of faceless figures was exactly what was needed.

Rating: T

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Episodic, Eventual Keith/Lance, LGBTQ+ Characters, Angst, Personal Struggles, Self-Loathing, Mutual Support, Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers

Chapter 1: People

01/09 – 07.01 am

PrincessOfAltea: Would anyone like to talk?

PrincessOfAltea: If I talked, would someone listen?

PrincessOfAltea: I don't mind what we talk about. It can be anything you'd like.

PrincessOfAltea: I just want to talk.

PrincessOfAltea: To someone.

PrincessOfAltea: Please.

PrincessOfAltea: I don't like being alone.

1/09 – 03.59pm

PrincessOfAltea: Anyone?

There was no sound beyond the door when he pressed his ear to the wood. He knew there were those who had risen from their beds, but… at that moment, in the hallway there was no one.

Releasing a silent breath, Keith stepped back from the door. Plucking his red and white jacket from the floor, he shrugged the familiar weight onto his shoulders; it was an almost comforting weight despite the relative warmth of the morning. He slipped silently through the door.

No one was in sight, either. With slow steps, Keith crept down the hallway, easing with silent tread down the stairs. It was always better to creep, to not be noticed. If he flew beneath the radar, then there was less chance of a confrontation. Less chance to be poked and prodded. To be seen.

It was never a good idea to be seen. Not by anybody. Not of Keith could help it.

Unfortunately, the room afforded to him was at the far end of the house. The furthest end, as far from the front door as could be. He didn't begrudge it, because any room was good enough. And it was nice. Small, contained. It had a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe with a sliding door. Even a desk of sorts, though the chair that sat at it was too high to properly tuck in.

Keith liked that it was isolated. He had grown to prefer being alone.

Tiptoeing down to the bottom of the steps, Keith crept on silent feet towards the front door. If he glanced over his shoulder, he would be able to see into kitchen. He would see the dining table where Olly sat, munching through a heaped bowl of Cap'n Crunch as he did for every breakfast. He would see Clyde sitting across from him, tearing the crust off his toast as though he was a child with pickiness issues. He'd maybe even see Sara where she bustled around the kitchen getting the two boys' lunches. Keith's too, maybe, but he wouldn't take it. He would never take it.

Slipping into his boots, Keith considered before sparing a moment to crouch and tie his laces. He could hear the sound of conversation echoing from the kitchen and into the hallway but he didn't listen to their words. He didn't want to listen. They would be talking about school, about Clyde's part-time job and Olly's sports training that afternoon. It was Monday so it would be football, but it changed every day. Keith didn't want to be a part of that. It wasn't so much that he disliked talking but just that he simply… wouldn't.

It had been the wrong choice. A bad decision. He shouldn't have paused, shouldn't have crouched to properly tie his boots. Keith should have known it was a bad idea, but he'd grown complacent over the past weeks with little incident. Avoid and evade, act only when necessary. That was the lore he lived by. Why had he chosen to disregard it?

But Peter, Sara's husband, appeared at the head of the stairs, and though his head was bowed over a tablet, the wrinkles on his brow more pronounced in a frown and eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses, he noticed Keith almost immediately. Peter was a kind man, and as it was he met Keith's frozen gaze with an attempt at a warm smile and a nod of greeting. Nothing in his countenance would suggest that Keith hadn't seen him in person in days, let alone talked to him.

"Good morning, Keith. How are you today?"

At the sounds of his words, there was a pause of the conversation in the kitchen. Silenced briefly ensued, and then there was a slight clatter as Sara's voice sounded in exclamation, "Keith? Keith, are you there? Are you awake? Would – would you like some breakfast?"

Keith reflexively glanced towards the kitchen, his eyes the only thing he could move. He saw Sara skirt the table in a bustle of haste to plant herself in the kitchen doorway and adopt an overly-bright smile of greeting, just like her husband. But more than that, over her shoulder Keith saw Clyde. He saw Olly. He saw the older boy pause in picking apart his toast and brow lower in a frown, saw Olly similarly pause with spoon half-raised to his mouth, glance towards Clyde and immediately adopt an identical frown.

Then Keith was gone. With barely a murmur of excuse to Sara's openly hopeful expression, a glance towards Peter, he abandoned the rest of his laces and was out the door. The slam of heavy wood, the click of a lock snapping shut behind him, was resounding and oddly freeing.

Avoid and evade. Confront only when necessary. That was the only way it could be. It was the only way that was safe. Keep his lips closed and interact only when he… needed to?

Red has joined the chatroom.

"Open! I'm open, you – Oh, look at that. We can't rely on your common sense at all, Spaniel."

The so name Spaniel – Sam by birth, but Lance thought he quite resembled a dog, especially when he pouted like that – turned towards him and planted his hands on his hips. "Like you could do any better, Lance."

Lance grinned as he and his makeshift team jogged backwards to the halfway line, Martin dribbling the ball between his feet. "I reckon I could. They don't call me 'The Tailor' for nothing. It's in deference to my weaving abilities."

"I think you're a crock of shit," Martin said from his side, though he and most of the rest of Lance's teammates were laughing good-naturedly. "I've never heard anyone call you that."

"Yeah, well, that's just because no one says it out loud," Lance replied, turning his grin upon him. Then he clapped his hands together and bellowed a resounding, "Alright, let's play some ball already! While we're still young!"

Laughter and enthusiasm met his words as their backyard soccer game flew into action once more. They weren't quite two full teams, but it was enough for a good, solid game with two actual goalies this time. Far better than last week with their minimal numbers. They'd had less then, and odd numbers at that.

Martin kicked off with a firm boot of his foot, sending the ball soaring towards Lance. Lance caught it with his own foot, turned in a defensive circle to defend it from his opponent's attack, and, with a flick out of the way, was dribbling at a run up the field. A pass to Andy, to Spaniel, back to Andy again, and Andy sent it to Lance.

Lance wasn't called the Tailor for no reason, even if it was really only himself who used that nickname. He wove around his opponents. He dodged aside from an attack with a spring of dextrous footwork. He shot and he scored.

Lance's team cried in an enthusiastic outburst of triumph as though they'd just won nationals. Their opponents, good-natured as they were, didn't begrudge them their glory. They never did. It was all in good grace that they played, all for the fun of it. They played because none could play any other way. Just like Lance, they'd missed their chance to be something greater, something bigger.

The opposing team had just scored another goal to the mixed cries of congratulations and light-hearted moans of regret from Lance's team when he saw his little sister arrive. Immediately, Lance felt his smile die on his face and he slowed in step returning towards the halfway line.

Spaniel, at his side and far from persistently indignant for the use of his nickname, slowed alongside him. He noticed Lance's expression almost immediately and raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Lance only shook his head, turned and jogged towards the side of the field. The soccer field itself was barely even half-sized, and ringed by trees alongside a children's playground. It was hardly ideal, but they would use what they could get. Sometimes, however, Lance wished that it wasn't barely a five minute walk from his home. Just a little distance would be nice.

Mika was bouncing on her toes where she stood, waiting for his arrival with dutiful respect alongside rather than upon the field. Lance loved his little sister, even as incessantly flooded with energy as she was, and she reminded him of himself in a lot of ways. That day, however, he couldn't have wanted to see her less.

Even so, Lance still adopted a smile as he drew alongside her. "Hey, Mika. What's up?"

Mika knew he knew, even though he asked. Lance could see it in the tentative smile she adopted that was a sure sight smaller than that she usually wore. She shifted from foot to foot. "Papá says he needs you at the shop if you could."

Lance found himself shifting on his own feet, struggling against the urge to groan. "Now?" He asked, almost pleadingly.

Mika ducked her head. "Yeah, now."

Lance spared a moment to close his eyes. The good humour he always felt when playing soccer was rapidly dwindling and he could feel the ball growing further and further away from him by the second. Loosing a slow exhalation, he nodded. "Alright. Yeah, alright. Give me twenty minutes. I've just got to duck home to get changed."

Mika nodded. "Okay. I'll tell Papá." Then she turned on her heel and all but fled from him, disappearing homeward at a bounding sprint.

Lance allowed himself a moment longer to close his eyes and regret. Then, to the sound of Andy's calling query, he adopted a bright smile and turned towards his teammates and opponents. "I'm really sorry, guys, but I've got to run."

A communal moan sounded, grumbles from both teams, though Lance knew that none begrudged him. "You heading to your dad's shop?" Spaniel called from where he stood, foot propped atop the soccer ball.

Lance nodded. "Yeah, sorry. I'll see you next week."

Calls of "See you" and "You'd better!" followed Lance as he turned away from the field. He didn't begrudge having to help his dad out. Not really. But sometimes… sometimes he did hope for something different. Sometimes he needed an outlet.

Still, he'd do what he had to. He always did.

Sharpshooter18 has joined the chatroom.

The sound of the door clicking open had Pidge squeaking and leaping from her seat. She felt the same flood of irrational guilt well within her as she did when passing a policeman in the streets; she'd done nothing wrong, but reprimand seemed a surety on the horizon.

Slipping from her room and firmly closing the door behind her – her room was hers and she didn't like anyone coming inside – she hastened to the door and peered out into the hallway of her apartment.

At the far end of the hall, her mom was shrugging out of her jacket, hanging it up with practiced precision on the hook waiting alongside the door. Pidge's mom was always perfectly dressed, always appeared neatly groomed even at the very end of the day; hair in a tidy bun, clothes perfectly pressed as though they'd just been steamed, heels clicking in precise steps. Pidge didn't think she could ever be like her mom. Not in a million years.

Did she want to be? Pidge didn't know. She was still trying to figure that part out.

Swallowing her discomfort, Pidge leaned a little further out the door. She cleared her voice slightly before speaking. "Hi, Mom. You're home early."

Her mom glanced towards her, pausing as she stepped out of her heels and onto stockinged feet. She offered Pidge a small, distracted smile. "Hello, Katie. Did you have a nice day at school?" And then, before Pidge could even reply. "Have you done your homework? I hope you've done your homework before you've started playing games."

Always the reprimand, Pidge thought to herself. Why yes, Mom, if I hadn't done my homework and instead whiled the afternoon playing RPGs, I would most certainly admit it to you. Instead of speaking her thoughts, Pidge simply nodded once more. "Yes, I'm finished."

"Good girl," her mom said before, without another word, she disappeared through the doorway halfway along the hall into the kitchen and living room.

Pidge found herself releasing a sigh of relief. What had she expected? Her mom hadn't truly snapped at her in frustration in… it must have been weeks now. Months? Pidge couldn't remember. She should have confidence in her mom, she really should. Besides, when she got angry, it was always within reason. It wasn't like she would –

"Katie!"

The call echoed from the living room and Pidge flinched. Swallowing tightly once more, she leaned further out of her door. "Yes, Mom?"

"Have you had someone over today?"

Why yes, Mom, I would certainly invite someone over – and a stranger at that – because I know just how much you love people coming into your spotless house. Because you know how riddled with friends my schooling experience is. Of course I'd have every single one of them over. "No, Mom. Why?"

"Whose shoes are these, then? They're not yours."

Pidge felt herself grow cold. Shoes… when had she…? Had she left them…? Struggling to keep her voice steady, Pidge replied with as much nonchalance as she could manage. "Oh, you mean in the lounge? Yes, they're mine."

"They're… yours?"

Please don't question it, please. Really, is it that weird? It's not that weird, is it? "I bought them the other day. I wanted to try something different."

There was a long pause in which Pidge thought her heart stopped and she hardly dared breathe. Was it so bad? Was it so terrible if her mom found out? Pidge didn't need to be logical and a government proclaimed 'exceptional student' to know that it wasn't. That it should be allowed. So why didn't it feel allowed?

"This is unusual for you," her mom finally said. The soft thumps of footsteps bespoke her approach through the living room and Pidge fought to school her expression before she appeared in the hallway once more. When she did, Pidge resolutely met her gaze rather than drawing it to the shoes hooked over her fingers. "But so long as it wasn't a wasted purchase. Make sure you keep your shoes beside the door in future, please."

And just like that, the potential for a storm passed. Pidge's mom dropped the shoes beside the door and, without another glance towards Pidge, disappeared once more.

Pidge sagged at the bannister, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the railing. She shouldn't be so worried. No, she shouldn't be so scared. And yet she was. Against all logic – because she didn't know how her mom would respond – she was starkly terrified. If her brother Matt were here, he would help. He would be able to reassure her.

But he wasn't. And riddled with a mixture of guilt, relief and self-loathing, Pidge all but crawled back into her bedroom. Her room was her sanctuary. Her place. She didn't have to hide anything there. She could be herself, with just her computers for company.

DiffWitch has entered the chatroom.

It was early evening by the time they got home, but that hardly mattered. Hunk was as bright and wide-awake as if he'd just gotten up barely hours before. Which, he would admit, he sort of had. Semi-nocturnal work hours did that to a person.

"I'll set up a better ramp," Hunk said as he and his mom trundled up the footpath along the main road. He turned her chair at their gate to sidle through the fence that skirted their squat little house. "It shouldn't be too hard seeing as there's only two steps, but it'll be better then having to shake you so much when we're on the move. I'm sorry the other one broke; I probably didn't reinforce it well enough. I'll make it better next time."

His mom didn't reply. She didn't turn to look at Hunk over her shoulder as he spoke, as he pushed her wheelchair towards the shallow steps before their front door. But Hunk didn't mind. He didn't need her acknowledgement.

"I bet I could rustle together a whole bunch of ramps, actually," he said, weaving around a piece of… something that he didn't want to think about that lay in the middle of their path. There was always junk thrown into their front lawn; Hunk's dad wasn't a popular person. Or he hadn't been. Despite his complete absence of nearly two years, Hunk was still forced to scrub graffiti from their front windows every so often, to say nothing of the rubbish that was lobbed onto their front lawn every other day.

Hunk ignored that, kept his tone bright as they wheeled the rest of the way up the footpath to the front door. "Larry from down at the shop said he'd be happy to give me some scrap metal and timber if I need it." Hunk turned his mother's chair around as he stopped at the steps before tugging her up after him with a grunt. "You know I," he paused at another grunt, "I think he likes you. He's always had a soft spot for our family but I'm pretty sure it's mostly you."

Still no reply, but Hunk still wasn't expecting one. His mom hadn't spoken a word in nearly a year. Not since the first incident.

The house was empty when Hunk opened the door, propping it wide enough for him to wheel his mom inside. A small house, just large enough for the two of them and his Gran when she came around almost every day, it was a blessing that it was only one level so that Hunk didn't have to struggle with more stairs.

Wheeling his mom into the kitchen, he kicked one of the chairs out from the dining table aside to make room to tuck her in. He paused to read the note in his gran's slanted script, made out the words 'I'll be back by six', before disregarding it and turning towards his mom. "Can I get you something to eat, maybe? I know you had something at the hospital but everyone knows hospital food can barely even be classified as real food." Hunk skirted the table, glancing in his mom's direction before turning away from her blank gaze once more. "Here, I'll bake you up some shortbread. I know you always like my shortbread. You said it was proof that I was an angel when I was little, do you remember? Maybe not, but I do."

Without further ado, Hunk set about throwing together a simple batch of biscuits, chattering to himself and his mom as he did. The familiar sounds of a wooden spoon scraping in the bowl, of trays clanking noisily, of the oven humming to life, were soothing to Hunk. He'd always been a kitchen boy in the brightest sense of the term. He enjoyed cooking. It was no wonder that he found himself there for most of the day when he was home. Larry, his local mechanic, had on numerous occasions asked him to apprentice down at the shop – he said Hunk had a gift for engineering that he shouldn't squander, even if he wasn't going to college – but in a lot of ways Hunk thought working in a kitchen suited him better.

Besides, this way his hours corresponded with those his mom would need him more. It wasn't fair to rely too heavily on his Gran, willing as she claimed to be.

The rich, heady scent of butter flooded the house with warmth, and as Hunk cleaned the kitchen with therapeutically familiar motions, he found himself smiling. Nothing quite lightened the mood like a batch of homemade biscuits. He was still smiling when he took himself to the dining table and dropped into the chair opposite his mom.

"I only made a small batch – only about a dozen – because we'll probably have to hide them all before Gran gets here," Hunk explained, wiping his hands on a tea towel before folding it before him on the table. He dropped his elbows alongside it, resting his chin on a fist and meeting his mom's gaze. "I think she's only having us on, though. I don't think she really disapproves sweet things."

Hunk grinned, fond reminiscence of his Gran turning teasing. His mom didn't reply.

"I asked Pops one time when I was little why she didn't like baking so much when she was such a good cook, and he said it wasn't that she didn't like it but that she liked it too much. He said she liked it so much that when she was younger she was as plump as a well-fed chook and had to stop or else she'd pop." He laughed and spared a glance down for his own belly. "I guess she passed that on to me, at least."

His mom still didn't reply. She didn't smile but simply stared at Hunk blankly, barely even blinking. Hunk swallowed his rising melancholy, that which always arose when he was left with himself for too long, and reaffirmed his smile.

"Did Gran do any baking with you, Mom? I wonder if she stopped before she had you or if it was after."

No reply.

"If I asked Gran to bake with me, do you think she would? She pretends to be a bit so hard, but I know she's as soft as cookie dough. Do you think I could trick her into it? I think it's a great way to bond and all that, working in the kitchen with someone and sharing what you've made.

Still nothing. Nothing but the increasingly strong scent of baking shortbread growing in the air. Hunk stared at his mom to the gradual falling of his smile. Sometimes it was just too hard to maintain.

Sighing, he dropped his chin, gaze falling down to the pockmarked table. There was the mark he'd made when he'd put the oven-hot tray upon it surface when he was six. Over there, the groove made by a wayward knife – and a butterknife at that – when he'd tried to cut through a rock cake that was truly as hard as a rock at ten years old. Scarred and bruised, the table bespoke the centre of Hunk's house and home better than any other piece of furniture did. It held memories, their dining table did.

"Wish you could bake with me again, Mom. I miss our Sunday morning bake-offs."

Hunk was speaking more to himself that to his mom now. On an innate level, he knew that she wouldn't reply. On a level that he didn't and wouldn't acknowledge, he understood that she never would. One stroke was bad luck. Two was horrendous. Three… it was a miracle that his mom was even still alive. No one really expected her to do more than blink for herself ever again.

"I miss that, Mom," Hunk murmured to himself, because he wasn't sure if she'd even hear it. A miracle it might be that his mom was still even here, but sometimes…

Sometimes it did feel incredibly lonely.

Butterfingers has entered the chatroom.

The last thing Shiro recalled was an explosion. A fierce, sharp, booming echo that vibrated to his core, and the smacking impact of a force striking his shoulder, tearing his assault rifle from his hand.

Then nothing. He couldn't remember any pain, no bouts of hysteria in half-consciousness, no struggling to cling to awareness when every inch of his body was fighting to stay awake. There was just nothingness.

That scared Shiro more than anything.

Blinking into wakefulness, Shiro squinted around himself. Brightness. He got a sense of brightness, of light, and the smell of something vaguely sterile. Then the blurriness of his vision faded and the room made itself more clearly apparent.

Not a room. Not quite. A tent, he saw, though an expansive one. A familiar tent, for everyone knew what a field hospital looked like even if they hadn't had to utilise the services of one before. The longer Shiro squinted the less bright it became until, with a final blink to vanquish most of the foggy blurriness, he peered around himself.

Rows of beds lined each side of him. A white, curving ceiling sagged slightly like the tent it was. Fluorescent lights lined the very centre of that ceiling. Turning his head, Shiro could make out the vague shapes of figures in scrubs pulled over their uniforms. Another series of fierce blinking and Shiro realised his head wasn't quite as clear as he'd hoped he'd made it. Grogginess slowed his thoughts, cluttering his mind as if with cotton wool. He had the sense of it stoppering somehow, of numbness, of discomfort thinly veiled behind that softness, but he couldn't make it out.

What… happened?

Maybe he made some noise. Maybe he moved a little more noticeably than before. Shiro wasn't sure, but something must have drawn the attention of the field medics at the far end of the tent because the conversation paused for a moment before one figure detached themselves from the group and hastened to his side. Shiro was afforded a sense of blue, of efficient motions, of a pale face, above said face was leaning over him slightly with a small smile upon her lips. She was a little older than him, it would seem, though Shiro wasn't sure how he knew. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe he was wrong entirely.

"Hello, Shirogane," she said, her voice low and deliberately soothing. "How are you feeling today?"

Shiro blinked slowly before, with a herculean effort and a frown to accompany it, he struggled to push himself upright. The medic reached for him and a gentle touch to his shoulder was all that was needed to erase his feeble efforts. "Don't try and move. You might do yourself further injury. Not to mention that you're heavy medicated at the moment and would be more likely to fall off your bed than to climb."

Injured? It was the only part that made any sense in Shiro's mind. What… what injury? Shiro couldn't remember getting injured. He couldn't recall being carted to the field hospital, but… there had been the explosion.

What had happened? He couldn't remember.

He must have spoken his thoughts because, though he couldn't recall asking, the medic spoke in reply. "You checked in at oh-six-hundred hours two mornings ago in a critical state," she said quietly, softly yet with the edge of formality to her words. "We've had to keep you under until we managed to get you stable."

"What happened to me?" Shiro actually heard himself ask the question this time, blinking up at the medic hazily. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. "What's wrong? What –?" He paused as the thought registered within him with a detached kind of panic. "What about the rest of my – my platoon? Is – my captain, was he -?"

Shiro didn't know what made him think they were in danger because he couldn't remember what had happened. In many ways that was the most distressing part. Why couldn't he remember?

But the medic was touching his shoulder once more, her fingers squeezing gently. "They're fine. No severe casualties other than to yourself, and those that have acquired injuries have already been seen to." She gestured up the length of the tent and Shiro followed her finger to several occupied beds, the soldiers within propped up on their pillows. He couldn't make out who they were, but he was relieved that they seemed alright nonetheless.

"That's… that's good," he said, sinking back onto the thin pillow. "That's alright, then."

The medic offered him another small smile before continuing. "You arrived in a critical condition, Shirogane. We've stabilised you but, given your circumstances, you'll need to transfer to back to base. We'll have our specialists take a further look at you there, but… I'm sorry. There wasn't much we could do."

Her regretful tone was ominous and Shiro stared up at her with growing foreboding. "What… are you talking about? What's wrong?"

The medic gestured towards him, towards his right shoulder that was even then, in spite of his attempts to sit up, still tucked beneath the thin white sheet. "I'm sorry. We couldn't do anything to save it."

In a fumbling scramble, Shiro flipped the sheet down from his shoulder and dropped his gaze. He stared. And stared. And only after it gradually began to make sense did he close his eyes and squeeze them to try to rid himself of the sight he'd seen.

"I'm truly sorry, Shirogane," the medic murmured, all smile absented from her voice. "You have responded bravely and remarkably, but we'll be transferring you as soon as is possible. You should take this time to rest and recuperate. To regroup. There's nothing else that you could have…"

Shiro tuned out the medic's words. He didn't want to hear them. He couldn't let himself hear them anymore. The army was his life, had always been his dream, but now… with his arm like that…

What possible use did he have now? What function could he possibly serve to the army he'd so fought to be a part of?

The thought was horribly depressing and Shiro didn't speak another word before he was transferred out.

08/09 – 09.12pm

BlackLion007 has entered the chatroom.

BlackLion007: Hello, Princess.

BlackLion007: I'd be more than willing to listen to you.

BlackLion007: Although forgive me if I interrupt. I have a tendency to engage in two-way conversations.

PrincessOfAltea: Oh, but of course! What kind of a conversation wouldn't involve the participation of two people?

PrincessOfAltea: Hello, Sir Knight, it's a pleasure to meet you.

BlackLion007: Knight? That seems a little too honourable for me, I'm afraid.

PrincessOfAltea: Not in the least. You spoke to me when I asked and that was what I needed most. But would you prefer something else?

BlackLion007: Something else?

PrincessOfAltea: Warrior? Champion? Paladin, perhaps? I always liked that one.

BlackLion007: That's quite a range of possibilities you've given me there. Tell me, Princess, are you perhaps a walking thesaurus?

PrincessOfAltea: Well, I'm not sure about that, but I do try.

PrincessOfAltea: Do you have a preference?

BlackLion007: Do we need a name?

PrincessOfAltea: But of course we do. How else will we refer to ourselves?

BlackLion007: Well in that case, I wouldn't presume to steal the honour of our naming from you, Princess. You are, after all, the instigator.

PrincessOfAltea: The instigator? Hm… I'll have to consider that.

PrincessOfAltea: But I suppose I'll take this as an opportunity. You will be my paladin. Yes, I think that has a nice ring to it.

BlackLion007: I live to serve, Princess. Your word is my command.

PrincessOfAltea: I don't really have a command. I just want to talk. And listen. Is that alright?

BlackLion007: Of course.

BlackLion007: I think for me that sounds just about perfect.

BlackLion007: Forgive me if I sound extravagant, but I think that's exactly what I need right now.

A/N: So, what do you think of the first chapter? I hope you liked it, because I've got a whole heap to come! Please let me know your thoughts - liked it, didn't (hopefully not) - and leave a review if you get the chance. Thank you!