You ask me why I'm weary

Why I can't speak to you

You blame me for my silence

Say it's time I changed and grew.

But the war's still going on, dear

And there's no end that I know

And I can't say if we're ever,

I can't say if we're ever gonna be free.

~Blue Öyster Cult "Veteran of the Psychic Wars"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Pictures of You

Bored, Lance closed the report. He was sitting in his bunk, surrounded by evidence that it was usually Yrta's. The Galra had papered the wall with photos of friends and family, including one especially grumpy looking Galra male whom Lance assumed was the injured Kav. I mean, seriously, who peed in that guy's Corn Flakes?

He tapped his holoscreen, pulling up his image library, hoping, as he did, that he didn't have anything incriminating or too embarrassing in the images. It wasn't like he was the kind of guy who ever took or sent dick pix. As much as he liked that part of himself, he'd never seen the point of sending other people photographic evidence of its existence.

Wait. There might be something nearly as mortifying as phallus photos. That time, drunk in a casino in New Las Vegas on Mars. He winced. His recollections of that misadventure began when he woke in a jail cell wearing a kilt and nothing else. The hows and whys of the kilt were still a mystery, but the incident, in addition to a "drunken and disorderly" charge (dropped because, "hurray!" ex-Paladin), resulted in horrifying selfies, which he may have forgotten to delete. Oh, well, it was done now; his images were Pidge's images too.

The first image on the screen was brand new, taken this morning.

"Come, on," he had said. "One photo."

Uncharacteristically shy, Pidge had looked down at her hands. She was sitting in the pilot's seat. "I don't really like…can't you just get an image off the feeds?"

"I don't want a stiff academic photo. I want a photo of the real you. Come on, hermosa, smile."

She looked up, her expression pained and annoyed.

"You look like you swallowed a fly."

At that, she snorted laughter and hit him.

It was worth it, getting hit. The resulting image was a masterpiece, her pretty face alight with mirth.

If his only accomplishment for the rest of his life was making that woman smile, he could die a happy man. Admittedly, though, he was regularly fantasizing about doing more than smile with her.

Contrary to the loverboy image he had desperately tried to cultivate in his Garrison and Voltron days, his experience then had been limited. Back in Cuba, he'd kissed a few girls and a couple of boys, and later shed his virginity at Galaxy Garrison with a girl named Kelly. Kissing boys had been pleasant but underwhelming. At the time, he concluded it was a matter of skill. Boys just didn't know how to kiss as well as girls.

In his early twenties, however, a one-night stand with a fellow merc mostly settled the matter. He probably chose Jake because the man was so like Shiro, a big, space marine type with just enough grace to nudge him from "brutish" to "beautiful."

Lance liked the way Jake pressed him hard against the wall in the cheap bedsit, his mouth and muscular body claiming him forcefully. Their first kiss had been just a tick short of brutal and raging hot. Lance's sense of touch, however, had stumbled when as he ran his hand over his lover, and found, not sweet feminine curves, but hard masculine contours. His brain has hiccupped, "Wait, what?" when Jake's rock-hard dick pressed against his abdomen. Fortunately, Jake, for all his dominant power, was skilled and gentle, especially with a newbie, and Lance was grateful for the experience.

In the morning, before leaving, Jake set his hands on either side of Lance's face, caught his eyes and said, "McClain, you're a thing of beauty, which is why it's a damned shame you're not into this. Now go find a pretty girl and fuck her brains out." Lance had laughed and Jake gave him one last sweet kiss, which was nice because that boy could kiss.

The encounter was pleasurable, but men didn't usually fire up Lance's blood as women did. He refused to think of himself as straight; he preferred "flexible." But one thing was clear.

He loved women.

Loved the way even the hardest female merc could be delightfully soft. He loved the shape of women, from voluptuous to skinny, loved their curves and lack of edges. Loved sinking into warm, velvety pussy.

Of course, he had a type—willowy and athletic. Like Allura.

Like Pidge.

His eyes moved over the lines of her face, familiar and also new.

He couldn't recall ever thinking about Pidge as much more than a best friend. Of course, because he was male, and ruled by hormones, there'd been the occasional, Pidge-centric wet dream, especially once he realized she was a girl. How could he have not known? Holy crow, his teenage self was a tonto!

Pidge Holt, however, didn't fit into his narrow definition of girlfriend material. And yet, there had been something about her that drew him in, drove him to be in her company. Of all the Paladins, ignoring her had hurt the most; her absence a constant ache for years, long after his heart had moved on from Allura.

When had he moved on from Allura? Sooner, he reckoned, than others probably believed.

"Heads up, flaco," Pidge said, breaking his revery. A package of jerky, thrown by her, nearly missed his head.

"Thanks," he said to her back as she headed to the cockpit. He allowed himself a quick leer at her cute little bottom as it retreated. Her hips were narrow, but that ass was a marvel, beautifully round. He dragged his eyes to the ceiling, before the fantasy of grabbing that gorgeous ass sent him running into the lavatory for a one-man rocket mission

It probably had taken Lance longer to get over the idea of Allura, than the actual person. He had truly loved her, in his teenage way, his feelings a stew of dreamy-eyed fantasy boiled in testosterone. She was larger-than-life, the sophisticated space princess, untouchable and beyond reproof. In the year following her death, he tried to canonized her with his grief, and in the process turned his feelings into slow-burning resentment. Because no one is perfect, and in imbuing her with sainthood, he had set her up for failure. Especially with regard to the marks she left on his face, which quickly began to feel like a cruel trick.

In retrospect, he realized she had existed ten thousand years, but only lived twenty. She was just a kid, too. Her motivations for the Altean marks on his face were a mystery, but he figured, she had meant well. In recent years, he had come to peace with them, even if they still elicited questions he didn't want asked.

What did Pidge think about them? She was too level-headed to see him as a project and she knew he wasn't Altean.

Do you think I'm still hung up on Allura? I'll always miss her but I've moved on.

Hel, he never even had sex with Allura, because he had put her up on a pedestal and was, frankly more than a little intimidated by her. (Was more than a little concerned that King Alfor might arise from the dead and turn him into a wet, red splotch on the Castle of Lions' floor if he tried to round all the bases.)

With Allura he'd worked hard to be a man, not the goofy boy who thought farting in a spaceship was the pinnacle of humor. No one, Lance included, would ever argue that he needed to grow the fuck up. But the persona he affected around Allura felt like a new pair of work boots: attractive but uncomfortable and in need of a metric-quiznak of break-in time.

Of course, Pidge was intimidating, but in a different way. She thought he was dumber than a bag of hammers and twice as irritating. Short of a brain transplant, there was nothing he could do about that. So, he'd never bothered to be anyone other than Lance with Pidge. She'd seen him at his worst. Right now, desperate to make amends, repair a broken friendship and maybe win her heart, he still couldn't imagine being anyone other than himself in her presence.

Being with Pidge felt like coming home to Cuba after weeks in space.

Pidge already knows me better than Allura did.

Katie sat on her bed, reading a message from Shiro. In it, along with the usual pleasantries, he reminded that Athena was due for a firm- and software upgrade soon.

She began her reply:

Hi Shiro!

Thanks for the reminder. I'll bring my girl in as soon as I return from Titan. I'm doing well, just cracked a problem with my soil interface. Yrta is good too, but Kav was seriously injured in an accident at the docks. The good news is he's expected to make a full recovery.

She paused considering her next words, just as Lance wandered in from the cockpit, and began rummaging around the kitchen, searching for another snack.

Guess who's with me? Guess! Lance McClain, our missing Paladin. He's

Her eyes traveled the lean masculine expanse of his shoulders and back, taking in the breathtaking geometry.

He's looking good.

No! She frowned and deleted. Meanwhile he leaned over, affording a perfect view of his tight ass.

He's delicious and hot like peanut butter cookies straight out of the oven.

"UGH!"

Lance turned, a package of jerky in his hands. "What's up?"

"If you eat all our food, we'll starve before we ever reach Titan."

Amused, he stuck out his tongue, before popping a piece of jerky in his mouth. He sauntered back to the cockpit, jerky hanging from his mouth like a cigar.

Annoyed, she deleted all mention of him and ended the message with:

I hope Curtis and the kids are doing great! Love forever, Pidge

Removing her glasses, she rubbed her face, feeling the heat of another blush under her fingertips.

Lance McClain? Really, Katie? At what point had she regressed into a dingbat girl who got tingly over a pretty face and a few meaningless flirtations? Flirting was a feature, not a bug, with Lance McClain. Definitely not something to take seriously.

Her emotions a bizarre mess of confused and irritated, she opened his image library again and found the photos of Zahra. Smokin' hawt pop star fell for him, too. Pidge zoomed in, taking in Zahra's jet-black hair, sultry black eyes, and kissable lips. The most aggravating part about her renewed crush on Lance was that it brought out all her old insecurities. Like a foul-smelling blast from the past, she was once again looking at his girlfriend—well, ex-girlfriend, but same difference-and thinking, "I'm sooo not that girl."

This was why she didn't do relationships.

Aside from her brief marriage to Dr. Eric Nelson, her sexual experience was limited. Sex just wasn't a motivating force in her life. Men and women did hit on her. And sometimes, in an attempt at "normal," she'd hit back. But sex without a strong emotional bond felt like a chore and Dr. Katie Holt, though basically kind-hearted, didn't bond that easily.

Deep, close friendship was the best aphrodisiac.

Which, limited to her choices to two people. Yrta and Keith. Keith had whatever he had with Acxa, and even Katie, with her inept peopling skills, knew he wasn't interested in her. Besides, he was still Keith, Captain EmoPants.

And there was Yrta. Except Yrta was all about men, and bound to the misery that was Kav like glue. And though Katie loved Yrta as a friend, Yrta just wasn't her type.

What was her type, she wondered? She'd often had a thing for quirky, sort of androgynous women.

"Yes!" Lance crowed triumphantly from the cockpit. Katie sighed. Apparently, her other type was skinny, goofball boys masquerading as grown men.

She flicked back in time through the image library. Lance and his mercenary companions stared back at her. Her fingers zoomed in on his face and a warning klaxon rang in her chest. The door to her heart, impenetrably locked, was ajar. Her rock-solid conviction that his flirtations were meaningless was eroding.

If this, whatever it was between them, was real; if she and Lance could happen; even if all they'd ever be was friends, she had to know the truth about that picture.

Translations-

Hermosa: Beautiful.

Tonto: Dumb-ass.

Flaco: Skinny.

Thanks for reading to Chapter Eleven!