My pizza is burnt, my beer is frozen,
And my girlfriend is pregnant.
…I can't pull anything out on time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Carb Loading
Officially, Keith's Galra starship only had a registry number, but no name. No doubt because the Galran Empire had spent thousands of years conquering anyone with a pulse, and lost the ability to be sentimental about much of anything, including spaceships.
Katie couldn't bear the thought of the starfighter going out into the universe unnamed. She had christened the ship—literally, with a dab of peanut butter—Thorn. Like everything the Galra manufactured, Thorn was a spiny gray beast because the Galra were all about aggressive, pointy profiles. Keith's initial reaction to the name had been ambivalence, but worn down by Katie's persistence, even he now referred to the starship by her spiky name.
Obliterated by injury and exhaustion, Katie had fallen dead asleep, still dressed, the instant she collapsed onto her bed. Seven hours later she awoke still dressed—though Lance must've taken off her shoes—sore and groggy. Athena's cabin lights were on but muted, and her traveling companion already back in the cockpit. She fumbled on her glasses, doing the usual status checks, glad to see Thorn's familiar signal shadowing Athena. Her bladder, bursting from bubble tea, pinged and she staggered off to the lavatory.
"Morning, gorgeous," Lance said, when she emerged.
"My hair's in knots. I haven't bathed—"
"And I haven't shaved," he noted, rubbing his five o'clock shadow. "We make a rhyme."
"Dork." She sat down heavily on her bed.
"Think you can handle some cereal?" When she nodded, he brought her a bowl, spoon, and a cup of chamomile tea.
"Leaves in water? I want coffee."
"Caffeine won't play nice with your meds." As she began to eat, he gave her two injections—Danoscen, a slightly more powerful version of aspirin, a shot of healing factors, and antibiotics. He returned the injectors to the med kit and then went into the lavatory. Returning, he sat beside her, brush in hand and began working the tangles from her hair. The effect was hypnotic; she munched on the cereal, in time with Lance's careful brushstrokes.
When had someone last babied her like this? Eric sure as Hel wouldn't have bothered.
Mom.
He had a knack for working out the nastiest tangles in seconds. Where had he learned to do that? His sisters, probably, or his niece. When he was done, he ruffled her hair, undoing some of his work. She swatted at his hand. "Why'd you do that?"
"Because nerd girl is always a little rumpled."
The comment stung, awakening an old insecurity. "Why do you call me that?" His perplexed expression annoyed her more, especially in the wake of his previous kindness. "Is that what you see? Even now? A nerd?"
"Well, yeah." He plucked her glasses off her face and put them on. Squinting though the glasses, he said, "I don't see the problem."
Her mouth opened and closed, trying to formulate a coherent response. In general, she wore her love of science with pride. Why did it bother her coming from him? "Nerd means different, strange…wrong, right?"
His gaze moved over her face and she felt him reading her, possibly better than she read herself. Unnerved, she looked down and picked at the bottom of her shirt.
"Hey." He nudged his knee against hers. When she looked up, he ran the brush over her head, tidying the strands he'd mussed. "Different's not wrong. It's just…different. Of course, you're different. Everybody's different. It's how we tell each other apart."
"That's not what I mean by 'different.'"
"'Nerd.' 'Goofball.' They're just labels for different kinds of different." Their eyes met, blue to brown, and something passed between them, a funny little swirl of understanding and humor. He set the brush down and then took off the glasses. He slipped them onto her face, his fingers pushing back her hair to tuck them over her ears. "I mean 'nerd' as a term of endearment. I'll stop using it since it hurts you."
"It doesn't. And it does and doesn't." Ugh. Why was it so hard? Talking about feelings? How could she explain that his words were a comforting code patch over years of malware built by childhood insecurities?
Instead, she said, simply, "If I can still call you 'Goofball'—as a term of endearment—you can call me 'Nerd.'"
He nodded, his eyes moving down her face. "Please don't hit me." Then he kissed her.
It began as the slightest whiff of lips on lips, contact gradually increasing. Momentarily stunned, it took a few seconds before she realized that kissing him back might be a good idea. She leaned into the kiss, as if his lips were all that kept her upright. Encouraged by this, he slid his hand up along her jawline, gentle fingers tangling in her hair at the back of her head.
His mouth moved against hers with exquisite urgency, as though conducting an experiment into the probabilities of attraction. She wasn't a fan of unshaven, but sensation of rough stubble on her skin gave the otherwise tender kiss a heady rawness. His hand cradled the back of her skull, guiding her mouth against his. Painkiller and sedative sludge still swam in her blood, but her usually lethargic libido swept aside brain fog, holding up several pages of calculations and charts, and proclaimed: "Data is conclusive. Him! Let's get naked and silly with him."
Just as quickly as it had begun it was over. Even in her limited experience, she knew, as kisses went, it was far from passionate. More like a couple of teens charting the shallow waters of physical love; mostly lips, just a brush of tongues. And she wanted more.
When he broke the kiss, his face seemed suddenly much younger, like he was just as surprised by the kiss. Or maybe, she thought, surprised I didn't deck him. He kissed her forehead. "You need rest."
After you just kissed the Hel out of me? Were she not so completely unmoored by injury and drugs, she would have dragged him back. Instead, she watched him put things away in the kitchen, noting that as he sauntered back to the cockpit, he looked entirely too pleased with himself. Her brain fizzing like a shorted-out electric circuit, she groaned and flopped backwards heavily onto her bed.
A few minutes later, he spoke from the cockpit. "Should we slow down? You seem to be having trouble keeping up in that Galra garbage scull."
"Kosmo's favorite food is Cuban and he's mighty hungry." Keith's voice, over the coms, carried its familiar dry tone.
"That would be cruel—to Kosmo."
"How's our patient?"
"She hasn't hit me in several hours."
"So, she's delirious?"
Katie rolled her eyes and fell asleep.
Katie wasn't inclined to be rescued, or helpless. But there was something so inordinately lovely about Lance's ready adoption of the role of caregiver, that she let him give her another dose of meds at lunchtime, along with soup and sandwich.
There was a limit to how much she'd wallow, however, so she shooed him out of the cockpit and took her turn for the afternoon. After an hour of moving text and numbers around on an expense report, her eyes drifted to the niche where images of her friends and family lived, aware of a particular omission. She opened up Lance's image library.
A series of photos at the beach were fun, and in her state of semi-aroused, but not-satisfied libido, the few including Lance in swim shorts, slim brown torso gleaming in the Cuban sun, drove the blood from her brain.
One photo, however, was breathtaking.
In it Lance sat in a kitchen, a guitar in hand and a music stand a few feet away. All clues suggested this was his family's kitchen. A red brick floor was beneath his feet, the cabinets in the background were painted cheerful blue and yellow; countertops blue, white and yellow tile. On the wall, a wood plague read: "Esta es la Cocina del Elvia. Tu la Ensucias, Tu la Limpias." Beside it, on a wooden shelf, sat a small Gaia santo clothed in an elaborate green gown, punctuated by tiny seashells.
Lance was dressed in blue jeans and a blue T-shirt, with white socks, no shoes. Seeing the color blue on him, absent after so long, was almost shocking. He was playing a classical guitar. Katie knew this because her mom had been a decent player, and used music as a means of working out scientific problems. "There's music in the universe's underlying architecture," she had said.
The expression on Lance's face sealed the deal. His blue eyes slightly narrowed in concentration, his posture relaxed and face almost ethereal in its softness. It was the face of a man who had never seen combat, never scraped a friend's brains off his clothing.
The scar on his left hand, present in the photo, however, belied that narrative.
With his long, beautiful fingers, he probably could work out alternative fingerings, avoiding the pinkie. But it couldn't be easy, not with half his hand partially numb.
She sent the photo to her own library, making it her background image, and vowing as she did, that whatever happened between them, she'd see that hand repaired properly.
"Good afternoon, folks and welcome to Athena," said Lance in smooth commercial pilot voice. "Local time is 5PM and the temperature is a constant 24-degrees Celsius. We know you have no choice but thank you for choosing Cosmic Air for all your interdimensional travel. Please note, we are not responsible for fingers and limbs lost to the wolf's teeth."
Keith, who had just appeared in Athena's cockpit via Cosmic Air, aka Kosmo, blinked in the haze of blue sparks and eyed him stonily. "Pidge is right," he said, handing Lance a bottle of beer. "You're a dork."
The little hopper smelled like a pizzeria. Katie and Lance had been busy making pies in anticipation of Keith's arrival for dinner. The process itself was quick with the food preparator handling most of the work. The ensuing arguments as to what constituted a topping, on the other hand, had devolved into lengthy debate. They'd agreed that pineapple was pizza heresy, but Lance insisted a pizza without mushrooms would rip apart the space-time continuum, while Katie growled, "Nobody puts slimy fungus on my pizza."
"So, we only put mushrooms on half."
"Ew! Are you kidding? I'll know the evil fungi are lurking, right at the border, ready to invade."
"Right," said Lance. "You're insane. Beautiful, but insane."
This was followed by the great pepperoni vs. sausage conundrum with Lance grumbling that "Sausage is a sad poser trying to be pepperoni." Katie had nixed onions and garlic, because she hoped more kissing might happen—not that she'd admit her reason aloud. When the dust settled, Lance had a few new bruises on his ribs and they'd compromised—black olives instead of mushrooms (Lance: "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you when a black hole opens up around us."), no onions or garlic (Lance: "Forget black holes—space vampires!"), and pepperoni and sausage.
Katie gave Kosmo's ears a gentle tug before holding out a package. He opened his fanged maw and with dainty precision took the package, then showered the cockpit with more sparks as he blipped back to Thorn. The package contained pepperoni, ham and Canadian bacon pizzas—Galras were all about the meats—cosmic pizza delivery for Bonnie and Clyde who were still on-board Keith's starfighter. The wolf reappeared seconds later, a smug, sharp-toothed grin on his face, enjoying his role as taxi and delivery service.
Earlier, Katie had gone Cosmic Air to upgrade Thorn's decloaking program with the simulacrum. While there, she'd invited Keith over to Athena for dinner. Friendship, even when one party wasn't ghosting the other, was a challenge when folks lived in different solar systems. She was eager to take advantage of her friends' proximity.
With practiced ease, Lance snapped the top off the beer bottle, took a drink and then read the label. "The Saucy Nun brewery. Bad Habit IPA. I didn't know they made IPAs."
Keith handed a bottle of fizzy watermelon drink to Katie, who, thanks to meds, was on the wagon. "It's new. I pulled it from Acxa's stash."
"You stole Acxa's beer?" said Katie. "She's going to rip off your arm and beat you with the wet end." Galras were all about Earth's alcoholic beverages, especially beer.
Keith smiled and looked at his feet. "She might." His dark violet eyes widened as a sudden youthful uncertainly softened his face. "Acxa's pregnant."
"What? How?" said Katie.
"Well, Pidge," said Lance, "when a man and a woman love each other, they get naked and—"
Her fist made a satisfying thump against Lance's ribs. She bloody well knew how babies got made. But last she'd heard, Keith and Acxa had been on another break, with Acxa once again spending time with Veronica. The Keith-Acxa-Veronica-Matt lust rectangle was so complicated it needed a flow chart. She lunged forward, hugging Keith. "Congratulations!"
"How far along is she?" said Lance.
"A little over four phoebs. We wanted to be sure before we told anyone. Because…weird genetics."
"Yay! I'm going to be an aunt again." This, Katie decided, was the best day ever!
Lance's body pressed against hers, joining in the hug. "This kid won't have any shortage of uncles."
Keith drew back and fixed Lance with a hard stare. "This mean you really are sticking around?"
"Like chewing gun under a table."
Katie's groan was echoed by Keith's. "Let's eat." Maybe a mouthful of food would cut off the flow of corny jokes and stop her from laughing at said corny jokes.
Athena wasn't made for dinner parties, even when dinner didn't get fancier than beer and pizza, so Katie's bed served as impromptu seating. Katie sat between the two men. Not precisely between, though. After several seconds of obligatory overthinking, analyzing possible outcomes and worrying about misread social cues, she reminded herself that Katie Holt was supposed to be brave. Taking a bite of pizza—and ignoring the pepperoni—she sat close to Lance, trying to behave as though this were totally normal, nothing to see here, I'm-just-propping-Lance-up.
Torn between the urge to leap back up versus snuggle closer, she switched on the bunk's built-in screen and soon all three were laughing at videos in Lance's and her libraries.
The Narvinal and B had exited her system and her thoughts moved with their usual ease through her brain. But Lance was warm and sexy at her side and the ebb and flow of the men's laughter soothing. Without realizing what she was doing, her body shifted, working her shoulder then the rest of herself tighter against his body. And she felt him make the same shifts, little micro adjustments, fitting their bodies together like precisely machined parts. He settled his arm companionably around her shoulders and again, she wished this could be their forever.
Her mind drifted, neurons pulling up the memory of Lance's face in the Paladins' group photo on Altea with Allura's statue in the background; the overdone smile that belied the vacancy in his eyes and his impending disappearance. She would see him one more time, several months later at Shiro and Curtis's wedding. He'd been thinner, which said a lot for someone with the build of an ambulatory noodle, but had brushed off everyone's concerns. "Farm work, it does a body good," he had said, flexing his biceps.
A ready smile on his face, he seemed his old self, with one notable exception. Pretty women, alien and human, were in abundance at the reception, but Katie couldn't recall him doing anything that even carried a hint of flirt. (Annoyingly, this new, hard-to-get Lance had a host of women and some men shadowing him where ever he went. Katie had half expected them to start throwing their panties at him at any moment.)
She closed her eyes as one memory in particular returned, bringing with it a weird revelation. The closest to flirting he'd done at the wedding was with her. All the Paladins, Katie included, wore white tuxes, each with vests and bow ties reflecting their Lions—Katie's being green and Lance's blue. "You look cute in a tux," he'd told her, blue eyes sweeping up and down her body.
"Cute, but in a hideous, disgusting way, like a Yalmor?" she'd joked, thrown by even a whiff of flattery from Lance.
With a small laugh, he had replied, "Nah. Pidge cute." He tilted his head, nodding toward the dance floor. "Wanna dance?"
"I…uh, can't dance."
"Sure, you can." He held out his hand. "I'll teach you." White wasn't his color. It stripped his brown skin and hair of their warmth, making him look wan and thinner. Somehow, though, he still cut a dashing figure in the tux.
Abruptly stripped of her usual confidence, she took two hasty steps backs. "Thanks, but I have to talk to Matt." He'd nodded, seemingly taking the rejection in stride. Minutes later, she had cursed herself as she watched him and Shay on the dance floor, with Shay proving that big girls can be very graceful.
In the months that followed, waiting for responses to messages and calls that never came, she had wondered if her rejection of the dance offer was the cause. A stupid notion, she knew. But Katie, the girl who could unravel any puzzle, could find no other reason why her friend had abandoned her.
"Hey, you feeling okay?" Lance gave her a gentle shake. Keith was giving her a corresponding concerned look.
"I'm great," she said, meaning it. "I'm just getting carb coma."
Keith, who had a pizza to himself—because artichoke hearts, gross!—nodded. "It's good pizza even if the ingredients are synthed." The conversation continued with Keith and Lance giving each other the abridged version of their lives over the past decade and Katie occasionally providing color commentary.
Mostly she sat at Lance's side, listening to the two men's voices. Doing so, it became annoying clear that the rest of team Voltron and her brother had been well aware of many of Lance's misadventures over the years. Lance's resume included a brief stint flying transports for a Greek financier-slash-gunrunner, followed by time on a frontier colony working security, and finally, flying sorties, employed as a freelancer by Earth Gov in the Kuiper Belt's contested zone.
Keith's reaction to all this was a shrug.
"You knew this?" Katie eyed Keith darkly.
"Matt and Krolia have extensive spy networks."
Lance also confessed that Matt Holt had repeatedly offered him a job. His unwillingness to face Pidge and the rest of the Paladins wasn't his only reason for rebuffing Matt's offers. "The Defenders can't pay the kind of molto Mammon that freelance work does," he admitted with a sheepish shrug.
Keith leaned back against the wall, head tilted back, eyes narrowed as he assessed Lance. "It's not too late. With your experience, Matt would give you a command."
Katie grew still, waiting for his answer. It made sense on the surface: Lance and the Legendary Defenders, or alternately, Lance as a commissioned officer with Galaxy Garrison. His combat experience now spanned well beyond Voltron. He was likable, smart, and a natural leader. And yet…the idea didn't sit well with her.
Lance stroked a thumb along his beer bottle, silent for a few seconds. "Nah. I have a job." A gentle smile on his face, he squeezed her shoulders. "And if that doesn't work out, I've got a line on another. Plus, I haven't given up flying. My commercial license is still valid and I'm registered as a relief driver for UPT and a couple other transport companies."
"Really?" Disbelief colored Keith's voice. "You're happy flying cargo?"
"Yeah." He turned the bottle in the light of the holoscreen and read the label aloud. "'Bottled in Belgium.' Cargo pilots get important shit where it needs to be. We feed the universe. All the food and meds that the Blade distributes gets there because of cargo pilots."
Keith's mouth curved in a slight smile and Katie realized two things. First, as she let out the breath she'd been holding, that she needed to hear what Lance just said. And second, she and Keith both loved Lance too much to see him thrown into a sich where he'd regularly be in the line of fire. He deserved…peace.
"Speaking of which, the Blade of Marmora could use a relief driver on the run between Earth and Altea. It would be with a wormhole capable ship. About a week's round trip. You interested?"
"Sure," said Lance. "Sign me up."
Lance, though brought up with a faith, wasn't especially religious. Having seen all he'd seen, science and magic that were often indistinguishable, he'd lost the capacity to cleave to any dogma. But like all pilots, he was fundamentally superstitious. And so, he let a silent prayer of thanks fly to who- or whatever might be responsible for his friends' forgiveness and easy companionship. He added an extra helping of gratitude for the woman nestled at his side, giggling at his dumb jokes.
Time had added inches to her diminutive height and sweet contours to her body, but she still felt delicate and small. He knew the seemingly fragile, warm body next to his belied a lethal weapon, but he felt of rush of protectiveness, nonetheless. Protective was a harder habit to quit than Z.
A powerful wave of homesickness hit him. This was great, out in the black with two of his oldest friends, blanketed in love and friendship. But Pidge's presence made him long all the more for Earth, tierra firme, fresh air and his family. Because now he imagined himself in his mom's kitchen, surrounded by family, because kitchens were where family always congregated, weren't they? His brothers Marco and Luis would be merrily regaling Pidge with a laundry list of Crazy Shit Lance Did As a Kid, most real, some invented, and Pidge would—unfortunately—be taking notes. Nadia, future engineer and fellow member of team nerd would be peppering Pidge with technical questions. His abuela and abuelo, who rarely spoke English, would be absolutely delighted by Pidge's fluency in Spanish. He wanted this so bad because he loved her and was proud of her.
But also, because it would be a kind of recompense for all the sleepless nights he'd caused them, especially his mom and dad. Pidge Holt—beautiful, brilliant and the only woman who could ever understand the forces that shaped him—was proof that Lance, professional screw-up, had finally reestablished contact with his brain; they didn't need to worry about him anymore.
Of course, they all had to survive this trip. "What? What did I ever do to you?" he thought, the complaint directed at any gods or demons listening. Because Keith had suddenly jumped up and was heading for the cockpit, spurred on by an urgent signal from his Galra bodyguards.
Through her glasses, Pidge launched the cockpit's screen and Bonnie's fierce visage appeared on screen. "We have picked up several approaching signals on the long-range scanners."
At this, Lance dropped his ass into the pilot's chair without thinking. He raised an eyebrow apologetically at Pidge, but she had already expanded Athena's main com screen, letting her fingers do the walking, gathering information. "Bonnie, there's a way to patch me into your primary coms. Here's how. You need to…"
Bonnie cocked her head at Keith, who nodded, and then she began to follow Pidge's instructions. In a few minutes, Pidge had created an auxiliary display and they were eyeing four bogeys approaching fast, but still out of ID range. Several others, just a touch beyond the Galra ship's enhanced scan range, flickered in an out like faulty holiday lights.
"Maybe they're friendlies," said Pidge, voice cracking with poorly cooked optimism.
"Yeah, like, really dedicated delivery drivers." Lance grinned up at Keith. "Did you buy me something nice?"
Keith crossed his arms across his chest. "Yes. A mute switch."
Pidge gave them both her "If I had my Voltron bayard, I'd light you up" look. She pointed at the screen. "If that's the case, then Lance goes silent in about twenty-five minutes."
Leaning forward, Keith watched the screen, his lean body tense with anticipation. "We should be getting IDs soon…there—"
"Fuuuck," said Lance, drawing the word out.
"Two Archangels." Pidge matched Keith's arms-crossed posture, her expression grim.
"And two Sabers," said Lance. "There must've been a buy one, get a second half off, sale somewhere."
"Somebody really wants you dead," said Keith to Lance.
"No, I'm pretty sure this is Keith's fault." Guilt, the possibility that he might get his friend and the woman he loved killed, robbed him of any clever rejoinder, so Lance fell back on his Voltron-era plaint.
"It's all our faults, I think." Pidge's fingers were moving on Athena's status screen, checking fuel and munitions. Meeting their eyes, she said, "Think about it. Three Paladins, conveniently located in one place, in the black of space."
Lance processed this. "You're saying we wrapped ourselves in sparkly paper—"
"—tied up in a pretty bow," finished Pidge.
"Gotta have the pretty bow," said Lance absently, his attention on the auxiliary screen, the powerful scan and signaling ability of Keith's ship giving him sudden inspiration. He flicked the screen, as if the ominous signals could be banished. In response, Pidge reached out and flicked at his cowlick. Their eyes met and a quite laugh passed between them.
Keith stared at the screen as if he could clear it of threats with the intensity of his glare. "Your Quintessence levels are low."
"Yup," said Pidge. Rinconada's fueling station only had metastable metal hydrogen. "And only enough munitions for two shots of countermeasures."
"Your ship is wormhole capable, right?" Lance caught Keith's eyes, flicking a quick look at Pidge. Take Pidge and get out of here. I'll buy you time. He didn't speak this aloud, aware that Pidge wouldn't like it.
Keith shook his head, shoulders slumping slightly. "We've already made three jumps. Don't have enough Q for a fourth." He set his hand on Kosmo. "I'm going back to Thorn."
"When you get there, send Kosmo back," said Lance.
"Why?" Keith and Pidge chorused together.
"To get Pidge."
Her eyes narrow slits, she shook her head, pugnacious obstinance bleeding from her posture. "No. I'm not leaving you."
Oozing charm, he said, "Don't think of it as leaving me, but rather visiting Keith."
"Lance, what are you up to?" said Keith.
"About six-two."
"Lance," growled Keith.
"I have a plan."
"Uh-oh," said Katie, cutting a worried look at Keith.
"Hey," Lance said, a little stung. "Ye of little faith. It's a good plan." Maybe. Provided his girl genius could make it happen. "But Pidge needs to do her thing on your ship."
Keith glared out the cockpit window at the currently innocuous, star-splattered, black tableau, his visage grim and posture tense. "You two work out whatever…. I'll send Koz back." With that he and Kosmo made the usual sparkly exit.
Pidge was staring at him, her expression unreadable, but he had a pretty good idea what was going through her mind. He rose from the chair and settled his hands on her shoulders. "I'm not trying to get myself killed." Although, admittedly, if his plan went sideways, he'd rather she be on Keith's starfighter. "I still have a lot to do in this life. And a lot to live for." He emphasized this with a leer that swept her from head to toe. With a crooked smile on her face, she looked away shyly.
Her shoulders rose and fell under his hands. "Okay. What's your plan?" He told her and she considered it. Kosmo returned and ready for his next delivery, coiled around Pidge. Brown eyes lost in calculations, building syntax, mind like a machine, she absently petted the wolf's head.
With a small nod, she said, "I think I can make it work. Against the four ships, anyway. If more arrive, the energy required might…." Her voice trailed off as her big brain powered through the problem.
Her brown eyes were wide and very round. Katie Holt's eyes. But also Pidge Gunderson's eyes. The eyes of the quirky little boy who, more than a decade ago, he had followed into the desert night to a high plateau where everything he believed would be turned inside out. Looking at the woman and remembering the boy, he knew that whatever form Pidge took, he was made to love her. The desire to kiss her was so strong, it made his bones ache. But his superstitious side worried that doing so would be a dangerous declaration of her worth, tempting some dark fate to take her away from him for good.
So instead, he released her shoulders and said, "You should probably suit up. With a helmet." He rapped his knuckles gently on her head. "Gotta protect that powerful processor."
Translations-
Esta es la Cocina del Elvia. Tu la Ensucias, Tu la Limpias.: This is Elvia's kitchen. If you get it dirty, you clean it.
Tierra firme: solid ground
Abuela, abuelo: grandma, grandpa
Thanks so very much for reading my fic!