How can I convince you
What you see is real?
Who am I to blame you
For doubting what you feel?
I was always reachin'
You were just a girl I knew.
I took for granted
The friend I had in you.
~Survivor "The Search is Over"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It Is You...
Katie secretly hated teleporting. Never one to suffer motion sickness, she could handle the rock and roll of space travel. The sensation of space and not-space moving through her body, however, made her queasy.
Blowing chunks in her helmet, surrounded by the vacuum of space, would only make her precarious sich worse, so she gulped back bile and tightened her grip on Kosmo. She had no time to ease her nausea because just seconds after Kosmo had rushed to her, blipping her out of the dying Archangel, she was back in the equally cold space between space. Kosmo, spotting debris hurling at them, hauled them back into the interdimensional darkness. Head still reeling from the last jump, she almost lost her grip when he teleported several more times, evading more angry chunks of metal and burning fuel.
Space's normally empty vacuum was occupied by a chaotic aftermath of battle. Bright bonfires, fuel pellets from destroyed reactors, burning hydrogen and Q, blazed in an expanding debris field, bits and pieces moving farther and farther into space, only changing direction if they collided soundlessly with more debris. The only sound was a persistent ringing in her ears.
It's okay. I've got this. Katie swallowed, both to clear her ears and shove down the pizza that threatened to escape her stomach. She focused on the helmet's HUD, in particular the goggle-eyed, green symbol, her hacker sign, that served as the link to her datapen. With a left twitch of her eyes, she opened the link and spoke, "E-protocol 1."
And nothing happened.
"E-protocol 1," she repeated, more forcefully than she'd like given her limited oxygen. That got a response: error code "2" meaning the pen was out of range. Since her right arm was doing most of the work keeping her attached to Kosmo, she fumbled with her left hand, patting the pocket where the datapen was usually tucked away. Although the pocket was flatter than her chest, she futilely groped the empty space as if the action would make the pen appear. Her hand, ungloved, burned faintly in the vacuum, her sense of touch confused by the absence of any atmosphere. Despair and angry self-recrimination boiling in her stomach, she buried her fingers back in Kosmo's thick pelt.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! In her haste to sneak away from Keith, she'd left her datapen on Thorn.
The helmet's HUD had a beacon, but its signal was a sad chirp compared to the pen's booming, fast radio bursts. Kosmo's head was turning from side to side. Out-of-character panic sent shivering tension through his shaggy body. His fear leached into her along with the knowledge that she only had whatever oxygen was trapped in the helmet.
Kosmo had even less time. Cosmic wolves could handle extreme environments, including space's vacuum, longer than any Earth mammal, but only for a few minutes. Pretty soon he'd succumb to the same physiological breakdown as any other living thing.
She searched, eyes scouring space for Athena or Thorn, but her view was obscured by wreckage. Kosmo had chosen the relative safety of a junkyard of slow-moving ship bits. A Hera class frigate, huge in comparison to a starfighter, the faint ochre markings of Galaxy Garrison on its side, moved across her field of vision. Too far for a Cosmic Air jump. The brave wolf was near exhaustion at this point and he'd probably never been on a frigate and lacked the necessary mental map.
Smaller shapes hovered like gnats around the frigate. Survey skiffs, collecting evidence or bodies, necessary intel in the constant struggle against terrorism, piracy and other threats to the solar system's peace. Both the skiffs' and frigate's paths led away from her and Kosmo, moving with the expanding debris field.
Shit, shit, shit, shit! She scanned the darkness, spotting an MFE fighter, one of the newer gen models, larger and capable of three-to-five days of space travel. In the dark, illuminated only by starlight and burning wreckage, it was hard to tell, but the fighter's nose art appeared to be a griffon. Kosmo spotted it and they both calculated the distance.
It changed course, sliding away; too far. A part of her was stupidly relieved because she didn't want to deal with James Griffin. A few dates, a year ago, and he still thought they were a thing. In seconds, she cursed her stupid train of thought and willed the fighter to turn. See us! We're here.
Kosmo's muscles were shifting in her grip; he was weakening, critical gases like oxygen diffusing from his lungs and bloodstream; probably going blind as his eyeballs dried out. This is my fault. She had gotten the old wolf into this mess, Guilt raked claws over her raw conscience. If anything happened to him, she'd never, ever forgive herself. Realizing she was beginning to hyperventilate, spewing more and more carbon dioxide into her helmet, she struggled to slow her breathing.
They saw it together—Athena. Too close to the debris field. What was Lance doing? Did he see her? Loosening her grip for a moment, she waved, hoping Lance might spot the motion. Together, woman and wolf floated in the unforgiving darkness, hoping. Minutes ticked by.
Dark spots began to blossom in her eyes. Her diaphragm hitched in desperation, clamoring for oxygen. The irrational urge to rip the helmet off and breathe, to just fucking breathe, oxygen, not whatever filled the helmet's interior, was overpowering. Athena approached: drifted more like. Closer, closer, closer. Not close enough.
Then all sight vanished in the stomach-churning in-between.
Kosmo dropped them into the living quarters and immediately collapsed on the floor. Katie clawed, one-handed at the helmet's latches, desperate for air. Sucking in sweet, sweet oxygen and the comforting scents of Athena—hardwood, plastisteel, pizza, guava sonic body wash, and the new scent that was Lance—she stumbled to the beds. Lance, who always grumbled about cold feet, had an extra blanket and she yanked it down and covered Kosmo. Dropping the helmet on her bed, she scooped up her glasses, linked to Athena's controls and cranked up the heat, noting that all but the emergency lights were still out.
Why was he sitting in the dark? As oxygen suffused her lungs, the ringing in her ears ebbed and she heard chatter on the coms.
He stared into space, ignoring the calls, and apparently oblivious of the incoming debris. Reaching down and across him, she switched on autopilot and the little hopper immediately corrected course, daintily evading shattered ship detritus.
As she did this, he flinched, startled and stared at her. Blood from another nose bleed, a consequence of his kamikaze attack, painted a crusty stream on his lip and chin. Her knee-jerk reaction to scold him died in the wake of the desolate ruination in his eyes.
"Lance!" Keith's voice, then Veronica's echoed in the cockpit.
"What—?" she said, cut off as Lance leaped to his feet and pounced on her. He pulled her to him so forcefully all her precious oxygen left in startled "Whuff."
"Lance, say something, please," begged Veronica. The older woman's pleading tone, a glaring anachronism, flipped a switch in Katie's brain. Heartsick with guilt, she realized what had happened, what everyone had assumed.
She squirmed in his death grip, managing to swipe a hand at the com and speak. "This is Katie. Kosmo and I are back on Athena. We're okay. Keith, Koz will over as soon as he's had some rest."
Keith's relieved sigh gusted like a hurricane and Veronica said, "Thank Gaia."
"Give me a second, okay? I need to…talk to Lance."
Talking? More like groping. He was pawing her, hands unabashedly everywhere with the familiarity of a lover, his face in her hair, breathing her in, devouring her with touch. Intimate, but too panicked to be sexual.
Or not. His hands kept returning to her ass in a very not-platonic way. But she didn't mind because guilt expanded in her belly like a stone. She'd do it again; it was worth it; anything to save her friends. Everything had a cost, though, and she felt him painting the terror of loss on her body.
Apologies shouldn't be difficult. Or maybe they should be, because if they were easy, words tossed out without a thought, then they'd be meaningless, wouldn't they? Katie took a breath, remembering the horror she'd felt just days before, the stultifying fear of loss, and spoke the words from the heart. "Lance, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm so sorry."
His body hitched with a repressed sob and she could feel him battling to maintain control. "It's okay," she said. "I'm here. I'm fine." Her left hand ached from its earlier beating, but she held him tightly, burrowing into his chest. The action set off a cascade of tightly bottled emotions. They rippled down her spine to her toes, rebounding upward and she smothered them in the solid everything of him. He shook against her, surrendering to emotions, crying softly. She rubbed her good hand up and down his back, fingers doing a little groping of her own. For a skinny guy, he had a great butt.
He huffed a bitter laughed into the top of her head. "Years, Pidge. A decade. More. Without you." His fingers combed through the sweaty, matted mess of her helmet hair, loosening snarls, exploring the shape of her skull. "I missed out on so much time with you."
Agreement poised on her lips, but she didn't speak. She didn't disagree with him; his disappearance had carved a grotesque scar on her heart. But his leaving and long absence, the stories he'd written on his own, had shaped him into the man whose arms held her now. And she really liked this Lance; much more, she had to admit, than she'd ever liked the sweet but exasperating boy he'd been.
"You're here now," she said, fingers drawing circles on his back, resenting the tacsuit's heavy material because she burned to touch more of him.
He had stopped groping her, which, admittedly, was a damned shame, because—Lance's hands, everywhere!—and just held her, which was still nice. Beyond nice: locked against his tall frame, she submitted to the prison of arms, her atoms trying to slide closer and dissolve into him. Desire and a certain emotion, a sentiment she wasn't yet ready to admit, made her body ring like a bell. She shivered, even though she was starting to sweat, overheating in the suit and Athena's warm interior.
"How long were you out there?" He let go, hands now on her upper arms, blue eyes consuming every inch of her. His eyes were wet with tears and she hated that she'd hurt him. "We need to get you warmed up."
"I'm fine. Kosmo's worse off." Together they turned and, in a few steps, crouched at the wolf's side. Still under the blanket, Kosmo resorted to the wolfen indignity of giving them a dog-like tail wag of reassurance.
Lance gave him a quick head scratch and then stood and pulled a sheet off his bed, adding it to the blanket. "Bravest wolf in the universe. Thanks for saving Pidge. I love you, pal." Kosmo lifted his head and basked in the praise.
"He needs eye drops," said Katie.
Towing her with him, he stood. "And you need hot chocolate." He made a shooing gesture, pointing at her bed. Her usual obstinance flattened by guilt, she turned, scooped the shirt and tights off the bed and began to strip. Modesty was pointless with someone who'd undressed and dressed her, and who, minutes ago, felt her up.
Besides making hot chocolate, Lance opened the med kit and found hydrating eyes drops designed specifically for exposure to the vacuum. Kosmo blinked at him through cloudy amber eyes, making an impressive show of fangs, growl reverberating through the cabin. "I know, buddy. These things sting." With a little coaxing and the last slice of pizza, the wolf submitted to Lance's doctoring.
In her head, she cursed Lance, but in a good way, as once again his actions flooded her heart with a powerful tenderness toward him. Dressed in the black tacsuit, he was a study in contradiction: the hardened soldier clothed in ebony, a scar on his face, bayard at his back, and yet also the gentle soul who soothed a powerful predator into meekness.
Her warm fuzzies were fortunate because there were little bits of wood, metal and other debris scattered throughout the cabin. Something was fizzing in the rear access panel. She opened her mouth, ready to rib him over damaging her baby girl, but he beat her to it.
Handing her hot chocolate, he offered a rueful, apologetic smile. "I scratched Athena's paint."
A teasing comment on her tongue, she paused, noting the unease on his face. Did he think she valued the hopper more than him? Pressing her lips together, she wished she could tell him what he meant to her; that there wasn't much she wouldn't do or sacrifice for him. Heartfelt declarations weren't what Katie Holt did, though.
She smiled and looked at her feet, nudging her toe against his. "Athena's a warrior and all warriors have scars, right?"
His soft laughter warmed away the last of the void's cold.
Kosmo, for all that he protested, loved to be fussed over. Lance crouched at his side, a towel in hand, wiping excess eye drops off the wolf's face. He soon found himself struggling to stay upright as the wolf buried his face in the towel and forcefully rubbed his muzzle against the fabric like an enormous cat. Lance chuckled at Kosmo, all while surreptitiously watching Pidge undress, feeling like an adolescent boy seeing a girl's body for the first time.
Nothing he hadn't seen before, but after nearly losing her, the need to go to her, remove her remaining clothing and experience her living, breathing, naked body against his, reduced him to a wreck of quivering desire.
As the youngest and smallest Paladin, Pidge had always brought out Lance's protective side. Yet he'd also seen her as an immutable force of nature, emerging unscathed from nearly every Voltron adventure. That time they all ended up in the hospital? Pidge recovered the fastest, even quicker than Allura. Watching the Archangel disintegrate with Pidge on board, Lance's naïve belief in her invulnerability had been shredded like tissue paper. Awareness of her mortality ripped open old wounds, leaving him raw and bloodied, and that hot little body was the only bandage.
Tearing his gaze from her, though not without noting the ugly bruise forming on her hip, he searched his brain for something unsexy. A Yalmor. Yalmors are kind of ugly, right? That brought back an odd memory of Pidge sort of saying he was cute, and…now he was thinking about naked Pidge again. Giving Kosmo a final head scratch, he fled to the cockpit.
Choking down shame over his meltdown earlier, he hailed Keith and Veronica, expanding the vid screen to two. He gave them both a sad wave. "Sorry, about earlier, I—"
"I know," said Keith, his expression surprisingly gentle. "You've got blood on your face." His gaze panned to Lance's right as Pidge sat down, hot chocolate in hand. "You alright, Pidge?"
She handed Lance a damp cloth and he scrubbed at the blood. Leaning into view, she gave Keith a thumbs-up. "Kosmo's resting, but doing good. I'm very sorry I scared you." She waved at his sister. "Hi, V."
Lance met his sister's eyes, bracing for the inevitable hard, military dressing-down. Instead, she assessed his face and then Pidge's. "Report," she said, commanding, but with a warm smile. He returned her smile, relieved, but slightly annoyed that he'd apparently been promoted—or was it demoted?—from Lance the Idiot to Lance the Fragile Butterfly.
He relayed the tale, with Keith and Pidge interjecting their sides of the battle, ending the story with, "'Thank you' to the MFE pilot who fried the Saber on my tail."
"That was Griffin," said Veronica, meaning the MFE's flight commander. "Here, I'll patch you in and you can thank him yourself."
Lance had once joked to his sister that the Garrison only chose attractive people as MFE pilots. James Griffin was no exception. He had traded his cute-floppy hair for an almost-buzz cut and a short, tidy beard darkened his chiseled jaw, but he was still pretty. He gave Keith and Lance a polite "Hello," but absolutely glowed at the sight of Pidge, commending her for hijacking the Archangel. Lance detected a suggestion of something "un-planetonic" between the two, but he couldn't manage any jealously. First, because he felt he had a good chance with her. She'd been into their kiss, and he still had all ten fingers despite inappropriately touching the Hel out of her.
And because she pointedly put her hand on Lance's upper arm, sending an obvious message to the MFE pilot. A smug smile briefly won his face, before he remembered that being a dick to someone who had saved his ass wasn't cool. He quickly schooled his expression into something more neutral.
"This was a Xiphoid pack?" asked Keith, addressing the question to both Veronica and Griffin.
"Preliminary intel from the survey skiffs confirms it," said Griffin. "A big pack."
Veronica nodded in agreement, explaining further. "Three months back, a Galra heavy cruiser was jacked from a shipyard in the Voratni Sector. Five days ago, it's spotted in Phobos space, accompanied by a couple of Sabers, and four Archangels. The pack tracks toward the Jovian system and along the way, picks up a Shrike."
"Our Shrike?" said Lance, glancing at Pidge.
"We probably won't ever definitively know since it's in pieces now," said Griffin. "But it's an interesting coincidence."
Veronica continued the tale. "We intercepted and engaged this pack about an hour ago. The cruiser spits out three Galra starfighters just to make things more interesting. Right as the firefight starts, seven more ships pop up on scanners. Reinforcements, I figure. But they bug out, away from the action. A while later, sensors pick up signs of another engagement."
"And not the kind that's followed by a wedding and happily ever after," said Lance. "Think they followed us from Rinconada?"
Veronica shrugged. "Hard to say since they popped up out of the void. Possibly originated out of Karnus on Io. Karnus has turned into a breeding ground for terrorists."
It made sense. Karnus station hosted a rough crowd. Scary even by Lance's estimations, and he was a merc and a thief.
"Galactic Coalition rousted a 'phoid and Reds cell on Karnus a month ago," said Griffin. "But it's like lopping heads off hydras. Kill one, three more emerge."
"The way I hear it," said Lance, "the 'Jovian Freedom' separatists use Karnus as a base too."
Griffin nodded. "The Folivor and Lagomorf gangs have also carved out territories there."
"If there was a way to magically spirit away all the innocent civvies, I'd nuke the whole damn place," said Veronica.
"We wiped out a small fleet today," observed Griffin, his dark gray eyes including Pidge, Lance and Keith in his statement. "Spanked them hard."
"We did," agreed Veronica. "But until we can track down and end the flow of corporate Mammon, they'll just buy more ships."
"And more biochemical weapons," said Pidge, her tone curiously preoccupied. "Matt had a lead, a source who claimed to have definitive proof that a powerful monied organization was funding Xyphoid."
"Right." Bitterness hardened Veronica's face. "Until his source turned up in the Carver City morgue."
"With your permission, Commander, I've got more intel to gather," said Griffin. Veronica nodded her assent. "Keith. Lance. Pidge. Good to see you all." He signed off.
Veronica's steely-eyed gaze moved over her screens, taking in all three Paladins with the weary frustration of a school principal who'd caught them setting off cherry bombs in the bathroom again. "Since you kids keep attracting trouble like flies on shit, we're with you until Titan."
Lance and Pidge opened their mouths, but Keith cut them off. "Thank you, Veronica. We appreciate that." He blasted his fellow Paladins with a look that said, "You two idiots really aren't going to disagree, are you?"
Lance gave Pidge a lopsided smile and pointed at Veronica and Keith. "You think Mom and Dad are gonna ground us?"
Pidge's expression was equal parts fond and annoyed. "Keith, if you need assistance repairing the damage, I'm here."
"I know. Thanks. I think Bonnie's got it covered." With a wave, he signed off, leaving them with Veronica.
Time had only made Veronica McClain more beautiful. She radiated the power of command, blue-gray eyes raptor sharp, confidence haloing her body. It was no wonder that Matt, who disdained emotional involvements outside of family and friends, still maintained their colleagues-with-benefits relationship after all these years.
And she still knew how to make her younger brother squirm. This time, she took Katie along on the ride.
"Titan's not out of your way?" said Lance.
"No, it's on our original flight plan," said Veronica. "Even if it wasn't, I can't, in good conscience, leave you guys now."
"You're headed for the Kuiper Belt? Contested Zone?" said Lance.
"Affirm. Till then, we've got you covered. Go get some rest. And by rest, I mean sex." Mischief made, she signed off, leaving Katie and Lance in awkward silence.
"She, uh…," said Lance.
Face burning like a supernova, Katie pointed vaguely toward Athena's aft. "I have to…make repairs," she said before hurrying away to do just that.
That quiznaking McClain gene provided the ability to read Katie like a coloring book. Veronica's comment was mortifying because it felt like the exasperating woman had opened a window and peered into Katie's head. Throughout their debriefing with Veronica, Katie had only taken in fragments of the conversation because another raged in her head, centered on the question: Should I have sex with Lance?
One side said, "Yes! Best idea since the invention of the teluduv!" This sentiment echoed by parts of her anatomy that felt abandoned lately. (That sentiment expressed as, "Hurray!")
Another side protested: "Are you cray-zee? He'll break your heart into so many pieces a trillion quantum computers working for a trillion years won't be able to put it back together!" (To this, the unused bits of her anatomy grumbled, "Stupid brain never lets us have fun.")
And so it went, back and forth.
When she was a child and overwhelmed, she'd hide in her closet. Lacking a closet, she tucked herself into the mechanical access panel and got to repairing railgun damage. A few minutes later, she heard Lance talking to Kosmo, followed by the sound of a sweeper as he dealt with the shards of ship that littered the cabin. He left her alone, which she appreciated and simultaneously hated, since it added to her confusion.
And hour later, the worst of the damage repaired, she emerged, tired and thirsty. Kosmo, back on his feet, padded to her, toenails clicking on hardwood. Lance was loading clothes into the washer. He'd traded out the tacsuit for shorts and a T-shirt, looked rather wrung out and somehow still gorgeous.
As she poured herself a glass of water, he reached out and rubbed her back. Nerves strung tight, she flinched. "Sorry," he said drawing back. The confusion on his face broke her heart. "Um, Kosmo wanted to say, 'Bye.' Keith must be missing him a lot."
She nodded and wrapped her arms around the wolf's neck. "Thank you for everything. Love you much." In seconds, she and Lance were staring at the spark-filled spot he had occupied. Lance's presence, standing at her side, made her blood throb. Now or never, she thought.
She made for her bed, gesturing for Lance to follow. Using her glasses' HUD, she set the cabin lights to dim slowly to fifty-percent and shut off the cockpit lights entirely. "Sit." She nodded to the spot beside her on the bed. He sat, though she noted, some distance away. Her hands trembled as she removed her glasses. Should she continue? Had she read him wrong?
I want this. Even if it's just for a few hours. I want something…beautiful.
"You, okay?"
"I need you to answer a couple of questions. Honestly."
He did the pistol fingers thing. "Shoot."
"Are you seeing someone? In a relationship?"
"No." He gave her a slow smile. "Not yet." The smile took on a rakish note. "What about you? Seeing anyone?"
She shook her head and then charged forward. More like tripped, stumbled and fell face first into incomprehensible output. "Are you messing with me? I mean, it doesn't matter. I'll still have sex with you. But I need to know if you're just being…you…no, not…if this, with us, is just a fling, will be just a fling, I don't care, I do…but…I need to know…to prepare…to….UGH!"
Lance's body was shaking with repressed laughter. She hit him. "Fuck!" So much for control.
"I'm sorry," he said between chuckles, "but that was adorable. Ow!"
She hit him again. "Answer the question."
"What's the question again?"
"Unless I'm reading this wrong, we are attracted to each other. A lot. So…sex. But will this end at Titan?"
He turned away, giving her his familiar sharp angled profile as he prepared an answer. "Pidge, I'm at a point where I can't see a future for us," his eyes met hers, "that isn't forever." He ducked his head, almost shy. "Sex or not, I need you in my life. Like oxygen." With a wave of his hand, he gestured toward the cockpit and beyond. "I need you like I need outer space. Like I need rain on my face."
The armor that she'd carefully polished and maintained in his presence, her faith in his faithlessness, at least in regard to a relationship with her, began to crumble. Not entirely, though. "Really?"
"Really. When I said you were amazing, I meant it."
She stared at the floor, scouring the wood grain for the courage to speak. As a girl, she'd learned the dangers of speaking from the heart, because her heart said things that other people found odd. Because what lived in her heart, when translated by her tongue often came out wrong. Her lips moved and she took the chance with Lance. "I need this. I need to be with you just once. But you don't need to feel…obligated to stick around, uh, romantically."
His elegant eyebrows twisted in confusion. "Are you saying you don't want a relationship?"
"I'm saying…." What was she saying? "I don't want to be like…a second choice, a last resort, or, ugh! I don't know what I'm saying." She buried her face in her hands.
"Oh, Pidge."
When she looked up, she found him staring at the ceiling, his expression grim. Frustrated? Angry? At her? This is why I should've kept my mouth shut.
When he met her gaze again, however, compassion and sadness bled from his eyes. "Pidge, love's not finite; it's vast, infinite. It's not something given away and lost forever. There's always more to give. I loved Allura. I also loved Zahra. And I love you. I think I always have, in some way. Without you around to remind me not to take myself so seriously, I've been an object lesson, a train wreck." He kissed her forehead. "Of all the dumb shit I've ever done, leaving you was the stupidest."
Eyes wide as saucers, she stared, struck mute because his use of the L-word had fried her circuits like an EMP.
"You're not my first relationship. And I'm not yours." He made a fist and coughed, "Griffin," into his hand. She grimaced, because of course, Lance had picked up on that.
Lance took her hands in his. "But you are the first time I've ever loved someone for who they really are and not for who I want them to be."
That word again. The ancient phrase "Deer in headlights" suddenly made sense as she blinked wide-eyed and helpless at him, astonished by how easily he translated emotion into coherent spoken sentences.
His eyebrows dropped low, a shade of anger twitching a muscle in his jaw. "Was it your ex-husband?"
"What?" she said, confused.
"Your ex is the guy who said you were 'adequate.'"
"Yeah," she conceded. "He's right. Looks aren't everything."
"True." In the dimmed lights, his eyes were deep twilight blue and they shone with open admiration. "Pidge, you're the smartest person I know, and I know a lot of smart people. You're also the bravest." His thumb brushed her lower lip. "And you're the most gorgeous woman I know."
"I'm no Allura," she blurted. Quiznack! There it was again, moronic teenage insecurity, crap she should have deleted from her files years ago. Shut up, Katie!
"Allura was my first love. Which is a razzle dazzle way of saying a teenage crush." He pulled his hands back, expression brutally earnest. "This. Between you and me. There's nothing teenage about it."
That statement sent a zillion little shivers of happiness up her spine and frazzled her brain. Unable to respond in kind, she fell back on humor. "You sure?" She picked up a pillow and thwacked him in the face.
"Hey!" he flailed, grabbing her wrists, careful with her injured hand.
Her mind instantly calculated the possibilities, the myriad of moves that could free herself, seize the advantage, and kick his ass. Her heart, however, allowed her arms to make a halfhearted struggle, just enough to save face, and then surrendered.
He released her wrists and leaned in, face inches from hers, blue eyes hooded, focused on her mouth. She realized what he was doing, giving her control.
Teenage Pidge had wanted this bad. So did twenty-nine-year-old Katie and at that moment, both versions of her were there. And she knew with remarkable clarity what teenage Pidge would have done. Because Katie's entire body was afire with the heat of his body near hers, and her nerves so sensitive she was shivering.
Teenage Pidge would have turned away, overwhelmed, terrified. Katie, however, closed her eyes and pressed her mouth to his. There was a pause, the passage of a heartbeats, and then they both released a shuddered sigh and sank into the kiss.
Lance's hand immediately cupped her face, the tip of his thumb pressing into her cheek. She broke from his mouth, and nuzzled her face into his palm, her hand wrapped around his wrist, his pulse fluttering beneath her fingertips. His hand smelled of hand soap with a hint of cosmic wolf. She nipped the tip of his thumb, catching his eyes. The undisguised need she saw there drove her to find his mouth again and she gave herself to the delicious joy of his lips on hers.
Their tongues met, and they both drew back, lips scarcely touching, breathing into each other's mouth. Lance's tongue skimmed along the edge of her teeth and then dipped into her mouth exploring. She froze for a moment, letting him in, and then her tongue met his in a circle dance, clockwise, then counterclockwise.
Powerful need sent more shivers through her body and she set her injured hand on his thigh, fingers clenching weakly on hard muscle. The fingers of her good hand buried in his hair, pulling his hot, wet mouth bruisingly hard against hers. Someone whimpered and she realized it was her. Just kissing someone shouldn't feel this good.
He pulled back, gentle hands combing her hair off her face. "You sure you want to do this?" His eyes dipped down to her bandaged arm.
"Yeah," she said, breathless, reaching up and flicking his obstinate cowlick. "I'm hornier than a herd of rhinos." He snorted a small laugh and pressed a kiss on her forehead. "I made a funny," she said.
"You did." He laid a line of small kisses down her nose.
"And it was horrible?"
"Not bad for a noob." His mouth claimed hers, insistent. Heat from his palms radiated up and down her arms as he closed his hands around her upper arms. He pressed her down onto the bed. Releasing her arms, he propped himself up on his elbows and continued kissing her, the contact harder, torturing her mouth with the perfect combination of force and tenderness.
Katie liked being in charge, but sex was the one arena where she often surrendered her power. And with Lance, it felt totally natural. Yeah, she could kick his ass, but if his kisses were any indication of what else he could do, then she was out of her league.
And he could do whatever he wanted with her.
He drew back again, his blue eyes, dark with passion, meeting hers. The expression on his face sent liquid heat flooding between her legs. In a romance novel it would sound cheesy, but "smoldering" was the only adequate descriptor for the raw lust on his lean, handsome face.
"I love you, Paloma," he whispered, fingers tracing a meandering line over her cheek, chin and down her body, brushing lazily over a breast. Finding her nipple erect, he paused, sketching hot circles around the little peak.
She arched her back, the sensation electric even with shirt fabric between his fingers and her skin. Giving her a sexy, closed mouth smile, he grabbed the edge of her shirt, shoving it up, his hands scalding on her ribs. Mouth followed hands, the tiniest brush of tongue from her bellybutton to the intersection of her ribs, where he planted a kiss.
Because he wisely knew that sex was a silly business, he followed that by blowing a raspberry in the same location. She giggled, squirming under him as his big hands grasped her waist and he blew four more at her belly button.
He shifted position again, cutting off her laughter with his mouth, a hand shoved under her shirt, covering her breast. She pushed her erect nipple against his palm, realizing that having tiny boobs meant his beautiful hands could envelope them completely.
Suddenly impatient, she struggled up and fumbled, one-handed, pulling off her shirt. He helped.
"Damn," he said appreciatively, pushing her down again and burying his face in the crook of her neck. Her hips rocked up and down as he tugged on a nipple. His unshaven face rasped the delicate skin along her neck and jaw as he kissed and nipped at the spot just below her ear, a hungry interplay of lips, tongue and teeth.
Conflicting needs pulled at her. No surprise, he was obviously a generous and patient lover, and she wanted to sink into the slow dream of making love to him. It felt, however, like she'd waited a thousand lifetimes for this and she just wanted to get to the literal point, the sloppy, sweaty, most intimate joining.
She scrabbled at his waist, finding shirt fabric and tugged upward insistently. Skin. She needed his skin. "Overdressed. McClain."
"My bad." He paused in his attentions to her skin to pulled off his shirt. "Hey. Uh, I had my yearly health scan two months ago. Was clean. There's been no one else since then." He darted a look at the storage locker where his belongings were stowed. "But I should get—"
"No."
Katie looked up at Lance's face, olive skin and all the familiar contours and lines. Elongated blue eyes with their kind expression, even in lust. I love you, too. Except she couldn't say it. She was ready to give him everything except those three words.
Instead, she said, "I'm clean too. And on birth control." Suddenly shy, she touched his chest, drawing her fingers down to his nipple, circling and tugging it. "I want to feel you. Inside me." She met his eyes. "I want you to finish inside me."
Because I want to pretend this is forever.
It had been, what? Six months since she'd done this. With an engineer named Ann who sometimes worked with Matt. It had been nice, but like most of her sexual encounters, a necessary act, and not much more.
This, with someone she loved more than she could admit, this was making love. And fucking. Raw and beautiful.
Lance let out an adorable little whimper and came inside her. She held him tight, muscular body pressed down on her so hard that breathing was nearly impossible. She couldn't get him close enough; not deep enough; had to make him part of her, even if just for this fleeting moment of animal connection. She gnawed at and nuzzled his shoulder, tasting warm salty skin and the musky male scent of him.
Spent, he rotated his hips, driving the delicious remains of her orgasm, and collapsed on her. "Wow," he muttered.
She giggled again. He made her do that a lot. "Yeah, wow. Why didn't we do this…before?"
He propped himself on his elbows and smiled lustily at her. "You mean, like a few days ago? Or Voltron before?"
"I dunno," she replied, still muzzy with lust, lazy ripples of pleasure still radiating from her groin. "Before."
"I'm glad we waited." He laid careful little kisses on both her cheeks, her chin and forehead like a benediction. "It's better now. We know who we are and what we want." Regret moved across his face. "But I shouldn't have run away."
"Maybe…." She lifted her injured hand to his face, skating fingertips over a blue Altean mark. "Maybe you had to run away to find your way back."
Though regret still filled his eyes, he smiled, gaze moving over her face in his way that made her feel exposed even when she was fully clothed. "Hey," she said, making a spinning motion with her hand. "Over. On your back." His expression was puzzled, but he complied.
He was still hard and she kept him inside her. Their positions reversed, she examined him. She swatted at his hand when it touched her thigh. "Hands off. I'm updating my database."
His snorted laugh vibrated through her thighs. "Your database?" Then realization dawned, sleepy eyes widening. "You really had a database on all the Paladins? You weren't joking?"
Shit. She shouldn't have reminded him of that. And now I'm back to being…wrong. Lance, however, seemed more amused than horrified by her admission. "Should I be jealous? Are all your updates naked?"
"Nope. You're special."
"Cool."
Again, hating the stupid cast on her hand, she let her fingers learn the shape of his face, taking in the sensory memory of the moment and trying to cast it in stone, solid and vivid in her mind's eye. When her fingers brushed both blue Altean marks she felt a spark of something. "Did you feel that?"
"This?" He smirked, shifting hips, his erection softening, but still inside her.
"Men," she grumbled. Touching the marks again, all she felt was warm skin. Fingers outstretched, she measured the angle of his forehead. Her thumb brushed a small divot of a scar on the middle of his forehead. "The space mall," she stated.
"I just had to grandstand, didn't I?" She watched the memory play out in his eyes, the instant where he rose up tall on Kaltenecker, taunting the mall cop as they all escaped on the cow's back, with karma getting the last laugh when he brained himself on a low hanging beam.
She slid her fingertips up, following the contours of his head. The action lifted the lighter, sun-streaked sections of hair, revealing the darker, more chocolatey brown bits. Unlike her hair, which loved chaos, his refused to be ruffled properly, always settling down in a tidy pattern. She tapped a scar at his hairline. "This?"
"Beer bottle. Bar fight in Havana. Ten years ago. Earned me a stay in lock-up for three days because my family thought it would teach me a lesson. The only lesson I learned was to throw my punches off-planet." When she touched the other scar, inches away, he said, "Shrapnel. Same as the one on my jaw." His eyes closed.
Giving up on her quest to dishevel his hair, she drew her fingers along the curves of his ears, then down sharp jawline to his distinctive chin. She bent and kissed his lips. "Wake up, Goofball, I'm not done with you."
"You're insatiable."
When he reached for her thigh, she slapped his hand. "Nope. No touching. Not yet."
She traced a path from the hollow where neck met body and out over his collar bones. "Blaster shot. I wasn't wearing a tacsuit," he offered regarding a small splotch of a scar on his right shoulder.
A tattoo, a blue and green planet on a spiral background denoting Gaia and St. Elmo, graced his chest, just above his heart. "I'm thinking of getting one of these. Did it hurt?" she asked. The tat was common among pilots.
"Some, but nothing you couldn't handle," he said.
He squirmed, ticklish, as her hand followed the arc of a rib bone. They laughed together, knowing she was filing that away for later torture. She had watched him shuck off his shirt enough times, years ago and now, to be unsurprised by the cut definition of abdominal muscles, but she slowed her study anyway, enjoying the view. Obviously in recuperating mode, he had slackened and though she regretted the loss of him inside her, she lifted her hips, moving downward to straddle his thighs.
On that note, she admired what was probably his favorite anatomical feature. Men had an overblown opinion of their penises, thinking them magic wands, and the only way to pleasure a woman. Fortunately, Lance didn't seem trapped in that delusion. Her body tingled with the memory of his nimble fingers and velvety warm mouth on her skin.
Cupping his balls affectionately, she took in his second-best feature, after his hands. Those long, long, spaghetti legs. How could something like legs, all bony knees and awkward ankles be so graceful? Fingers traveling over thigh muscles, around knee caps, balancing on the bony ridge of his tibia, pausing at his ankle and then tickling the bottoms of his feet, she let her sense of touch map a tactile memory.
She kissed the knee scarred when he fell from a tree, and thumbed a burn scar on his right calf.
"Fireworks," he explained. "My version of rocket science when I was six. I tried to launch myself into space." She rolled her eyes and returned to her previous position, her crotch pressed against quiescent dick.
"This doesn't look too serious." Her fingertips framed a long, very thin slash of a scar that cut across his left rib cage.
"That one almost killed me." He made grab for her hand which she evaded and punished with a gentle slap. "Plasma blade. Sliced through four ribs, lung and spleen. Nearly bled out. I was flying a hauler carrying terraforming crystal to Euclid Nine. You know the place?"
She nodded. Euclid Nine, now New Olkarion, was a planet in the Neft Sector, given over as the Olkari people's new homeland.
"We had just made landfall and got hit by pirates. Competent, heavily armed, pirates. I was wearing a tacsuit, but it didn't help."
Her imagination conjured up the awful image of the injury and it brought back the memory of her vision days ago. A mortal wound on his side, an unbelievable amount of blood soaking gray material. "What color was your tacsuit?"
"Black, I guess."
"Oh." She felt a note of disappointment.
"I take that back. It was gray. Like yours. I got the black because that suit was trashed." He tilted his eyebrow, questioning.
She told him about her vision. "I think I was seeing your injury on New Olkarion." The idea sent a relieved sigh through her. Not an awful future, but a past.
"You did something like that before on Olkarion. See the past." Moving his fingers like insect legs, he snuck a hand toward her knee.
"No touchy!" She punched his hand gently, but nodded conceding his point. Standing in the ruins of Olkarion, years ago, she'd tapped into the residual energy from the dead planet, and had been granted grim visions of its destruction. "I'm not entirely sure I've actually seen the future, though. Probably all I've seen are images that coincidentally match something that eventually happens."
"Anything's possible." His eyelids were drooping. "A few years ago, five semi-sentient lion bots that formed a giant, battle robot didn't seem possible."
She started to argue that Voltron was based on scientific principles, albeit highly advanced ones, while prophetic visions were superstitious fantasy, but an old grief, put away for years, pushed aside the usual science vs. magic debate.
"I've never been to New Olkarion."
He nodded, understanding. "An Olkari doctor saved my life, but my reception was mixed. I tried to keep a low profile, but somehow I always get recognized."
Mixed reception, indeed. He meant the unfortunate reality that some Olkari held Voltron and the Voltron Coalition responsible for the destruction of their planet and the deaths of three-quarters of their population. Today, some Olkari were members of Xyphoid, and the most vociferous opponents of the Galactic Coalition. This broke her heart because she loved and revered the Olkari people. Ryner, her Olkari mentor had given her the tools to bond deeply with the Green Lion, and she credited her time on Olkarion with having laid the foundations for rebuilding her relationship with her mother.
Lance reached for her hand and she surrendered, twining his fingers in hers. She let the sadness drain from her, determined to be here, with just him, in a happy moment. Continuing her study of the architecture of Lance, she lifted his hand, noticing, as she bent his fingers, pale scars crisscrossing his brown knuckles.
His hands were a study in contrast. From the shallow divots and slashes on his knuckles to the runnel on his left hand where a blaster had nearly taken his pinkie. A warrior's hands.
The graceful flow of bones from wrist to knuckles leading to elegant fingers that tapered to slim, sensitive fingertips. The hands of a minstrel.
Lance's hands. Her lover's hands.
He watched her, his mind dopey with love and exhaustion, as she meticulously bent each of his finger joints, studying him with an intensity she usually expended on machines and robots. Drained from battle, and from nearly losing her, he still felt a stirring throughout his body, but especially in his groin.
"Look!" he said, freeing a hand and gesturing like a magician at his crotch. "You made space magic."
Pidge's eyes sort of crossed and she rolled her hips like a belly dancer, grinding against him. "There's a perfectly good biochemical explanation for this."
"Magic." He sat up and pushed her gently to the side. "Off. My turn to update the database." When she flopped backward onto the bed, he shook his head. "On your belly." She complied, head resting on crossed arms on her pillow.
"Mi pobre Paloma." Ugly islands of bruises marked her back. "Blaster punches?" Rage at whoever did this gave way to another thought. "Did I hurt you, while we…?"
"It's fine." She pointed a lazy finger at the mattress. "Hurray, nano-technology."
Touching each bruise, his mind reeled at the contradiction of her body. Small, vulnerable, yet capable of taking out several, no-doubt, heavily armed terrorists. After kissing each injury, he began a slow inventory of her body, starting with her marvelous ass, which he smacked gently.
"You're into butts, aren't you?" she murmured into the pillow.
He thought about this, caressing her buttocks, then massaging the sides of her hips. "Butts and hips."
"I don't have any. Hips."
At that, he slid over her, curves of her small back against his torso. He whispered in her ear, "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Comparing yourself to other people." Pushing hair aside, he kissed the nape of her neck. "You're perfect." He moved on to her shoulders, kissing freckled skin, before propping himself on one elbow and stroking her back, over shoulder blades, down the little knobs of her spine. More time on her butt, then back up to shoulders to begin the journey again. "I also have a thing for backs," he said. "Backs are totally underrated." Even on Pidge's small frame, back muscles rose and fell in a gentle undulation of long, smooth topography. He lingered on her lower back, rubbing slow spirals where the spine curved down and up, making a shallow valley.
She purred happily under his touch. They were both drowsy and feeling soft. He stretched out on his side, pulling her back against his chest. Using his hand like a paintbrush, he swept a stroke across her body, firmer pressure over a breast, then softer and softer down her body, finishing with the lightest of touch on her bruised hip. Pressure still light, he glided across her thigh and reached between her legs. "Here or here?" he asked, touching two spots, centimeters apart.
"Mmmm. The second one, yes. But the first sometimes too."
Fingers plucking and stroking her like guitar strings, he kissed her shoulders. A sweet smile on her face, eyes half closed, she rocked her hips. She was so responsive, her hot body moving against his, he struggled to focus on pleasuring her.
She rearranged herself, lifting a leg backwards over his, opening to him. Taking the hint readily, he positioned himself at her entrance, finding her ready and welcoming and sank into her slippery heat. Her breath hitched as he entered her from behind, her good hand clenching the mattress.
This time, their motions were careful, unhurried. He stroked her, inside and out, gauging her reactions, losing himself to the quiet language of their bodies sliding against each other. At times, he stopped moving altogether, breathing in her sweet, musky feminine scent and the comfort of their tight connection, waiting until she pushed her lovely rear against him, urging him on.
Their pace quickened languidly, and he continued his experiments, changing angles, touching here and there, hard and soft, watching her beautiful face. With a fluttering of eyelids, she began to break around him. "Lance." She spoke his name once, then again, "Lance."
The sound, his name spoken like a summoning, shattered his control and he followed her into ecstatic oblivion.
Lance McClain in her bed, his magical hands and mouth on her skin, body covering hers, was the best thing ever. Lance McClain, typical man, zonked out after sex, long, gangly limbs invading the geography of her small bed, was a pain in the ass.
Katie clawed her way out from under his sprawling arms and legs—he snoozed on unaware—and sat on the bed's edge. Watching someone sleep was weird and creepy, but she did it anyway, in the interest of more data in her Lance database. Certain it was hormones corrupting her data, she nevertheless, at that moment, thought he was the prettiest human she'd ever seen. Most people's faces grew softer, younger as they slept. Sleeping Lance, however, bore a striking resemblance to the conscious version. Because, she realized, even with the giga-ton of angst in his life, some his own doing, he usually managed to affect a cheerful, youthful demeanor.
Her heart lurched, tight in her chest and she looked away. She wished so much that she could bring him home and introduced this version of Lance to her mom.
This is love, she thought as she left her bed because it was over-occupied by an irritating lover with no sense of space.
This is love. She scooped up his shirt and put it on, covering herself in his scent.
This is love, as she sank into the comfort of his bunk, alone, worming herself into this space he usually occupied, drenched in his scent.
This is love. Her breasts pressing against the mattress were sensitive from the attention he'd lavished on them. This is love: nothing but the combined chemistry of the brain and gonads.
This is love. Messy and irritating and inconvenient and more than a lot terrifying.
This is love. His gentle hands….
This is love and it's beautiful.
Note: This is an abridged/censored version of the original chapter. The more explicit version is posted on the other archive
Long chapter because it needed to be a little novella.
Thank you to all who've read this far.
Translations-
Mi pobre Paloma: My poor Pidgeon.
Spanglish. Cuando you can't find la palabra en un idioma so you fill it in con la otra.: Spanglish. When you can't find the word in one language, so you fill it in with the other language.