Pidge Holt had no idea what to do.
For a girl who always found the solution, no matter how complex the equation, no matter how many missing variables, this degree of helplessness was alien. As alien as…what was an alien thing? A few years ago, the answer would have literally been space aliens, sentient beings from distant galaxies, "little green men from Mars." Except, even then, she knew that Mars prior to human colonization had no life save for a few hardy microbes at the poles, and most alleged alien sightings involved Grey aliens, but….
She sighed. Whenever she was bewildered by other humans, her brain, with an almost audible click, changed gears and zoomed off onto pedantic scientific tangents. She hauled in a lungful of Altean fresh air, breathing in the alien world's atmosphere, and then releasing it as another sigh. A loud sigh. Hoping to draw Lance's attention since even she could see he was lost in thought.
The mid-morning sun hung behind the monolithic, towering edifice that was Allura's stature, bathing both her and Lance in chilly shadow. Truth be told, Pidge sort of hated that statue. A cold, stone monument was a poor representation of a warm, compassionate woman. But Alteans were all about oversized statuary. Oversized everything really, nothing on the planet was economy-sized. Altea was like the Texas of the universe; everything unnecessarily big.
She had found him sitting on his knees at the rear of the statue's broad base, blue eyes staring dully out at the Vrelfar Valley's verdant green landscape. "Lost in thought" was an inadequate description of his state. Taking in the straight lines and sharp edges that made up his lean brown face, she remembered Olkarion, the planet's bleak desolation in the wake of the Honerva's Robeasts' final attack. He looked just as ruined.
And she had no idea what to do about it.
She tried so hard to understand people, but they resisted, couldn't be modeled or predicted through tidy maths or taken apart like machines, circuitry rewired and gears machined anew to function in perfect synchronicity. During her tenure as a Paladin, her inadequacies at "peopling" hadn't mattered much. In the year after, suddenly thrust into a world without the comfort of her Voltron team, her human illiteracy was growing more and more apparent.
Though she'd never admit it, every day she grew more alone.
A lazy breeze skated over the monument's broad base, shoving her thick fringe over her eyes and ruffling Lance's chocolate brown hair. She finger-combed the hair off her face only to have it return. She had considered trimming her bangs shorter, or growing them out entirely; letting go of her childish security blanket, to stop peering up at the world through a hank of sandy brown hair. But she wasn't ready for that, certainly not now as she struggled to fit back into ordinary life.
Another breeze moved over them, this one with a hard nip of cold air. She turned, eyes following the undulations of the Trintis mountains that surrounded the valley like gentle cupped hands. To the north, the pinkish-orange clouds of an oort storm gathered, cut occasionally by bright spikes of lightning.
Hundreds of kilometers to the north, in the Mifrom mountain range, katabatic winds scoured down mountainsides, gathering glacial silt, then rising and flinging sediment high into the atmosphere where lightning fused it with plasma into sizzling, rocky hail. Oort clouds, as they were called, rolled over the Yenli desert, gathering force and elevation to rise over the Trintis mountains and rain down on the valley, usually late in the afternoon. But this was Verlal, Altean fall, and the storms often came early. Altean architecture was hardened against the storms, and native flora and fauna, including juniberries with their lily-like, magenta flowers, adapted to the rigors of the weather. Pidges and Lances, however, weren't.
"Hey," she said.
He blinked but didn't respond. What was she supposed to do with that? Yesterday, he'd been fine at Allura's Celebration dinner with the rest of the Paladins. Joking, laughing, verbally sparring with Keith, listening intently as she spoke of her family's work, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth. Later that night, when the Lions left them all for good, he seemed to take the loss well.
Now, here he was, in the blustery conception of a dangerous storm, exposed and defeated. Her gaze darted up to the statue, to the colossal stone effigy of their lost friend. For the barest breadth of a second, a furious tangle of resentment snarled in her chest and she thought, "You did this, you broke him." That sentiment was driven by the sense that she had lent out something precious, only to have it returned damaged. An illogical train of thought for someone so bound to logic. People weren't property, and he had never been hers anyway.
She shook her head like a dog shaking off water droplets, bitter thoughts leaving her feeling dirty and bruised. This wasn't Allura's fault. The fault lay with crazy-ass Honerva and her ghastly ambition to tear apart space and time, forcing Allura to make a terrible and beautiful sacrifice.
But assigning fault didn't help much now.
Why couldn't he be a machine? She could prize open his casing, yank and out replace faulty parts, and…she glared at his face, scrub away those stupid blue marks on his high cheekbones, restoring the brown skin beneath.
Frustrated anger rising again, she looked away, rubbing her arms as the air temperature dropped another degree. Thunder grumbled throatily in the mountains, mist creeping over ridges. They both wore Voltron casuals: dark gray pants, long sleeve t-shirts and jackets in their Paladin colors, his blue, hers green. Her hair, a day or two overdue for a good shampoo, was tied back in two short pigtails.
He was cleanshaven and probably smelled wonderful because Lance under even the worst circumstances was absurdly fussy about his appearance. Yearning shuddered through her, his lean frame pulling on her every atom like a black hole.
Physical contact, like all human interaction, was often fraught with confusion, so she limited it to friends and family and then only the occasional hug. Lance, however, had no concept of personal space, and she had grown used to his spatial intrusions, welcomed them even.
That had ended once he and Allura had started dating.
Gone were the casual invasions of space, his arm looped over her shoulders. And Pidge, suspecting that hugging someone else's boyfriend, particularly when said boy made her both tight and fluttery inside, might be a breach of protocol, kept her distance as well.
In the months and year that followed, she'd grown more and more touch-starved, increasingly aware of how much his physical presence had become a necessary component in her system.
In the wake of Allura's death, her sense of touch burned for him, but his misery, always simmering under the surface, repelled her like a forcefield. What could she do in face of such obliterating pain? Not touching him became a bad habit she couldn't break.
Her mouth opened, a thickness in her throat, the silly impulse to start reciting the periodic table of elements moved her lips soundlessly. Another very-Pidge sort of urge nearly caused her to blurt, irritably, "Lance, quit moping. There's a storm coming." Instead, she powered through elements: Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen,….
She made it as far as Argon. Argon. Atomic mass 39.948. Melting point 189.35 Celsius. A strange mantra, it fell silently from her lips, until everything but "melting point" was gone.
Melting point, melting point, melting point, melting point.
Useless. What good was all this data in her head, if she couldn't repair what mattered?
Thunder, this time with the crackling menace of a fast-approaching storm, boomed across the valley. She stared down at him, hope sparking with the air's electricity, expecting the celestial bedlam to break his somnambulance. A shudder, very close to a repressed sob, moved up and down his back, his eyes still vacant, body otherwise unmoving.
She shifted her feet, scuffing her white high tops on the smooth, gray ceramocrete surface. The storm clouds' shadows slid over the valley and lights winked on in the new Castle of Lions, still under construction, and the city of Vrelfar. She groped in her pockets, finding a bright green seed, three small hex bolts and a large capacitor. Like a magpie, she was always collecting shiny things.
The seed nestled in the crook of her curved index finger, she braced the flat of her thumbnail against the green surface, and aimed it down at her unmoving friend's head. One flick and the seed would fly, bounce off his skull, then he'd yelp and everything would be fine.
She sighed and returned the seed to her pocket.
She took a step closer, her feet inches from his bent leg. No response; he was as still as the huge statue looming over them. A faint strobe of lightning on the ground and the almost instant report of thunder. The mountains had vanished in the approaching cloud, the valley now walled in by the roiling pink, orange and slate gray storm clouds. Electricity swam in the air and her rat's nest of brown hair was probably sticking out at even crazier angles than usual.
Unthinking she reached down to him, stopping at the invisible wall of awkwardness that had grown between them. Lifting her chin, she gazed up at the statue, only the plain of Allura's cheek visible at this angle. What do I do? It was stupid, but she wanted, no, needed, Allura's permission to touch him again. Because he was still Allura's, even now.
She was Pidge Holt, the girl who, though the smallest member of team Voltron, never backed down from a fight. Why was this so hard? Why did nothing about it make sense?
Closing her eyes, she bent at the waist, breaching the wall between them, and setting her hand on his back. Folding her legs, she dropped down beside him, still uncertain what to do. He puffed out a small sigh, but said nothing.
Losing the battle, giving into the craving for closeness, she slid over, her legs, bent at the knee, wrapped around him, her chest tight to his back. The intimacy of the hug sent heat blazing to her face, but she didn't retreat. Unsure what to do with her hands, she fisted her left and clamped her right below that fist, locking herself tightly to him, wrapped around him like a bandage on a wound. Or maybe it was the other way around, because she needed this so badly.
That awful shudder wracked his body again and she felt him reach for her clenched fist, tugging gently. "Pidge," he said, and she knew he was going to push her away. Her heart hitched and broke with the shame of rejection.
Then his grip changed, his long fingers enveloping her knuckles, squeezing then releasing, again and again, in time with his deep breaths. And she froze, startled, like a small, prey animal. She'd done this, embraced him with no expected outcome, save for the hope that it would shake him from his stupor and up and out of the storm's path. Mostly, hugging him seemed an action that had to be done and his reaction, the touch of his hand on hers, was an intimacy that simultaneously terrified her and made her heart bloom with joy.
Was joy an appropriate emotion, here beneath the monument to their lost friend; his girlfriend? Again, she reached for Allura's memory, thinking she should have spoken with her about this stuff when she lived, all this bewildering girl stuff. Except Pidge could never express her feelings as words and those feeling centered around the boy that they both loved.
Another shudder that was like a repressed sob swelled his rib cage against her arms. "I feel…nothing," he said. "Like I am nothing."
That statement, raw and bleeding, fed with open vulnerability left her breathless. How it killed her to see him so hurt and she wished her faulty mouth and tongue could tell him how much he was worth. Pidge Holt, however, wasn't the Paladin who gave pep talks, who buoyed up her teammates with the right mix of empathy and kind words. That Paladin was in her arms, disturbingly broken.
The only comfort she could offer was cold hard science. "You are made of matter, and therefore can't be nothing." Considering her own statement, she tried for humor. "You are matter, so you matter." As the works left her mouth, she winced at the unfunny pun.
He was impossibly still for an instant, even his breaths halted. Then his body jerked with a snort. "Was that supposed to be a joke? Because it was terrible." For the first time, he moved, turning his head to look at her, mouth slightly upturned in a smile, a glint of humor in a blue eye.
She met his gaze. "Somebody has to fill the position of goofball."
He turned away. "You're grossly unqualified for the position, Pidge. Leave the jokes to me."
"I don't know. Might be fun. You be the science wiz and I'll be the goofball."
"I'm pretty sure that would rearrange the space-time continuum." He squeezed her hand and then let go, his fingertips moving to the ridge of her knuckles, winding in between their peaks.
"You just used 'space-time continuum' in a sentence. You're on your way to being the science wiz."
"About a billion light years away and taking the scenic route." Both their bodies shook with quiet laughter at that. More lightning splashed the landscape in light, thunder booming after, but he still didn't move.
She needed to say something, get him up and running for cover. But his hand on hers, stroking her skin, their body heats merging, the catharsis of finally making contact after so long, lulled her into a false sense of safety.
"Are you coming to Cuba next month? With Colleen, I mean, your mom?" The McClain farm had become the glad recipient of many of Colleen Holt's experiments in agriculture.
"I don't know." She'd never actually been to the McClain's farm, although her mom made frequent trips there and always invite her to come along. Until recently, she'd found her mother's fascination with plants quaint and about as interesting as watching paint dry. Lately, however, when her mom chatted about her research, Pidge had begun to listen. With a great deal of interest, especially when the topic turned to the fusion of nanotech and AI with botany.
Two weeks ago, her mom had sent her a brochure for MIT's new course of study in technobotany. Not only had Pidge read the material, she'd downloaded the admissions application and filled it out, although she'd yet to send it. Going to college meant leaving Legendary Defenders. She needed to find the courage to tell her father and brother that, like Hunk and Keith, she wanted to save the universe in ways less warlike.
"I don't want to uh,…intrude?" Was that the word? Quiznack, she was bad at this social stuff.
He straightened slightly and leaned back into her. "Intrude? My parents invited you."
"They did?"
"Yeah. Mom loves company. And while you're there, we can go to this place in town. We call it the Three B's. Real name is Bueno, Bonito y Barato. Delicious, Beautiful and Cheap. Food is good, and they have homemade ice cream." At this, he looked over his shoulder and gave her a smile that was nearly his usual cocky Lance grin. "Including peanut butter ice cream."
The wind picked up, raking hair into her mouth. She spat it out, unwilling to let go of him to use her hands. "Homemade? Peanut butter? I'm there." The wind snagged more hair, driving it into her eyes. The sound of an oort cloud siren, a horrific melding of cat-screeching and metal grinding on metal, blared from the city.
"Uh, there's a storm coming," said Lance.
"Duh!" Pidge spat out more hair, her eyes blinking furiously at the strands that caught her lashes.
"Holy crow!" In one smooth motion, his long legs unfolded and he rose, hauling her with him. They paused for a moment, her arms still around him and she found that this was still quite wonderful but terribly embarrassing.
Apparently oblivious to her mortification, he freed himself from her grasp, and took her hand, heading for the stairs leading off the platform. "Come on, we're gonna get pulverized."
Just a few meters from the stair's base, the first drop of rain smacked her face with stinging malevolence, driven by a powerful downdraft. She wobbled, almost losing her balance, but Lance's hand steadied her and they ran on. Seconds later, Lance yelped. "Ow!"
She flinched and bit back her own "Ow" as a pea-sized oort stone pelted her back.
"Faster, faster, faster," urged Lance.
"This…is…as fast as…ow…my…ow…short legs go." The Castle of Lions was only a few dozen meters away, but in the gathering fury of sizzling rock-hail, it felt like several kilometers. If her lungs weren't currently occupied with the task of running for her life, she would have smacked him and noted that he was the reason they were about to get pounded into blood pudding by an alien rock storm.
A dull roar, the timpani of rock-hail and rain sweeping across the valley like a gray curtain, filled her ears. Her heel hit the ground and skidded, and she nearly fell on her butt. Lance tried to steady her, and almost went down himself, long arms pinwheeling frantically to regain his balance. The quiznaking Altean landscape was conspiring with the weather to kill them. The valley's fine, silty soil, when mixed with rainwater, had turned oily, and the plant life, that which hadn't retracted entirely into the ground, had folded into a slipper mat.
A golf-ball-sized blob punched her shoulder, scorching her jacket, and she stumbled like an idiot heroine in a lame adventure movie. Lance yelped again and released her hand to swat franticly at his head. "Am I on fire?"
She ran her fingers through his hair, flicking away a small, smoking oort rock. "No. Not anymore."
"Thanks." He grabbed her hand again and they scrambled up the Castle's steps and down its broad entryway. "Why's everything in Altea so damned big?" he complained. "OW!
They ran and the rocky precipitation became a downpour, more lethal rocks, softened only slightly by ordinary rain, striking them in an accelerating beat. She joined in his chorus of "Ow's." The dark curtain of dangerous precipitation was nearly on them, drumming furiously at their heels on the walkway. More plasma rocks smacked them both and even in the deluge, the stink of burning jacket and hair filled her nose.
She should have been afraid, but was too exhilarated. For all her accomplishments, all she'd done with Matt and Dad, her life had been so staid and dull over the past year. This was like old times, the delirious rush of terror and adrenaline during a battle. And Lance's hand…Lance's fingers were still interwoven in hers. She knew it meant nothing, just small gesture in the literal heat of the moment—her poor jacket gained another plasma burn—but hope still burned bright in her.
They reached the door just as the storm hit them with its furious, pummeling rage. Lance flung her before him, his body covering hers, hand on the doors. "Open, open, please open."
She squirmed, stubborn pride resenting his chivalry, and also desperate to reverse their positions and protect him. Were the doors offline again? Why wouldn't they open? She banged on the doors futilely with a fist. Lance's body jerked and he groaned in pain, struck by a large stone.
"Lance!" She tried to wiggle free. The seam between the door panels breathed a gust on her face and widened. She pressed forward, face, then shoulders squeezing between the opening, her hand, still in Lance's, pulling him with her.
In seconds they were through the doors and within the Castle's vast entrance hall, the grand staircase before them. A trio of Alteans, installers working on a section of the stair rail, looked at them in surprise. "Did you not hear the sirens?" said a small woman with burgundy hair. A gust of wind blew a sheet of rain and hissing stone into the entry onto the shiny new floor. Another Altean, a man, punched a button on the doors' manual control, and the doors reversed course and closed.
"Sorry," said Pidge and Lance together. Then they giggled, which became laughter, then paroxysms of gulping, wheezing hysterical laughter. The Alteans eyed one another, clearly wondering if Voltron's heroes had lost their minds. She knew they must have been a sight, two bedraggled, wet Paladins, muddy, soaked to the skin, hair and clothes singed, leaning on each other and shaking with lunatic laughter.
"Ow, ow, ow!" Lance grabbed his left side, face contorted with laughter and pain. "I think that last stone bruised a rib." Gently, his fingertips brushed her forehead. "Pidge, you're bleeding."
Her fingers brushed his as she prodded the place he'd touched. She scowled at her bloody fingertips. "Only you and I could get beat up by weather."
"Beat up? No, we just had our butts handed to us by weather." He held his hand out to her and she took it. "Time to break in the new infirmary."
Together they wobbled up the stairway. "Please come to Cuba next month," he said.
"I think that might be dangerous."
"Dangerous? To who?"
"Cuba."
His laughter rang in the cavernous entryway and despite the fact that her teeth were starting to chatter from cold and shock and her head rang from a possible concussion, it was the most wonderful thing she'd ever heard.
Inspired by a bit of my own fan art and by Coran's comment to Lance about Altean rain being made of rocks. Thanks for reading.