"No. He'll never be the same."

Shiro's statement weighed on Pidge, making her feel physically ill all of the sudden.

"But he will get better," Shiro amended, jolting Pidge from her fear.

Shiro smiled slightly at her expression and continued, "He won't be the same Lance, he'll be more somber, more jaded in some ways. But he'll be more like his old self. Who knows? He might even go back to making his bad jokes."

Pidge shuddered at the thought, but smiled just the same.

"At least that means that he'll be happy," Pidge noted, before adding, "The jokes aren't too bad, but if he reverts to spurting out horrible pick-up lines, I'm going to duct tape his mouth."

Shiro laughed, and shook his head, "I'm fairly certain the pick-up lines are in the past."

"Good," Pidge grumbled, but in honesty, she'd rather hear him tell a ridiculous pick-up line then endure the silence in which he'd buried himself.

Emptiness.

All he could feel was the absence of everything.

Lance wasn't sure if it came from the void surrounding him, or the pit within him. Either way, he allowed it to eat at his skin, his will deteriorating. As his body plummeted rapidly, and yet lay suspended at the same time, an image sparked in his memory. At first, he didn't notice it. Then, it pushed itself to his immediate attention, demanding acknowledgement. Grainy and distorted, this memory was faint, and Lance couldn't discern the moment in his life from which that it came.

He could see…

Blue.

Like a burst of lighting on a clear day, the memory came into focus, and he could see it, an ocean. The sound of waves crashing filled his ears, the touch of water rippling over his skin ghosted his body, and a breeze carrying the scent of salt somehow reached his nose. At first, the memory was pleasant, if not puzzling. Then, his lungs recalled being empty of oxygen, and in its place, water seemed to fill him once more. Curling in on himself, Lance retched, the phantom sea water not once reaching his lips. Lance felt the helplessness of death in the depths once more, but his phobia propelled him into action. Convulsing, he clawed at his throat, too overcome with fear to realize that he was moving.

That he was fighting.

Air.

He needed air.

Without thinking, he kicked his legs and pushed his arms in long strokes, desperately hoping for relief. Shoving himself through the thick sludge that held him captive, Lance twisted upwards. But the murk did not want to release him. It attacked him from every angle, pushing him from above and pulling him from below. The complete darkness that encircled him oppressed his senses and battered at his struggling limbs, yet Lance did not stop. Fueled by desperation, Lance only plunged deeper, his fanatic movements working against him. As he dropped, Lance felt the pull of submission, and too soon, he sagged, ready to accept his perishing once more. But something inside him changed. All at once, the burning in his lungs shifted, from lack of air, to the presence of a flame small enough to be flickering on the wick of a candle. But it began to swell, and suddenly, it grew into a vicious fire, roaring and snarling. Lance didn't know where it came from, but he was tired of his own exhaustion, and he finally made a decision. He wasn't going to give up again. With a strength that appeared from nowhere, Lance pushed upward, fighting the darkness and the weight of the depths all at once. The journey to the surface was much harder than the trip to the bottom, but Lance refused to stop. He had no idea how far from the top he was, how much longer he'd have to swim, but he knew that he had to do this. If he didn't, he'd be lost forever, spiraling without direction and dead to the world. With each kick, his body became weaker and weaker, and his mind began to drag, his weariness overpowering. But somehow, he kept fighting. And after what felt like an aeon, his hand broke through the mire, and the crisp air encouraged him. With one final burst, spending the rest of his reserves, he collapsed against a bank, shaking and gagging.