A/N:

There won't be too many more chapters after this, I'm planning on just a couple more, roughly just two or three.

Thank you for reading, it means the world to me.

Move. Come on, just one step forward.

Lance tried to push himself toward the door. Or more accurately, to what lay behind it. Cold metal, impassable threshold, and seemingly looming over his head, this door in particular struck him with more terror than any of the other identical doors in the garrison compound. Vision tunneling, legs weak but feet firmly planted, and hands shaking, Lance found he could barely remain upright, forget moving forward. Clenching and unclenching his hands like some mechanical mannequin, Lance tried to focus his erratic breathing and calm his nerves.

1, 2, 3, 4…

As his brain counted, he centered his entire attention on the mounting digits and their calming rhythm, the beat gradually slowing his panicked heart rate. Since when had approaching a door become so difficult? When had he become so pathetic? Swallowing, a shot of disgust seared through his bloodstream, and he stopped counting. He could do this. He didn't just travel light years across star systems and nebulas, planets and asteroid fields, encountering war and captivity as he went, just to collapse or walk away from his family's door. Punching his thigh with enough force to jolt him from his dazed state, Lance savored the pain the sparked from the impact, and allowed it to restart his senses.

Now, move.

Lance pushed his right foot forward. Then his left. Another step. And another step. Meditating on his feet and nothing else, he made it to the intimidating door that, in a way, was his last defense. Maybe that was why he didn't want to walk through it. Or maybe, he wanted it to chase him away.

"I couldn't talk to them because I couldn't get past the door."

Yeah, Veronica would love to hear that excuse.

His arm suddenly fashioned of lead, Lance exerted more energy than ever should have been necessary in order to raise his hand to knock. Before his skin could even touch the harsh metal of the door, however, Lance hesitated.

What if they don't want me?

It was ridiculous, he knew. His family loved and supported him, their care for him was obvious. But Lance still found himself doubting. Perhaps he wasn't doubting them-perhaps, he was doubting himself. The proposition sounded logical, but it didn't help his current situation much. Philosophizing and hypothesizing only carried so far, only held so much weight, and too often, Lance chose to ignore any revelations they unearthed. He knew the truth, it stared him in the face. No, better yet, it danced in front of him painted neon pink, blowing air horns and covered from head to toe in flashing lights. Yet, he still refused, or didn't want, to acknowledge it. And he didn't understand why. Doubts and insecurities tugged at his clothes like phantom hands, trying to pull him back into the shadows, or maybe to keep him there. His resolve the wax of a long burning candle mostly melted and without shape, Lance found his body lurching backward, allowing the hands to jerk him backward a foot. For a moment, Lance considered giving in to their fervent pulling, their persistent presence. But the image of Veronica's furious features burned in his mind like a slave's brand, and Lance was pushing himself forward again. She was the reason he was here. He couldn't stand to think of their encounter, the overwhelming suffocating sensation he'd endured throughout their entire conversation, the fury that had seized both of them for a horrible moment, and the way she'd looked when he'd shown her his scars. Face blotchy from lingering anger, mouth parted, a gasp perched on her lips, and deep blue eyes brimming with tears of pity and reflecting not only every emotion that grabbed at her heart, but his face and the misery that twisted his features.

Haunting the back of his eyelids, his dreams, and his thoughts, that face tormented and drove him further from his sister. For a while, he'd feared that he might see that in his mother's face, and that in itself prevented him visiting her. But, time was short, and the Garrison's plans for ridding the Earth of the Galra were almost complete, and the mission was soon to be set in motion. If Lance died, without a final word to his mother, he couldn't imagine her pain. He needed to ensure that she had some sort of goodbye, one last memory of her broken son to cling onto on overcast days and starless nights. That was why, when Lance's mind conjured Veronica's features once more, he practically shoved himself against the very door that had paralyzed him. Knocking before he could think about three hundred more arguments to walk away, Lance steeled himself for whatever would happen next.

"Who is it?" His father's voice called from the other side, sending a rush of tingles across Lance's skin.

"It's me, uh, Lance," Lance rubbed the nape of his neck awkwardly.

"Lance!" His mother cried, and the door before him opened.

Before Lance had a second to react, his mother had flung herself unceremoniously into his arms, causing Lance to stumble back in surprise.

"Hey, Mom," he couldn't help the smile that emerged from the dark depths within him, but when she began to practically crush his ribs, the smile slipped away.

"Easy there," he wheezed, the cold touch of the ghost of his old injuries seizing his frame for a moment.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She leapt back, eyes wide.

"It's alright," he waved dismissively, using every ounce of his self-control in order to avoid clutching his sides.

She regarded him for a moment in wonder, before exclaiming, "Please, come in! It's not very tidy, but you can sit down."

She turned and rushed back into their living space, and Lance used that moment to catch his breath and unleash the wince that he'd been fighting. Then, he hurried after her before the door closed again. Crossing into the room should have held some emotion significance to him after his whole internal struggle in the hall, but Lance's mind became distracted by the scene before him. Their room was an old dorm room designed to house four students, but with such little resources, the Garrison had bestowed it to a family of eight. When Lance had first arrived, he hadn't thought of where he would be staying, since many other troubles had vied for his attention, but some small part of him had wondered if they would house him with the other Paladins or his family. Of course, he'd been staying with the Paladins, and now he knew why. While the family possessed very few material objects, there still was hardly any free space in the room at all. The four single beds had been shoved together to form two double beds, a table sat near door, and clothes were sprawled in piles across the floor. From the look of things, Lance's mother had been in the middle of folding the clothes and stacking them, but he must have interrupted before she'd gotten very far. A couple of toys, several dishes, yarn and knitting needles, and a plethora of random objects cluttered the table's surface and trailed to the floor, and somehow, though the table was obviously not designed to dine eight people, eight chairs crowded around it nonetheless. And, the room itself was barely bigger than the cockpit in the Red Lion.

"Lance!" Lance's father gave him a sunshine smile and wrapped his arms around Lance with a far greater gentleness than his mother.

"We're so glad you're here," he told Lance as he released him.

"Well, I had to come see you at some point, didn't I?" Lance tried at a playful, carefree attitude, but he knew it would fall flat sooner rather than later.

"Come sit down!" His mother beckoned, fussing with one of the chairs in order to pry it from where it had become stuck between two others.

When she finally yanked it out, Lance let himself chuckle, and sat as his father took a chair at the head of the table.

"I wish I'd known you were coming!" His mother proclaimed, "I'd've made you some of those garlic knots that you love."

Lance assured her that he didn't mind, and secretly, he didn't think he could stomach any food at the moment.

"Well, would you like any water?" She wondered, and Lance knew to refuse would be a deep insult.

"Of course," he nodded.

"I'd like some too," his father added, which elicited an eye roll from his mother.

"I didn't ask you," She retorted teasingly.

"But, mi amor, you'll get me some anyway?" He asked snidely.

Although Lance's mother released a long huff, he knew that she was fighting a smile. From his childhood, he remembered how much his parents adored each other, and that his mother loved it when his father called her that.

Lance's father grinned and winked at Lance when she turned away, exiting the room in order to grab water from the cafeteria just down the hall.

Glancing around, Lance wondered why everyone else wasn't there, but secretly thanked Heaven that they weren't. He wasn't ready for the horde just yet.

"We've missed you," his father admitted, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table.

The imagine of his father propped against a table, features crafted into a kind expression, instantly transported him to a different time in his life, and suddenly, Lance felt eight years old, staring at his Dad as they talked about anything and everything.

"Sorry," Lance rubbed his neck again, and he absentmindedly wondered if he'd chafe all the skin away.

"No need to apologize!" His father waved his hands frantically, "We understand just how important everything you're doing is."

Lance gulped.

"Tell me, Lance," Lance's father's voice dropped and he narrowed his eyes, igniting bursts of anxiety in Lance's gut.

"Do you think we have a chance at beating the Galra?"

Lance almost felt giddy with relief.

"There's definitely a chance," he acknowledged.

A small chance, the back of his mind whispered, but Lance chose not to speak the thought out loud.

"What do you think will happen to the Earth?" His father wondered, eyes soft.

"Who knows? This whole experience is so foreign to humans, so the possibilities are endless, but I believe that we'll end up rebuilding with tech from all sorts of species, and the world will be completely different then how it was before."

"What do you think Voltron will do?" His father inquired, and Lance couldn't stop the paranoia that flooded his chest.

Why was his father asking these sort of questions? Wouldn't he want to know about Lance? Or ask about all of his space adventures?

"Why do you ask?" Lance leaned back in his chair, maintaining the appearance of ease while all of his nerves burst like fireworks beneath the surface.

"Oh, I've just been thinking about it a lot recently. All of this is speculation, of course, if we manage to overthrow the Galra."

Lance grunted, and his hands, out of sight beneath the table, began to trace the intro to a punk rock anthem.

"The truth is, Lance," His father straightened and cast a glance to the door. "We've all missed you, and it would crush your mother if you left so quickly."

Ah. Lance thought. That's what this is about.

"I'm sure we'll aid in Earth's rebuilding," he reassured his father, but more questions began to swirl in his head. For so long, all Lance had thought about was reaching Earth, seeing his family. He'd never considered what would come after. What would he do? Could he really continue as a Paladin of Voltron, fighting battle after battle, never stopping, stuck in a loop?

Would he go insane? And yet, no matter how desperately he'd yearned for Earth, he didn't know if he could remain on the same planet for long. Lance sat, shocked, as the revelation blew his mind. Where was home for him? What would he do? Where could he go? Would he stay with his family? He knew that was what a proper son should do, but was he really a proper son? He couldn't even look directly at his father for too long.

Lance was so blown away that he didn't notice that his mother had returned until she placed a glass of water before him and flicked his nose lovingly. Moving stiffly, he downed the entire glass in one swallow, his mouth suddenly parched.

"What did you say to him?" His mother declared, "He looks as if a ghost just waltzed into the room!"

"I was just-"

"I'm fine, Mom," Lance managed, not wanting the subject to re-enter their conversation, "Really."

Skepticism weighed on her features, but after a moment of consideration, she shrugged and said, "If you say so."

Relieved that she'd let it go, Lance placed his empty glass on the table and stared at the rim like the answer to all of his questions was hidden there.

"Oh!" His mother exclaimed, her mind already flitting to something else.

"I made this for you!" She smiled brightly, grabbing a folded sweater and handing it to him.

"You did?" Lance asked, eyes widening in surprise as he gingerly accepted her gift.

The material was softer than any article of clothing he'd worn in years, and he rubbed it between his fingers in awe. Unfolding it gently, he examined the sweater with a small smile, then turned back to her.

"Thank you," he told her with sincerity.

"Oh, it was nothing," she waved her hand dismissively, but a hue of soft pink spread across her cheeks, and he could tell she was pleased.

"Be careful, if you tell her you like this one, she'll make you ten more," his father jibed, earning himself a glare from his mother.

Lance forced a smile to wobble on his lips.

"Why did you come to see us?" His mother questioned as she eased herself into the chair across from him. "Did you need to ask us something?"

A stab of sadness jabbed Lance's heart when he realized that they thought he wasn't there just for them.

"I just, well, I wanted to talk to you, seeing as how we haven't been able to for so long. And we might not have another chance for a while," Lance replied, eyes focused on the threads of his sweater.

"Why is that?" His mother scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion, leading Lance into a sigh.

"We'll be dealing with the Galra soon," Lance conveyed.

"Really? Well, they don't know what's coming for them," She remarked proudly, practically beaming at Lance.

He didn't deserve her pride nor her confidence, and he averted his gaze, offering a timid smile in an effort to look grateful.

"What's wrong?" She reached across the table and clasped his hands, her tone soft and reassuring, exactly the way he remembered from all those times he scraped his knee or had a nightmare.

Except, now, his troubles could not be solved by a kiss to the forehead, a few soothing words, and an embrace.

"Just tired," Lance fell back on his age old excuse. The one everyone believed.

"Ok, what else?" She wondered, as if his skin was a clear window in which she used to see all his secrets.

"Eh, nerves."

"Nerves?" She raised an eyebrow.

Why was she so good at reading him?

"Yeah, I mean, after so long everyone you're around can get on your nerves, you know?" Lance tried to salvage his mistake, but she didn't indulge him.

"People don't get on your nerves," she objected. "You've always been so amiable."

"You sure about that?" Lance arched both his eyebrows, recalling all of the times he'd been infuriated with Keith.

"Well, everyone gets annoyed with someone else every now and then, but that's not what's bothering you," his mother announced sagely.

"Leave the boy alone, Cariño," His father interjected, coming to Lance's rescue.

"If he doesn't wish to talk about it, don't make him."

"Fine," she crossed her arms, not angry, just troubled.

"I suppose I shouldn't call you a boy anymore either," His father turned to Lance, startling him.

"It's been five years after all. You're twenty-two now, aren't you?"

The number stole Lance's breath.

Twenty-two.

"Well, in Earth years, yes," he clarified. "But I haven't necessarily lived twenty-two years. In all honesty, I have no idea how old I am."
"Mmm," his father contemplated, eyes misting with thought.

"Your eyes tell me you're much older," his mother commented faintly.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Your eyes look as if they have seen a lifetime's worth of sorrow," she sounded like a fortune-teller at a carnival, but Lance was shocked by the gravity in her tone.

"They do," his father agreed, and Lance glanced between the two of them, frost spreading across his body.

"I-"

"It's okay, you don't have to tell us," his mother squeezed his hand, "But I can see the pain in your eyes. And the shadows under them."

"The scars are also a big clue," his father noted, his odd sense of humor strangely welcome at the moment.

Lance traced the scars tentatively, then shook his head.

"It's been a long journey for me," he finally conceded.

"I can tell," his mother reached up and stroked his arm.

"I'm sorry," the words pulled themselves from his mouth, as if they'd been sitting there all this time, waiting to rush out.

"For what?" His father wondered.

"Everything. Everything I can't explain," Lance fought the onslaught of tears that struggled to free themselves from his body with great difficulty, and he knew he couldn't contain them for long.

"Thank you," he stood abruptly, facing both of his parents, "For the sweater, and the talk."

"Are you sure you want to go?" His mother asked, sounding like she missed him already.

"I do, there's going to be a meeting soon, and I can't be late," he told them distantly.

His mother nodded, on the verge of tears herself. After he hugged them both and exchanged an emotional "I love you", he practically launched himself from their room, not waiting to hear the door close behind him before he darted down the hall, tears already leaking from the cracks in the mask he'd built for himself.