Archive of Our Own

9:16pm

“For the last time, Shiro, I didn’t push Keith down the stairs,” Lance McClain whisper-groans into his phone, half frustrated, half on the verge of unleashing a terrible laugh.

“I was just checking,” Shiro reassures, and Lance can literally hear his head swing back and forth, but his friend’s tone is more worried than disappointed.

What a weird dude, Takashi. Always ready to sedate a rising battle.

Lance is pretty much convinced Shiro has never lost his shit, except for that one time, when they were still in highschool, and Shiro’s developed an ulcer after spending twenty minutes alone with his neighbor Slav. Nice guy, just a little tad too emotional, sometimes.

“Why are people always so suspicious when something happens to him?” Lance asks, shoving a quarter inside a snack machine.

“I don’t know, maybe because you two self-proclaimed rivals do nothing but bicker and give each other death threats all the time? Is he okay, now?”

Lance glances back at Keith’s hospital room door, after retrieving his peanut butter chocolate bar.

He pushes it inside his jacket pocket and presses his smartphone closer to his ear. “He looks like total shit, which means he looks like he usually does.”

“I assume it’s your way of saying he’s fine.”

“Yeah, sort of. I took the Volvo, by the way. We’re a few miles out of town. Place’s a little shitty, but, y’know, less paparazzi, less questions,” he explains, before Shiro has the time to process the news involving his freshly bought car. A dark-haired 30-something nurse smiles at him as he makes his way to the elevators, and so he adds: “But more cute babes.”

See, donkey? She doesn’t think wearing sunglasses at night makes me look like a moron, he would like to singsong in Keith’s face. At the moment, though, he weirdly isn’t in the mood for teasing, not even if it involves his arch-enemy and rival Keith.

If we had to be particularly insightful, it'd be fair to point out that he and Keith are not really rivals, much less enemies, but they both surely like to make each other’s life miserable for reasons that not even they are aware of.

In reality –and according to Hunk’s infinite wisdom-, they’re like puppies with bad haircuts trying to win the attention of the other by pulling pranks and calling each other names. Allura agrees, and so does the rest of the world. 

Lance likes to play it hard and keeps the hate-parade alive every chance he gets.  

Right now, however, he has too many things to worry about and Keith is having a rough time, so the fraternal bickering will have to wait.

As for the flirting…well, it’s always a good time for that.

Lance smirks back at the nurse and makes her blush, as a trill chimes in the air.

He steps in the elevator and presses the GF button on the pan, folding up the sleeves of his old, anonymous lucky charm jacket, the one his mother had got him at Good Will, years ago.

Mountains of money ago.

The sliding doors are about to close when someone not-so-ceremonially shoves their open palm in front of the sensor first, and enters the small space, in a mess of panting breaths and crunching papers.

Lance’s natural radar immediately classifies the new passenger as a woman.

It never misses a beat. It’s a gift, really.

He allows himself a quick peep while Shiro goes on and on with his paternal pep talks, listing an impressive amount of reasons why he and Keith should never stay home alone, ever again.

The girl looks familiar.

She’s short, tucked in a largely too wide white scrub. A stethoscope hangs around her neck, and there’s a dark dirt stain on her jean coveralls’ left knee.

Her hair is a shade darker than honey-blonde, combed in a messy braid that brushes her shoulder. A large pair of glasses covers her eyes and makes her look like a kid who's playing doctor, but on a second thought Lance decides it suits her and her nerdy ways.

The elevator starts moving with exhausting slowness.

“Lance are you listening?”

Shiro’s voice brings him back to present, and Lance finds himself swallowing. “Mm-mmh. What were you saying?”

“I asked what the doctor said about Keith’s arm. How much will it take for it to heal completely?”

Lance moves aside a few steps to look at the girl some more, without her noticing.

Not that it seems like a problem, anyway.

She’s lost in thoughts, unaware of her surroundings, maybe a little tired, as she puts green headphones over her ears. She never once looks in his direction.

Lance doesn’t know if this fact offends his ego or invigorates his soul, more.

“A couple months, week more, week less. I’d be more concerned for the doctor that took care of it, though. He was terrified,” he says, finally, and launches himself in the explanation of how Keith had almost kicked Doctor Holt right in the junk when the poor guy had given him a shot for the pain.

Shiro doesn’t ask questions, ‘cause they are all very much aware of how sensible Keith can become when it comes to hospital stuff. Good-looking doctors included, wink-wink.

Lance actually wink-winks before he has the chance to remind himself Shiro can’t see him. “I think Keith likes him.”

“Please, promise me you won’t tease him about it.”

“You know better than I do that I’m not keeping that promise.”

“I trust you’ll know how to behave,” Shiro utters using his final resource, the ever feared dad voice™. “Let’s just hope that doctor won't sue us. Or worst, talk about the whole thing with the press.”

“Nah, he seems like a cool guy. We probably owe him a new pair of glasses, though.”

“I’ll tell Allura to get on it immediately,” Shiro promises, naming the band's manager aka his gorgeous current girlfriend. Former crush of Lance’s, too.

One out of a very large amount of unrequited ones, if we have to be truly honest.

Despite the way magazines like to portray him, despite what he himself lets the others think, Lance and his love history don’t really live up to the worldwide, hollywoodian gossip expectations his superstar halo is surrounded with.

For example, Lance doesn’t have a type.

Sure, he usually seems to dig flashy and wild partners, but that’s only because when it comes to the girlkind, he is lot like a kid: drown to everything that sparkles and delivers funny noises.

Call him shallow all you want, but to Lance it's a highly proven and successful defense mechanism.

Straight to the point, a whole lot easier to handle, and the number of chances of getting seriously burnt is contained.

Lance peeks at the girl, between a word and another.

She's still not acknowledging his presence and it's definitely hurting now. 

He likes people, and they usually like him back.

(Allura always says it's because he’s a Leo, and a very dedicated one, too).

Well, most of the time, they do. 

From this angle, Lance can see the girl's eyes flutter shut longer than they should and that there’s something doodled on the white-y tips of a pair of Chucks that have definitely seen better days.

From where he stands, he can't help but notice that she has lightly asymmetrical features, thick eyebrows and high cheekbones that make her look younger than she probably is.

She’s not exactly stunning, or maybe it's just the grayish atmosphere inside this elevator, but Lance would swear she’s one of those women people turn their head for, on the streets.

He would.

Again, she keeps her gaze away from him, so Lance forces himself to focus on his conversation.

“We’re a team, Lance,” Shiro cheers. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Hashtag squad goals,” Lance snickers, but he’s not putting enough passion in it.

They’re going to have to cancel a few dates of their promotional tour and maybe find someone to replace Keith until his arm is okay again. His favorite frenemy is very probably going to spit shit for this, but they have to, at least during rehearsals.

Here’s another trait magazines tend to forget to mention when they write about the lead singer of the Up In Space: he is rather serious about his job and, even though he is known for being a chronic oversleeper, he hates lazing around as much as the others do.

He especially doesn’t like the places his mind goes whenever he has time to count all his own flaws. But that, of course, is a story for another day.

“We could ask Coran's nephew. He’s still taking lessons, but he’s not bad,” Shiro proposes.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Are you guys leaving, now?”

“Doc says there’s nothing to worry about, but it’s better if the dork spends the night here, since he hit his head and stuff.”

“Do you guys need me and Hunk to come?”

“It’s chill, man. You enjoy your double date. I had nothing better to do, anyway,” Lance whines, puffing his chest out as if Shiro was there to see him act out all spiteful. “I’m going back home to get him something to sleep in, now.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“He wanted to sleep in his day clothes,” Lance clarifies, forever offended by his band mate’s lack of sense of style. “He wanted to sleep in his jacket!”

“Outrageous,” he hears Shiro chuckle from the other side. “Be careful, okay?”

“Yes, dad,” Lance jokes. “I’ll catch you in the morning. Tell my man Hunk I love him.”

“Will do. Goodnight.”

Lance grins, puts his phone away and presses his shoulder against the wall.

“We tend not to lean on that side of the elevator,” a quiet voice calls from his left, and when he turns his head towards her, the girl is too busy rumbling in her shoulder bag to look him in the eyes.

“Why not?” he asks and he’s not sure she can hear him since she’s got her headphones still on.

“It’s rusty and it stains clothes.”

“Dangit,” Lance shrieks, jumping away immediately. “You should put a sign or something.”

“There was one, but someone stole it,” she says, aloof, and there’s some sort of effort in her voice.

One of her hands is balled in a fist around the headphone’s wire, pulling at it, at whatever is probably stuck somewhere inside her bag.

Lance brushes paint crumbles off his jacket and offers her a compassionate nod that she promptly ignores.

He is about to ask her if she needs help when everything under his feet goes unstable for a moment.

He barely notices when the lights flicker slowly and then shut down completely. Above his head, a small and wobbly purple emergency light comes to life.

Years after the first concert that had made them blow up, life under constant spotlight has deprived Lance of the element of surprise and everything attached to it.

And, in his defense, the elevator stuck quite gently.

“Ugh, not again,” the girl protests.

Lance doesn’t even let the shock kick in. He goes straight for the panic.

“Does this happen often?”

“Not as much as you may think. The last two times it happened it took the handyman only four hours to make it work again.”

Lance gasps, making a face. “The last two times? Only four hours? What the fresh hell kind of hospital is this?”

“A poor one. We go through donations,” she grunts and Lance understands she’s back at it, struggling with her stuff as if nothing happened.

“You really should reconsider that.”

“Actually, thanks to last year’s donations we raised enough money to replace the beds and get a new generator for the machines.”

“It doesn’t seem to work very well.”

“The elevators are still connected to the old one. We kept having blackouts,” she tells him, as if she’d given the same explanation a hundred times over and over, that day.

“But this,” he whined, whipping his finger around to indicate the space they were sharing. “is still happening. How?”

“At least this way it doesn’t affect the patients’ recovery.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” the girl remarks, and finally gives the last pull at the wire.

Her hands must be a bit fidgety or she apparently put too much strength in her gesture, because the thing she was trying to angle out -her phone- escapes her grip and its jack joint, and flies right to Lance’s feet.

With a cracking noise, it turns off because of the rough impact with the floor, too.

Lance, always the gentleman, bends lower, sitting on the balls of his feet, reaching his hand out whole she does the same.

He hands her the dead phone. 

“Thank you,” she says, kindly.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, with a just as soft tone, and her eyes meet his for the first time.

There’s no trace of make-up on her face, except maybe for a flash of the-day-after mascara.

Her glasses run down the bridge of her nose. She pushes them back with her index finger, automatically, as if it is more like a habit than a necessity.

Lance thinks it’s an incredibly sexy gesture, but for the first time in forever he doesn’t feel like pointing it out out loud.

He gingerly watches as her features freeze. Her face becomes like an open book, he can read every single emotion she’s experiencing.

First, it hits her eyes, then it’s her mouth’s turn.

Disbelief. Confusion. A hint of annoyance?

Lance will remember forever how fast her smile dropped.

“Oh, shit,” she breaths.

A little pointy, surprised, butterfly knife slides through his ribs and right into his lungs.

Now, this is a surprise.


9:21pm

Pidge considers herself to be a pretty lucky girl.

Of course, if you ask anybody, they will tell you it’s not actually about good luck as much as it’s about hard work, but Pidge is humble enough to recognize that she wouldn’t be

where she is if fate hadn’t helped her a little bit.

At 22 years and five months old, Katie Holt, Pidge for friends, can count on a nurturing and supporting family and a first degree early major degree in medicine on the run that

allows her to volunteer at her parents’ voluntary clinic.

Her life and future were there, full of opportunities and within hand reach, ready for her to pick them up. Anybody with a hint of brain could tell she has enough additional numbers to go places by herself whenever she decided to leave the nest.

Although being an insufferable old-school nerd, she can claim a sort-of-active social life and two handfuls of important or weird events that had happened to her, or while she was present.

Tonight, a random Wednesday of September Pidge was totally ready to file away in a remote zone of her brain, has surprisingly made it to her personal Top 3.

Pidge gives herself six full seconds to freak-out without holding back.

Keith Kogane.

Keith freaking Kogane.

Drummer of the Up In Space, her favorite band and guilty pleasure.

Here, at her parents’ clinic.

According to their official blog, the four guys had decided to take a quick vacation between a gig and another, and, according to the same blog they also happened to rent a flat not too many miles away from her birth town.

Pidge is almost certain they could afford to go to a hospital that doesn’t come with rusty paint on the walls.

Don’t get her wrong, she’s definitely not complaining, but still, it leaves her wondering what she’s done right in her life to receive such a wonderful gift.

The Up In Space -or UIS, as the more affectionate stans call them on social medias- obsession is a fresh thing, that started at least three years ago, when the guys were merely a garage band who made cover of famous songs and posted videos on YouTube.

Pidge has a fast brain and good memory, and could tell how many hours she’d spent listening to their covers, and then to their original pieces over and over while studying for her exams, by missing a few only.

She knows it’s basically a cliché, but she feels like their music speaks to her.

Their pop-punk mix, with just a hint of good ol’ Panic!At The Disco and FOB influence squeezed in between, always manages to keep her alive and collected on days she only feels like going home, kick off her pants and shut the world out.

Only her mother seems to have understood just how bad her daughter has it (you literally can’t hide things from mums, it’s like, impossible), and, although she doesn’t make fun of her for it too much, Colleen Holt has long but made it clear that her little, beloved second-born, is experiencing an impressively persistent case of celebrity crush.

Her mum is so right.

In public, Pidge almost ironically appreciates their talent.

In private, Pidge is one of those fans.

She buys two copies of every album in case she scratches one. She knows everything about the four members, obsesses over their posts on social medias, owns personalized merch (Pidge would never tell a soul, but on a particularly brave night, she’d gotten a super small tattoo shaped like the UIS logo in the inside of her bicep, too).

She literally spends her lunch breaks on Tumblr, and in her laptop there is a hidden folder called Work in which she’s saved an impressive bunch of screenshots of Twitter exchanges between Hunk and his girlfriend Shay (they’re her otp for life), gifs of Shiro’s sexiest moments (if you’ve never seen that guy hold a bass guitar, you can’t understand) and even a picture or two with Keith and his cat, Red.

Pidge doesn’t like playing preferences, but it’s clear as day that Keith is her favorite.

She’s mostly sure her brother was only trying to avoid castration (since Keith has tried to evirate him with the tip of his boot) when he propped one hand to his hip, reached the other out to pass her the boy’s chart, and offered her the chance to be the one to visit him in the morning;

Pidge, of course, wholeheartedly accepted, even if it meant skipping classes the next day, before storming away to make herself presentable.

She thinks about Keith, slightly sedated and injured, probably even asleep in one of the clinic’s battered cots.

She still can’t believe he’s here.

Pidge really wants to see him, ask him about his drums, see if he’s wearing his signature red jacket and take a picture. Maybe even touch his hair without him finding it too weird; alas, she barely survived a 36-hour shift, her face is rough from lack of sleep and she’s carbureting only over a tuna sandwich and four liquorish strings. Not to mention that under the scrub, her favorite and stained Adventure Time shirt smells like bleach and latex gloves powder.

Definitely not the kind of look she’d like to have to meet her idol for the first time.

She takes a look at the watch on her wrist and feels relieved for a moment, because even if the handyman couldn’t make it in the next four hours, she’d still have enough time to go home, take a shower, grab a bite and come back in time before Keith wakes up for his discharge.

In just a matter of hours she’d be by his side, checking his pulse and probably babbling his ear off.

Yes, she was indeed a pretty lucky girl.

Well, usually.

Pidge presses the on/off button on the top of her phone’s frame, but her Huawei’s screen remains black.

She refrains herself from shoving it across the elevator and casts a side glance at her right, instead.

Lance is looking at her again.

He’s trying not to make it look too obvious, which, of course, makes it even more obvious.

Pidge has to resist the urge to snap at him to tell him to stop. She opts for a long breath and casually takes a few steps sideways, so she’s out of his panoramic view.

While Keith is her most cherished Up In Space member, Lance is unquestionably the one she has more trouble finding herself relating to.

He’s just so much…So much.

Too much.

He’s flirty, arrogant, self-absorbed, and often gets in fights with the press.

His fans defend him by saying he’s an artist, a surprisingly good one, and that’s how they seem to roll.

If you ask PIdge, she’d tell you people have really weird tastes.

Fortunately for him, he also has a confident, sexy voice that can penetrate even the hardest of hearts, and a way with words that gets him out of every situation, no matter the scandal he’s involved in.

When he sings on stage he gives good performances, he entertains the public and toys with it, catching everybody’s attention, emitting every sort of noise.

(Pidge would never admit it, not even to her mum, but she once sobbed over a pint of mango flavored ice-cream hearing a live version of Chasing Lions, their most famous single.)

Aside from his terribly good voice and paparazzi shenanigans, Lance is also quite famous for being a licensed ladies’ man.

Women and men of every age like him and his cocky attitude to the point of ridiculous.

He dates supermodels, makes out with fans in the backstage, and is close friends with James Franco. It was rumored he’d even flirted with Queen Elizabeth of England when they’d been invited to play at Buckingham Palace.

People call him The Tailor, for Christs sake.

Pidge found it an atrociously ugly nickname and wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who’d started using it first.

He isn’t exactly appealing like Shiro, or effortlessly handsome like Keith, but he has this thing that pulls you closer and closer and closer until you find yourself trapped beyond salvation.

Not to mention he is objectively attractive and nice to look at.

Thing of which, of course, Lance is totally aware of.

He’s still glancing in her direction.

What is he even so interested in, anyway?

According to popular belief, Lance doesn’t bother wasting his precious and charming time with a girl if she doesn’t have overflowing boobs and/or long smooth legs. She certainly isn’t the type.

She certainly isn’t his type.

And, for what it matters, he definitely isn’t hers, either. Right?

Pidge lets out a loud sigh, but she must have done something wrong, because Lance takes it as an invitation to start a dumb conversation.

“You can talk to me, I don’t bite,” he says, out of nowhere, flashing her a smirk and answering to a question no one’s asked.

“What?” Pidge probably looks at him like he, and not Keith, is the one who needs to be hospitalized for a possible brain injury, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You keep looking at me like you want to say something.”

“I wasn’t looking at you.”

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I wasn’t. If we have to be honest here, dude, you were the one checking me out.”

“And what if I was?” he lets out an amused laugh. “It’s just you and me in here, where else am I supposed to look?”

Pidge cringes and doesn’t dignify him with a reply, but something tells her she’ll discover soon enough that it takes more than an annoyed silence to keep Lance McClain at distance.

In fact, he comes closer.

He’s taller in person. His hair is short and shiny.

Not that Pidge cares, of course.

Lance pulls down the white hood of his jacket and one of his big hands reaches out for hers to shake.  

“I’m Lance, by the way,” he beams, as he arches a playful eyebrow at her. “Unless you already know?”

He offers a casual grin and flexes his free arm behind his head. His cobalt blue shirt runs up his waist a little, exposing a flash of tanned skin and thin dark hair below his navel.

Okay, he technically has a fine body, even Pidge can admit that. He technically has a really fine body, but that’s not important.

Pidge manages to keep some sense of composure but struggles to control the flush that spreads on her cheeks. She briefly looks away from those summer-narrowed flirty eyes and all that flattery bare skin.

Now she has to take another moment.

You’re better than this and this guy is trouble, she repeats like a mantra. You’re better than this, no matter how famous he is. No matter how nice or tanned or toned you think he is.

Unbelievable.

The last thing Lance is in need of is definitely another burst of his ego.

Pidge mentally slaps both her cheeks and feels immediately better. Honestly, she’s too tired for this and he’s being a little too forward for her likes.

Pidge looks at his hand, still pending midair between their bodies.

Let’s face it: deep down in her guts she knows she’s dying to shake it. Lance might not be her favorite person in the world, and he’s probably even more annoying than she thought he was, but he’s also the man who’s sung her to sleep for the past three years.

Pidge curses herself and then his voice.

She’s not the kind of person who judges others by second-hand infos and gossipy slurs, but Lance is dangerously similar to the infuriating brat she’s pictured in her mind, and

Pidge is not sure she likes it.

Maybe it’s about the approach. Maybe she should help themselves both by breaking the ice while letting him pay for his show-offishness and bursting little holes in the fancy bubble that seems to be surrounding him.

It’ll be a real uplift for Lance’s personality, really.

“Lance, you say?” Pidge starts, with a poker face that deserves an Oscar, and ignores his hand. “Doesn’t ring any bell. Are you a nurse?”

He lowers his arm and wrinkles his turned-up nose.

“Do I look like a nurse?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

“You look quite ordinary, to be honest,” Pidge deadpans, after full fifteen seconds filled with sarcasm that he doesn’t seem to catch.

Lance’s eyebrows, the very same eyebrows he’s used to charm her (or tried to, that is), are now almost touching his hairline.

Pidge gives him an apology shrug and eyes him as he tucks away his sunglasses, and pulls his hood back up again.

The whole time, he keeps pouting.

Pidge hides a smirk in the curve of her neck and thinks that maybe her luck hasn’t abandoned her yet.


9:25pm

Lance is frigging bored.

His mind doesn’t functions properly under dull circumstances. It needs to be constantly stimulated.

He picks out his phone and checks his social media accounts, one by one, laughing under his breath when he comes across a very nsfw post one of his fans tagged him on, on Twitter.

He closes all he apps, sends Shiro and Hunk a text explaining the situation he’s got himself in, only because Keith couldn’t walk two steps straight without falling around. Oh, man, Mullet Boy owes him big time!

Hunk replies immediately with a bunch of laughing-crying and one poop emoji.

The older band mate is not as quick of a texter, plus Lance assumes he has better things to do than check his crappy old Razor, so he doesn’t wait for Shiro’s reply and goes to put his smartphone away when the unknown girl yawns, squealing, reminding him of her presence. As if her silence wasn’t loud enough.

He still feels a little crestfallen by her comments about his ordinary looks, and even more by the way she seems to repel every attempt at making their forced time together roll faster.

But he’s a polite, a sort-of model citizen and, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, he wants to talk to her again.

“You okay?”

“Dandy.”

Lance grunts, but doesn’t let her negativity discourage him. “Do you want to use my phone? You know, to let someone know you’re trapped in here or something.”

She eyes him, not at all flabbergasted by his kindness, and slides possibly even farther away from him, shaking her head. “No, thanks.”

Lance holds back a shout.

It’s going to be a loooooong night.


9:27pm

Pidge loosens her messy braid, claws her fingers through the disheveled locks and is glad she’s taken the decision to not let Lance’s ways drive her all starstruck and return.

Who the heck does this guy think he is?

Really, she couldn’t have picked a worse companion to go through this giant clusterfuck with.

They clearly have nothing in common and, aside from the fact that she’s spent a really impressive and unnecessary amount of time gushing over his stupidly hot voice, Pidge believes they shouldn’t be here together. Let alone making conversation together.

Maybe it’s time for her to put an end to the the whole I-have-no-idea -who-you-are fanfare.

Pidge gawks at him sideways, for a moment too long.

He’s too busy fixing his probably designer clothes to notice, anyway.


9:27pm

He notices.


9:28pm

Lance is smiling to himself.

Her palms go eerily sweaty.

Pidge hates him.

But, surprisingly, at the moment, she hates herself more.


9:33pm

Lance feels great, most of the time.

He exists; he breathes, thinks and bleeds laughter and pick-up lines. It only takes a good movie or one of his mum’s Medianoches, and Lance is more than fine.

When he’s on stage, though, playing with the guys, that’s when he feels alive the most.

He likes every thing, every second of it: the boiling lights, the yelling crowd above his voice, the sweaty palms he always gets before performing every piece.

In the middle of a particular catchy song, he unplugs his mic from its stick and wanders around the stage, now pressing his back against Hunk as his best friend blasts a guitar solo, now tickling Shiro’s bass chords. Now showing a nipple at the cute blonde in the third row.

The stage is his reign, his little happy place, where he can be the person he wants to be and do the thing he is better at, at the same time.

Singing, flirting, entertaining. It’s his world, and it’s like a purifying fire.

Who wouldn’t want a life like this? Who wouldn’t want a piece of this?

Lance looks over his shoulder, at his left, and finds the answer.

“I was kidding” she declares, clearly amused, as she puts away her headphones.

“About what?”

“I know who you are.”

Seriously, what is all this about?

Lance is enough of a closeted chick-lit reader, to know that a stuck elevator can have its good sides, too.

He’s learnt that when the lights go out, the sparks kick in, but, right now, it’s the exact opposite.

Lance is convinced this girl is intentionally trying to murder him or his maleness. He’s also starting to realize he should probably revise his sources.

Lance stops pouting, but keeps sulking.

“I knew it,” he replies, making a scene at hiding the sigh of relief that left his lungs. Stupid lungs.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know? It’s something people say. So, you’re a fan?”

“Of what?”

“My band. The Up In Space. Are you a fan?”

Her face goes weird for a second, and Lance is only able to catch the change because he’s watching her intently. “Yeah, I am.”

“Sweet. Would you like an autograph? A picture? I could sign your scrub, if you want.”

“I think I’m good, thanks.”

Lance feels his heart skip a beat.

He’s well aware that it isn’t entirely a bad thing, that there’s still someone out there who doesn’t worship him like the god he isn’t, but Lance’s gotten used to fans ready to jump on him everywhere he goes and it kinda disappoints him when they don’t ask for a little piece of him or his attention.

He’s gotta give it to her, though. She’s doing an amazing job at making him feel like he’s happily invited to take his attention and shove it up his nose.

“So, do you, uhm…?” Lance clears his throat, and motions towards her with his open palm. “Do you have a name or…?”

“I have one.”

“Yeah, I kinda suspected that. But, which one is it?”

She snorts and folds her arms across her chest. “Pidge.”

“Pidge.” Lance repeats, trying it on his tongue. It’s cute. A little quirky, just like her. “It suits you.”

Her answer is another grunt and he feels just a teeny tiny little bit exasperated when one of those stereotypical uncomfortable silences settles over and all around them.

Thinking about it twice, it’s true that he could have used a smoother approach, but Lance is confident enough in the power of his charm, that he pretends it’s only been a slip of a moment from which he’s going to recover quickly, but it’s taking him every ounce of effort to get a response and she’s certainly not collaborating.

It’s stated that he’s always in for a challenge, but this silence? He hates it, he’s ready to say anything to make this awkward situation stop. And so he does. “So, Pidge, Pidgey, Pidge. Are you a doctor?”

“I’m an intern. My family owns the place.”

“That’s cool,” he says, cautiously, remembering for a moment where he is and why. Something else clicks in Lance’s iper-active brain. “Are you by any chance related to Doctor Holt?”

“He’s my older brother.”

“You guys look alike,” Lance confirms with a nod. “Also: Pidge Holt? It sounds like a nickname.”

“It is a nickname,” she says, bobbing her head, but she doesn’t go further on the subject.

Too bad, he really would like to know her real name.

She fixes a lock of wild hair behind her ear, and Lance notices that between the battle with the flying phone and an exasperated roll of eyes at his expenses, her hair has gotten even messier.

Another bitter silence fills the walls, but this time it’s Just-A-Nickname-Pidge who breaks it.

Her stomach rumbles loudly. Lance is honestly impressed.

“You hungry?”

“A little.”

“Here,” Lance chuckles and his hand automatically flies to the candy bar he’s bought at the vending machine.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“I could literally hear your stomach growl from here. At least keep it for later. Please.”

Pidge rolls her autumn-orange eyes (at least Lance hopes that’s their color, it’s really difficult to tell in this weird light) at him, but he scouts the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she snatches the candy bar and shoves it in the front pocket of her coveralls.

She’s pretty.

A little pale, maybe, but something tells Lance that that’s a Pidge thing, just like the sassy remarks and the cleverness.

The more he looks at her, the more he gets introduced to new, impressive details.

Smart women fascinate him. He definitely appreciates a girl who can keep him on his toes, but Pidge looks like someone who could mess with his head and toss him away like a used tissue, without even noticing.

She actually reminds him a little of Keith and his permanent sulk.

Pidge does that thing with her nose and her glasses, again. Lance fakes a cough to cover up for the moan that leaves his lips.

He needs to keep her talking.

After a quick self brain-storming, Lance decides that summoning all the suaveness he’s capable of won’t help his case. His good looks for once seem to be in the way, instead of all the way.

He needs to penetrate a barrier, create a bond, pull a Hunk.

But what would Hunk do? Offer her food, probably.  Compliment her outfit, maybe.

Lance half smirks when he realizes he’s already covered the food part. He goes for the compliment and chooses simple. Simple will do.

“I like your shirt,” he says.

She looks down at her chest (Lance swears the body part choice was totally unintentional). “Thanks?”

Nailed it.

“What’s that on the front?”

“An OJ stain, probably.”

“No, I mean the stamp. Is it a unicorn?”

“It’s a rainicorn.”

“I like the style. It reminds me of-WHAT THE FUCK?”

He barely makes it in time and grabs her shoulders a few inches from the floor. She flails in his arms, abandoned over his chest.

“Pidge?!”

His heart starts pounding against his chest, scared. He wonders if Pidge’s heart is doing the same or if it’s having troubles functioning.

Is she breathing? Lance has no idea. He tries for her wrists, but he doesn’t know where to press his fingers to catch the pulse.

It’s no secret that Lance knows very little, if not anything, about first aid and stuff; all his medical experience records consist in Grey’s Anatomy marathons (Lance is a huge Slexie shipper, by the way) and that one time he’s received a stomach pump after a concert in Munich.

Lance allows himself a quick moment to make up his mind about cosmic karma.

The truth is, Lance thinks he could really start to like this girl, even if she’s giving him a hard time.

He needs to do something, anything, to wake her up.

He lowers Pidge with her back against the floor, wipes away vacant hair from her sweaty forehead and follows his instinct by tapping her nose with his fingers and brining his lips close to hers.

What’s the worst thing that could happen, after all?


9:37pm

Pidge wants to kill him.

She emerges from her temporary haze, eyes still closed, and the first thing that her mind registers is how nice it feels.

Being kissed, like this, gently. Softly.

Except it’s not a kiss and the come-to-Jesus realization hits Pidge when a weird force insufflates foreign air in her lungs.

For someone who’s nearly fainted, she pushes him away quite enthusiastically and Lance rolls on his side.

“Oh, thank God, you’re alive!”

“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” she sputters, coughing, voice hoarse, as she struggles with the shoulder strap of her bag that’s trying to strangle her.

“I was trying to give you CPR,” he explains and the concern in his voice is so real Pidge is almost tempted to believe his honesty.

“That’s not how you do it!”

“Well, excuse me if I’m not a doctor. What happened, by the way? Are you sick?”

“I’m just a little out of shape. Low blood pressure and all that jazz.”

Pidge goes with the spontaneous auto diagnosis her father’s taught her since when she was a kid, wiggling her fingers and toes, swallowing a couple of times, measuring beats between the pulses that are still hammering in her ears.

She closes and reopens both her eyes, slowly, then one at the time. Her head doesn’t hurt as bad as she’s expected, but Pidge supposes it’s because Lance didn’t let her crash her skull on the floor.

Yeah, aside from an irrepressible desire for physical revenge, Pidge decides she’s fine.

“Thank you for, uhm, that.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Lance sits up and presses his back against the wall, legs sprawled in front of him. “Do you need help sitting up?”

“I’ve got this,” she grunts, clumsily props up on her elbows and scuttles on the spot next to him. Not too close, but close enough for his warmth to mix with her own.

Lance carefully hands her the stethoscope she must have dropped while collapsing, and Pidge fixes it back around her neck.

She looks at his profile, at his stupidly pointy chin and she surprises herself admitting it’s not even that pointy after all.

It’s really incredible what can happen in ten minutes short.

“Are you always this chattery?” he jokes, bringing her back into awareness.

“You’re chattery for both of us.”

“I grew up in a house with eleven people, there was always someone to entertain.”

“Seems like you’re born for it,” she picks at a loose thread on her scrub’s sleeve and shrugs. “I’m not really a people person. I have friends and all, and I can behave in society, but I guess I just can’t relate to others that much.”

Lance collects his legs against his chest and hugs them with his lean arms. “But aren’t you, like, a doctor?”

“So?”

“Hate to break it to you, Pidge, but doctors are supposed to like people.”

“They’re supposed to help them, not like them.”

Lance rests his head against the wall and shuts his eyes. Apparently he took her explanation as thoroughgoing enough to let it go.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Aaaand, apparently she’s wrong again.

Pidge rolls her eyes, but if she has to be honest, his attempts at making conversation are not as annoying as they were a handful of moments before. “If I say no, are you going to tell me anyway?”

Lance snickers. “Probably, yes.”

“Ask away, then.”

He takes his time and when he speaks again, his eyes are still half-lidded but his expression is far from seductive. “I feel like you don’t like me much.”

“That’s not a question.”

“I know, I was getting there. The question is, why? You said you’re a fan, so I assumed, you know…people usually…”

“Try to rip off your clothes?”

“I would have said they’re pretty expansive, but yeah, you’ve got a picture,” he bobs his head in a sort of more-or-less gesture. “It seems like it bothers you that we’re in here together.”

He sounds kinda hurt, and Pidge is taken aback a little because she didn’t think she’s made it that obvious. Pidge’s mouth draws a line. She’s definitely underrated him.

“Well, I’m not having the time of my life,” she clarifies and promptly continues before she offends him more than she apparently did already. “But I’d mostly blame the fact that we’re stuck in an elevator, for that.”

“That’s nice to know. You’re still not answering my question, though.”

“Yeah, the question that isn’t a question,” Pidge takes a deep breath and goes for an honest approach. “It’s not that I don’t like you, but…I don’t really know you enough to say I do, either. I mean, you seem pretty cool and all, but the Internet…”

Lance makes a face as he ponders her words. “You know you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet, right?”

“I’m not dumb.”

“You sure aren’t,” he confirms, and his tone is flirty again, but this time it doesn’t make her cringe. “I know I can come off as a little too much, at times, but I’m not the asshole you probably think I am.”

“You’re probably worse.”

“Cut me some slack, okay? I’m trying to open up to you.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with opening up, to be honest.”

“It’s one of my many talents. Shiro always says I’m too genuine.”

Pidge smiles a little at the mention of the handsome bassist, and also a little at his heart-to—heart confession about himself.  “That’s a nice way to put it. And if it comforts you,

I’m starting to agree with it.”

Lance bites his lower lip, satisfied. “Good.”

He unfasts his arms, closes his eyes again and lets his hands fall to his sides. The tip of his pinky finger brushes against hers, lightly, and hopefully by mistake.

Nothing about this makes sense.

Still, she doesn’t move her hand away.

From the corner of her eye, she notices his smile stretch.

She suddenly doesn’t feel like murdering him anymore.


10:17pm

“You sure you’re okay? You were almost dying, earlier.”

“You’re so dramatic. I’m fine, nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened? I could literally feel the life slip away from your body. If I remember correctly, I had to catch you before you opened your skull on the floor.”

“And if I remember correctly, you also had your tongue in my mouth.”

“I already told you I’m not a doctor. But it seems like it worked, tho, so I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

Pidge sticks her own tongue out, making him smile.

It’s nice how things are proceeding, it’s even nicer how they seem to ping-pong back and forth words between each other, even if it’s just him teasing and Pidge responding with all the sass she can manage to collect.

Lance’s met cute and smart girls, before, but he’s pretty much sure this is the first time he’s having so much fun trying to pursue one.

Pidge (he really, really, really needs to ask her about her real name) settles better on the pavement, and leans her head to the side, cheek pressed against the knuckles of her left hand.

She looks at him, inspecting his face with those big eyes, perfectly framed by thick black lashes.

Lance wonders what she’s seeing.

She said that the reason why she’s so weary around him is because of the way he appears on the outside, and, honestly, Lance can’t blame her too much for this.

He’s done so much shit he should be regretting, but Lance’s philosophy is really similar to Edit Piaf’s Je Ne Regrette Rien, especially if he was having fun while doing it.

He’s going to fix this, okay? He’s trying.

He wants to prove everybody wrong, he wants to prove himself wrong.

He stares back at her, his eyes automatically lingering on her lips for a tad bit too long.

Lance has to suppress the need to lean forward and press his lips on her soft, creamy cheeks, and not only because she’d find it rude and most likely would punch him in the guts.

Lance struggly peels his gaze away from her mouth and concentrates it on her eyes.

From this close, they look like a mix of hazel and pumpkin orange; they remind him of the warm, sweet punch Hunk’s grandma prepared for them when they were kids and built pillow forts in her house during Christmas breaks.

“Hey, I know when you can find something that’ll make you feel better,” he says, and points a finger at the middle of her chest.

“In my…heart?”

“In your pocket,” he winks at her. “You still need to eat that candy bar I gave you, young lady.”

“Are you scolding me? What are you, my dad?”

“I saved your life, I believe I have a saying in all of this.”

Pidge rolls her eyes at him, but does as he’s suggested, fishing the candy bar out of her pocket and starting to munch on it.

He’s glad she doesn’t offer him a bite, because if she did, he’d be tempted to take it and the thought of knowing exactly what her lips taste like, once again, would slay him for good.

He’s still a boy, after all, and they’re stuck in a 2x2 confined space.

So not funny.

Also, he feels like taking things too forward would ruin the perfect occasion to make something important bloom.

Lance watches her scarf down the last piece of her sweets and suddenly his mouth goes dry.

“Do you have any water?” he sputters, flushing.

Pidge tucks away the sticky snack package in her bag and shakes her head. “Nope, sorry. I usually have some with me, but I didn’t pack any before I left the locker-room. It’s not like I was planning on spending the night like this.”

“What else could be more interesting than this?” he asks, grinning. “Maybe a date with your boyfriend?”

“I was just getting home to change and eat something,” she smirks as if she’s understood his game (which she probably has). “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh. A girlfriend?”

“Don’t have that, either.”

“That good,” he says, relieved, and immediately props his hands up, defensive. “Don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely nothing against queer people. You know my buddy Keith, right? I’m always in when someone has to accompany him to a gay bar or something,  and-“

“WHAT?” she yells and Lance swears her eyes go even bigger than they already are.

“What, what?”

“You said…Keith…gay bar…” she babbles out. “WHAT?”

“Wait…you didn’t know Keith is…?”

Her feet twitch a little, her lips slightly parted. “He is?! For real? You’re not messing with me?”

Lance bites back a really flirty response and just nods. “For as long as I’ve known him. And, I mean, it’s pretty obvious. Have you seen his haircut? Don’t tell anyone, but I think he’s got his eyes on your brother. Matt, right? Is he single?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, with a thrilled expression, as if someone’d told her her pet ran under a rolling car. 

Lance’s mind does a double flip when he realizes why. In his defense, it only takes him a bunch of moments for the bell to ring.

Oh, no, this can’t be.

“You like him!”

Pidge’s face turns red and the way her mouth goes slack and closed shut in a matter of microseconds gives him the confirmation he needed. “I don’t!”

“You so do! This is precious,” Lance says and starts laughing. He really doesn’t want to make fun of her but this is the first time it happens. To him, at least. “Keith’s never going to believe me when I tell him.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“You really don’t know me at all if you think I won’t.”

“Not if I kill you first,” she declares, and launches herself at him, aiming at his neck, probably.

He doesn’t even pretend like he’s trying to take shelter, when her assault brings her right against his chest, her flustered face inches away from his.

She’s so tiny in his arms, so warm.

Pidge pants troublesomely, her breath smells like chocolate and it caresses his chin.

It’d take so little of him to wrap his arms around her shoulders and press her closer.

It’d take so little of him to ruin it all.

Lance grabs her shoulders with his palms and moves her farther, ignoring the pang in his chest that’s telling him he’s done the right thing.

He also tries to ignore the fact that, while she sits back beside him, she looks a little disappointed. By what, he can’t tell, or rather, he prefers not to think about.

“If it bothers you that much, I won’t tell him,” he assures her, after a couple of seconds, but he doesn’t promise, because, really, when will he ever get another chance to bloat about stealing a girl away from Keith? “Now I’ve got to ask, though. Keith?! Really?”

“What’s wrong with that? He’s a nerd like me and he’s a really nice boy.”

“And now you know why. But I agree on the nerd part. You two would get along well together.”

Lance swears he hears her giggle under her breath, but he’s not sure. He’s not sure his brain is functioning properly, when she scoots closer and lulls her temple on his shoulder.

He takes his time to register the action and nuzzles the top of her head with his nose, briefly, nonchalantly, letting her sandy hair tickle his nostrils.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“You smell great. What is it?”

“Sweat, probably. I sweat a lot.”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “Way to impress a guy.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

“I know.”

For some reason he cannot catch right now, Lance believes her.

His head is a mess.

His everything else follows right behind.


10:29pm

The conversation flows, flows, flows.

It’s pleasant.

She definitely hasn’t forgotten that they’re still stuck in an elevator, and the news about Keith and his preferences won’t keep her from storming into his room in the morning to take at least seventy pictures, but she likes it, here. 

Pidge must admit that once you brush past the prejudice and his overly-hyped flirting, deep down, Lance isn’t a bad guy.

Sure, he’s probably a little too fancy and has no filter between his mouth and brain, but he’s selfless and keen to smiling in a way she could have never understood by only looking at him from the outside.

They trade stories, experiences, adventures and Pidge starts to wonder if all his latin lover bravado is not just an act or a coping mechanism.

She figures it must have been hard growing up in such a large family like his while trying to create a whole sparkly identity of his own.

His indigo blue eyes glow as he tells her about that time he and Hunk snuck into an amusement park after-hours and Hunk had made a mess activating the cotton candy machine.

She gestures with her hands and confesses him of how she’s blamed her bunny, Rover, when someone accidentally cut the TV wires of her parent’s living room.

He explains what actually happened during their trip to England, and, apparently, it was Her Highness who’s pulled the moves at him.

Pidge covers her eyes with her palms and laughs with her whole body.

He’s such a dork.

Once all of this will be over, she will need more than a shower and grilled cheese to tear down the betraying butterflies in her stomach.


10:44pm

Lance breathes in and out a couple times.

Her laughter is enchanting, contagious, and it almost sounds like a hick sometimes.

Her hair is untidy and the laces to her right shoe untied.

Lance has to keep himself from doing something absurdly stupid, like squeeze a dirty comment in between his totally innocent tales.

Or take her hand.

Or worse.

He could, for example, tell her what she’s doing to him and what he’s definitely not dying to do to her.

But, thankfully for both of them, he still has some sort of dignity. And he surely doesn’t feel like dying before getting her to laugh like this, at least one more time.


11:02pm

If someone, this morning, came to Pidge and told her she was going to spend her Wednesday night sprawled on the clinic’s elevator’s floor, with her head resting on the Up In

Space’s singer’s jean covered thigh, she probably would have laughed in their face and dismissed their nonsense with a frown.

It’s clear and proven, now, that future telling is definitely not her thing.

Her phone’s never recovered from its inducted technology-coma, so Pidge’d thrown it away in her bag, stripped of her scrub, messily balled it and lent it to Lance to use as a

neck pillow.

His right hand reaches for her hair, he twirls and untwirls a lock around one of his long fingers.

It’s a nice feeling, but Pidge can’t still quite understand when the boundaries between them had started to fade, nor she knows who made the first step towards…well, this.

She looks up at him.

From this angle, his facial features are softer, his jaw and cheekbones less pronounced. His thin eyebrows draw stupidly cute lines over his closed eyes, and there’s a trace of scruff under his chin and over his throat.

It’s a really manly throat, if you ask her.

“Hey, Pidge.”

“Mm?”

“What’s the deal about this clinic? I know you said it runs through donations, but it’s like, falling to pieces.”

“This clinic was my dad’s dream. He loves people and more than that, he loves helping those who can’t take care of themselves. My family is really passionate about it.”

“But what about your dreams? Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

She’s so concentrated on studying the smooth and alluring spot below his mouth, that she almost misses his question.

“Honestly? No. I mean, I like it, and I guess the fact my dad and brother are both doctors influenced my career choices, but I probably would have done something else if it

wasn’t for this.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something cool. Something involving robot science. Or videogames,” she admits, rather shyly.

“You’d definitely rock that. I can totally see you building androids and conquering the world,” he replies, and his proud tone makes her insides squirm.

Why is she even telling him all these things? It’s not like hot-shot superstar Lance McClain is interested in knowing about her stupid dreams.

But she’s allegedly misjudged him again, because it looks like he does care, even if just a little.

“What about you? You like your job, right?” “Of course. It’s the best,” he answers glancing down at her, his fingers still tangled in her hair. “I had different plans, tho. I wanted to be a space pilot.”

This makes her laugh, genuinely pleased. “You’d be the worst pilot ever.”

“Hey! Rude!”

“I’m being honest. Your attention span is pretty much nonexistent. You’d crash your spaceship into an asteroid every single time a cute chick from your entourage smiles at you while you’re at the helm.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Better stick to the singing, uh?”

Lance takes his fingers off her head and a soft moan escapes the back of her throat.

Pidge feels her face blush. She props back up and crawls near, on her hands and knees.

Lance spreads his legs, so she crosses her own and sits right in front of him.

They exchange a look.

She could swear she sees his lower lip shiver a little, as if he was feverish.

She doesn’t feel very well, herself, either.


11:37pm

Despite being half Cuban on his mother’s side, Lance speaks a very bad Spanish. Pidge friendly makes fun of him for his accent and literally shoves her elbow in his belly when he describes Keith as a lampiño and traduces it for her.

“Dude can’t grow a beard for shit.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I’m not. Shiro could sport a hipster look if he only wanted to and Hunk needs to shave at least twice a day. But Keith? He’s like a baby. His legs are as smooth as…”

“…as your flirting?”

“You said it, babe,” he flashes her a cocky grin and his signature finger guns, before he has the time to bite back the pet name.

She didn’t seem to notice, or she didn’t care enough to lecture him for it.

Oh, well.


11:39pm

“Tell me something I don’t know. Something the papers won’t tell me.”

“Like what? Like a secret?”

“If you want.”

He bites the inside of his cheeks and whips his index in the air. “Got it. I can’t ride a bicycle.”

Pidge whoops, loudly. “Really?”

“Really.”

Pidge is sure she’ll never forget about this juicy, funny fact.

Pidge would also really like to forget the way her heart twitched inside her ribcage at the sound of Lance calling her babe, but she really can’t.

Not now. Not ever, probably.

A warm feeling snakes within her bones, it spreads on the outside and envelops them both like a fluffy, emotional blanket.

Reality is, Pidge is starting to think she’s really underestimated him and the power of those piercing stormy blue eyes.

His long legs encircle her shape, sketchers covered feet wiggle at her sides.

He’s close, dangerously close. So close that the scent of fabric softener coming from his tight shirt’s chest tickles her nostrils and, even more, her senses.

Lance, on his part, looks at ease, as if he finds himself in this kind of situations at least once a month. As if he’s comfortable enough around her just like she is around him.

His left hand crosses the distance between their bodies and lands tentatively on the one she’s sat on her knee.

Lance’s eyes never leave her own.

Pidge tries to ignore the sibylline voice that, from the pitch of her guts, tells her that this is all in her head and it’s going to end soon, once the elevator will be fixed and Lance’ll go back to his glittery life.

And she…well, she probably won’t be able to erase this scene from her mind for a very long time.

Pidge flips her hand over, so that their palms are now touching, their digits grazing each other’s.

Pidge’s had a few boyfriends in the past, but she’s only now beginning to understand she’s probably never given the right importance to hand holding. 

His hand is hot, just like the rest of him. The contact of skin on skin as addicting as hot chocolate on a particularly chilly winter day.

She moves her other hand and traces a pale, smooth scar that crosses the tanned, freckled skin of the top of his.

“Last year,” he explains, with a smile, and she’s glad he’s giving her the chance to start breathing normally again. “Keith and Hunk bet twenty bucks each that I couldn’t go out there on stage wearing my sis Veronica’s clothes.”

“How did it go?”

“I won sixty bucks,” he admitted, smugly.

“You said they bet twenty bucks each.”

“Shiro joined the bet.”

“Pff, what a noob. He should have known better.”

“I know right?!”

Pidge laughs, happy, and it’s only partly to blame on the fact that she’s getting so much insides about her idols’ private life.

“You guys are super close, uh?”

“We’re a team,” Lance nods and his index and middle finger start caressing her palm, slowly, enticing. “Me and Hunk’d been thick as thieves since kindergarten. Shiro was the captain of mine and Keith’s soccer team.”

Pidge can’t help it, and almost screeches out loud. “Keith played soccer?”

Lance rolls his eyes, but the fingers on her palm don’t stop moving. “Your crush on him is really ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Ridiculously cute, she’d like to add, but she’s fortunately not reached that kind of sappiness, yet.

Her fingers close around his.

She’s lost count of time.

They’re both ridiculous, now.


11:54pm

To Lance, singing is like breathing or eating or kissing. It’s an instinct of the primal kind. He does it all the time, without even noticing.

He’s apparently doing it even now, humming quietly to the tune of one of the Up In Space’s unreleased singles of their future new album.

It’s impossible, vertiginous,
I hate it that I love it,
You’re mischievous.
And I’m crazy,
But you’re worse,
Got you stuck right here like a voodoo curse

“Laser Guns, right?” Pidge says, alluding to the title of the song. Her fingers are still pleasantly wrapped around his. “I like that piece.”

Lance is about to nod in agreement when he realizes she shouldn’t even know about this, unless she’s one of those people willing to spend three dollars in order to purchase a song before it was even properly recorded.

It surprises him, but it also flatters him to pieces. “Exactly how much of a fan are you?”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she stutters, embarrassed, and pulls at the collar of her shirt, exposing a portion of her bicep and a very small tattoo of a symbol he knows way too well.

Lance is sure his poor heart won’t be able to survive this crazy elevator ride without wrecking or exploding a little.

He can’t get himself not to stare at the little secret she’s hiding on her arm.

The contrast between the cold black ink and the paleness of her skin makes his mouth water.

“You probably think I'm a maniac, now, or that I set up the whole thing, don't you?”

Lance meets her eyes. He can’t believe this girl is real. “You’re kidding me, right? This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Lance usually sings the songs he and the guys write together, and he understands their meaning, too; but, right now, right now might be the first time in his music career that he’s felt the need to prove how much the words of his songs are accurate to him and to this moment.

“Sing with me,” he exclaims.

“Trust me, you really don’t want to listen to me sing.”

“I’m making your fangirl dreams come true, here. Humor me.”

“You’re an ass.”

“And you’re petty. C’mon, Pidge. Show me whatya got.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Pidge wasn’t lying when she said she can’t sing. The girl is totally, undeniably tone-deaf, but Lance doesn’t care.

Their voices together create a beautiful sound. The harmony that comes from their mutual breaths.

It hits me with the force of eighty-thousand suns,
When your eyes dig right through me
Like deadly laser guns.

By the end of the song, Pidge’s grown more confident in her vocal skills (or lack of thereof) and finishes the chorus’s last word going up the octave, totally off-key, and making his heart laugh and swell at the same time.

Something else also happens and Pidge surprises him by letting out an unhappy “oh” when the light inside the small space turn on again, hitting their eyes.

The elevator starts moving almost right after.

Pidge gives him a sad smile that he’s sure matches his own, and rises up to her feet, helping him do the same.

Lance reluctantly imitates her but he categorically refuses to let her go.

He doesn’t want to think they’re not going anywhere with this.

He doesn’t want to exit this stupid elevator, go home, sing his songs, if it means he has to forget this girl.

11:59pm

Lance gives her back the wrinkled scrub she’s lent him earlier and she finds it a little difficult to put it back on with his warm grasp still wrapped around hers.

They both laugh when he silently proposes to switch hands so she can slide the sleeve over her arm and pulls it up using their interlaced fingers.


00:00am

Before they step out of the elevator, Pidge lets go of his hand.

Lance tries not to pout too evidently, but he understands.

There’s a little crowd waiting for them on the first floor. Someone must have called the press because Lance spots someone holding a camera behind the front door, but he’s still lulling in the wonderfully spontaneous and overwhelming feeling Pidge created in his head, so he doesn’t bother putting on his sunglasses, or pulling up his jacket hood.

Pidge immediately gets snatched by the one Lance recognizes as her brother, and the two involve in am awkward but cute hug.

Doctor Holt detaches himself from his younger sister and turns to Lance, crestfallen. “I’m so sorry this happened,

“Don’t worry. You should consider putting a tv screen in there so people don’t get bored while they’re stuck.”

Lance can’t tell if the man is actually considering it or if he’s trying to decide whether he’s messing with him or not. Pidge intervenes kicking one of her brother’s scrappy shoes.

“He’s kidding.”

“Oh,” Matt frowns. “It’s not a bad idea, though.”

Lance makes a mental note about proposing a fundraising concert to the others, to help the Holt clinic.

Pidge shakes her head and fails at her attempt of hiding a smirk.

Someone flashes a picture in the distance.

“You sure we’re good, Mr…?”

“Lance, call me Lance. And, sure, one hundred percent good,” he assures, thinking back at Keith and the power kick he’s almost pull at the doctor’s expenses.

Matt Holt nods with a beam, turns around and gestures for the witnesses to thin out.

Pidge looks at him from behind her shoulder and moves forward a bit.

He can’t lose her now.

Another picture is taken, the flash almost blinds him.

Lance grabs Pidge’s wrist, spinning her around, slowly and carefully.  

Allura is going to kill him when she sees the shots on Just Jared.

“Hey,” he starts, voice cracking. “I, um…I’m staying in town for awhile. I’d like to take you out. If you want. For dinner. Or lunch, you pick.”

She rewards him with one of the smuggest smiles she’s served till now. “How about I take you out for dinner. Or lunch. You pick.”

“Sounds good to me.”

She nods, her cheeks slightly flushed.

He was right all along: her eyes really are a precious shade of amber, and they’re the most gorgeous eyes he’s ever seen.

God, she’s beautiful.

And he’s in so much trouble.

Lance brings her hand up and brushes the top of it with his lips, and he doesn’t care if it’s cheesy. She giggles and he lets her wrist go.

He regrets it instantaneously.

Is it possible of him to be missing her already?

“Pidge, wait!”

“Yes?”

“I still don’t know your real name.”

She grins, playfully, taking her sweet time to reply.  

“I’ll tell you when I get back. Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone, okay?"

Lance shakes his head. He should have seen it coming. “Can't promise I won't. Also, I’ll introduce you to your beloved Keith, if you behave.”

“And I’ll return the favor by teaching you how to ride a bicycle.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s you rubbing off on me,” she declares and he somehow resists the urge to hug her goodbye.

"I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah. Make sure you take the stairs this time.”

“You afraid I might find another cute doctor to get stuck in the elevator with?”

“Go home, Lance,” she laughs.

He can’t wait to see her again.

Seriously, what a night.

Lance is almost glad he’s pushed Keith down the stairs.