Chapter Text
Chapter 1
No one ever talks about how cool blood looks like on snow.
It’s her own blood, dripping from where the big kids caught her face with their fists, drip-drip-drop falling in delicate little globubles from the tip of her nose to dot the snow with little scarlet pebbles. It’s cold outside, clouds of steam bloom from her lips and the drops of blood freeze when they hit the ground instead of blossoming outward the way they normally would. A little constellation of crimson spheres arranged against a frosty backdrop.
She doesn’t want to go home.
She doesn’t know these new foster parents yet and they don’t know her, and she doesn’t think they really want to and that’s fine. She doesn’t want to know them either. But she hasn’t quite broken them in well enough yet for them to be able to comfortable each other yet. If they see her nose and bloody face they’ll ask questions and try to be concerned or worse, actually will be concerned and Acxa’s not up to weathering the emotional tizzy they’ll work themselves into. She’s eleven years old but she feels the old in that statement more than the eleven part.
She hitches her backpack up her shoulder and wonders if there’s a coffee shop around that’ll sell her a cup of drip coffee for the dollar and change she has in her pocket.
A quick step out of the alley the big kids had cornered her in reveals a street, too new to be ‘familiar’ yet but not quite foreign. Damn, no coffee shops, at least none that looked like they catered to the bloody preteen customer. But just up the street…
She doesn’t know why she walks to the community center, really. She tries on reasons: her backpack is heavy (it is), her face hurts (it does), she’s tired and new foster parents are a pain (they are), but nothing really fits. She finally just tells herself she feels like going to the damn community center so she’ll go there.
She slips inside and it’s warm and down one hall there’s elderly voices calling bingo, and down another there’s young voices shrieking and cheering in play and there’s a single user bathroom she can slip into and clean up her face.
She hides in there for a little bit, sitting on the floor by the sink, knees drawn up to her chest, listening to the muffled sounds of a softer, nicer world outside.
She wonders if she would be welcome to join those kids in the other room. She wonders if she’d win if she played bingo.
…
It's actually hilarious to Lance how genuinely uncomfortable babies make Keith.
"Shouldn't you go rescue him?" Carly asks at his shoulder, watching as Keith awkwardly fumbles his way through interacting with Jamie's son David.
Davie is a toddler now, stumbling around, touching things and people and pets. He's tried to climb onto the family dog's back more than once, Cerberus (the name is Carly's fault, she was going through a Greek myth phase that basically never ended) patiently enduring little hands grabbing fistfuls of his shaggy fur. Cerb took the attention with equanimity, the mutt just shaking his head tiredly and moving to another corner of the living room. Mom got him from a shelter when Sofia went off to college, saying the house was too quiet with all her children gone (All the kids suggested name ideas and the family voted on the top choice. It was almost appallingly wholesome). The house is certainly loud enough now, with everyone gathered for Christmas. Even Shiro and Allura stopped by for Christmas Eve brunch on their way to visit Shiro's dad and stepmom. They had Coran with them for some reason (probably Allura's family being back in England for the holidays and Allura not wanting him to be alone on Christmas). Either way, Coran-Coran-the-mustache-man was a big hit with the kids.
But now it's Christmas afternoon, everyone is a little too full of food and drink to function, and without the distraction of Coran and his mustache, their youngest family member, like a cat, has zeroed in on the one person guaranteed to feel the most uncomfortable around small children.
"Nah," Lance shrugs, "he'll be fine for a few minutes."
Keith does not look fine, he looks profoundly uncomfortable as he tries to dodge sticky baby hands and make sense of gargled toddler syllables and one-word phrases.
"Are you sure?" Carly asks as Keith shoots the two of them a 'help me' look.
Lance grins and gives him finger-guns because he can. Keith glares. Lance blows him a kiss and turns back to his sister.
"Yeah, totally."
David is ceremoniously removing the sparkly red decorative ping-pong balls (they're not actually ping-pong balls but that's what they look like, dammit) from their nest of silver tinsel in the tray on the table and handing them to Keith with great dignity.
Keith, seemingly at a loss for what to do or how to reject them without triggering a meltdown, is just accepting them. His hands are swiftly filling with fake Christmas ornaments and he looks unsure where to go from here.
Lance is a grown adult who will not laugh at the bewildered expression on his husband's face. He will not.
Okay he might snicker a little. But only a little.
"Doesn't it worry you?"
"Huh?"
"How uncomfortable Keith is with babies," Carly says. She shrugs, "I mean, no judgement, I'm not exactly a fan either and I'm fucking sick of people telling me I 'look like I'd be a great mom' because fuck that. Curvy girls aren't all mommy material, asshats. But. You know. You're you. You're super into the kid thing. Aren't you a little...?"
Lance shrugs, "it's not like the kids at work are babies, Lala. They're pretty much all school age or they’re with their parents. I'm not afraid Keith will traumatize an infant with his awkwardness or anything."
She squints at him, "Are you being this dense on purpose or are you just oblivious?"
"Huh?"
"You're next, dude. Val and Jamie had their kids; you're up. You're the next one on the list."
"What list?"
"Oh my god. Grandchildren. You're next. Pretty soon Mom'll start hassling you and I'm kind of worried you’ve never talked to your baby-phobic spouse about kids."
"Uh, no? It ever came up?"
"Lance" she's staring at him like he's the biggest idiot to ever moron, "That's THE conversation."
"No, I'm pretty sure there are a lot more conversations that go into a healthy, mutually fulfilling relationship."
"Lance," Carly hisses, "Are you kidding me right now? You and Keith never once talked about kids? You've been together almost four years!"
Lance shouldn't be feeling this defensive, but dammit, he came here for a good time and honestly, he's feeling so attacked right now. "It's just - it's not a thing, don't make it a Thing, jeez-"
Carly's face softens ever-so-slightly "I'm just saying, Lance, it's the kind of thing you talk about."
Lance sighs and chokes back a host of nasty, defensive responses he could shoot his sister's way. You know, if he wanted to end this conversation in a fight and not have to speak to her for the rest of the night, spend the next few days drowning in guilt and stubbornly refusing to apologize while Keith sighs and rolls his eyes at him.
Damn. Keith's so thoroughly infiltrated his life he's even in his worst-case scenarios.
"It's never come up," Lance mumbles lamely. Carly is good enough not to push it, but Lance still feels thorny tension twisting in his gut all the same.
It makes the inevitable moment where Keith's handful of sparkly Christmas ornaments overflows and spills everywhere a little less funny.
...
The fosters make Acxa pretend to do Christmas with them but it’s really awkward. They give her a Visa gift card and she says thank you and they give each other boring stuff like dishtowels and socks. Acxa strongly suspects they exchanged their real heartfelt presents without her the night before because they didn’t want her to feel like she was missing out or anything. Or maybe they’re just the kind of boring people who give each other plain old dishtowels and dress socks for major holidays. Acxa can’t really judge.
She lies and says a friend invited her for Christmas dinner (they didn’t – it’s a new school and according to the school counselor Acxa is ‘emotionally detached’ so it’s not like she’s got any forever friends yet…or any friends). But it gets her out of the house and gives them space for their ‘real Christmas’. She goes to the community center because she keeps coming back there, even though she never really talks to anyone. Most of the staff is off doing Christmas-y stuff and there aren’t many people around but the woman with long bleach-blonde pigtails is there hosting some kind of card game populated mostly by senior citizens. Acxa watches for a while without commenting. Blonde pigtail woman lets her, although she stops by to drop off a cookie and hot chocolate where Acxa sits by the door.
“You want to play?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Silence and then, “You want something more to eat there’s a table over there.”
Acxa waits until she’s gone back to the old people before sneaking over to the refreshments table and stuffing a paper cup full of cheese and crackers.
On her way back to her corner she realizes all the old people are playing a really vicious round of poker. She laughs into her chedder and Ritz.
…
"What's wrong with you?" Keith mumbles at him that night, eyes heavy with almost-sleep, the two of them full of good food and good cheer, sprawled out on his parents' fold-out couch. The Christmas tree is still on in the corner, painting the angles of Keith's face in shades of green and blue and red where he lies on his side, a sleepy furrow in his brow as he stares at Lance. He's beautiful and Lance doesn't want to lose him.
('You won't lose him' his idealistic side says. 'Couples who've been together a lot longer than us have split over smaller things' his cynical side whispers back)
Lance doesn't like difficult conversations. Lance doesn't like not knowing what he wants and Lance doesn't like knowing (or thinking he knows) exactly what Keith will say if he brings it up. (Keith has always been uncomfortable around kids, the younger they are the stiffer and more awkward he gets, he's not going to hesitate, he's going to know in two seconds he doesn't want to even consider kids down the road - and Lance, Lance doesn't know what he wants.)
"Nothing," Lance mumbles back, face half-buried in his pillow.
"Liar."
"Shut up."
Silence as Keith keeps staring at him. “You need to tell me when I fuck up, you know."
Huh? Lance thinks.
"Huh?" He says because apparently his filter took a vacation after his third cup of mulled wine.
"If I upset you, or embarrass you, or do something wrong. I'm not going to get it if you don't. I'm not...intuitive like that. So you have to tell me if I fuck up."
Lance almost snorts because Keith is both right and wrong and the whole situation is ridiculous. No, Keith's people-sense isn't the strongest and yes, he does have to be told exactly what he did wrong or he won't understand...but he's done nothing wrong here. He's just been Keith, and Lance loves him and Lance doesn't know what to say to him.
(And intuition is the wrong word here, Keith has great intuition, great instincts, but all that uncanny understanding seems to only work when he's at work. Keith can anticipate a cue or a problem like no other, but hand the boy an emotional conversation and his brain turns into cabbage soup.)
"It's not you, babe."
The frown intensifies. Keith looks less sleepy now. "But there is something."
"I didn't say that," Lance hedges because he is a Mature Adult.
Keith reaches over and pinches him because Keith is not a mature adult at all.
"Ow, inappropriate touching," Lance whines, slapping him away, "seriously, you're almost thirty, behave yourself."
"What's wrong?"
"My husband just pinched my arm like an eight year old?"
Keith's eyebrows look like they're trying to fold into each other he's frowning so hard.
"Is there anything I can do? Do we need to talk about something?"
"Yeah, we need to talk about when you last clipped your nails, werewolf."
Keith tips his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together; because when Keith can't make words work right he gets tactile. His eyes somehow look even more purple than usual in the dim, multicolored light. Purple-black like ink or space. "Tell me what I need to do," he says. Lance can feel Keith's frown pressing into his own skin.
Lance reaches up and skates his fingertips over the sharp curve of Keith's cheekbone. A warm, twisty feeling is curling somewhere in his chest and this conversation isn't over, it hasn't really begun even, but the force of Keith's care and concern makes it easier and harder all at once.
"Lala just said some stuff that made me think, that's all."
"That's all?" Because Keith isn't going to pry if Lance doesn't give the information out. It's one of his most annoying and endearing traits as a communicator.
"That's all, babe. Don't worry. Go to sleep."
Keith is still looking at him suspiciously but his blinks are getting slower and slower. He'll be asleep soon.
Lance switches to running light fingers through his hair - it's an underhanded tactic, but it does the trick. Keith’s eyes drift closed, his breathing evening out. A thin sliver of a purple-eyed glare tells Lance that Keith 100% knows what he's doing but is too sleepy to protest.
In the space of a few breaths, Keith has drifted off and Lance is left alone with his thoughts.
Fuck.
That was a bad idea.
...
Acxa decides she should probably stay away from the community center for a few days on her way back to the fosters. The staff have obviously started noticing her. She doesn’t want them to start thinking she’s a Troubled Youth or homeless or a charity case. She’s fine. She’s eleven years old, emphasis on the old. She’s fine.
…
The thing is; Lance hasn't ever really thought about having kids of his own. He grew up with two little sisters and his nieces were born when he was still in college. Having kids all over the place has always been so normal that he somehow never wondered about having his own someday. There was always someone else's nearby if he wanted to play with a munchkin.
And the selfish part of him is there in the back of his mind reminding him how nice it is to hand small children back to their actual caretakers and go home and be an adult with his spouse and their demented friends at the end of the day.
He's never not wanted kids. He likes kids. He wouldn't be so good at his job if he didn't. But he doesn't feel like his life has some sort of void in it without the pitter-patter of little feet or whatever.
Keith's not going to even consider it, though. Lance knows Keith, knows how much babies freak him out, knows about his issues with his own mother and father. Keith's not even going to blink before shutting that conversation down.
And Lance...doesn't know what he wants. He just knows he doesn't want to shut down the conversation, not yet.
And he doesn't want to disappoint anyone.
He never wants to disappoint anyone.
And apparently 'he's next' or something in the family baby-making equation.
Shit.
Unable to take anymore of his own thoughts, Lance rolls over and buries his face in Keith's warm shoulder. Maybe if he closes his eyes his thoughts will sort their damn selves out.
...
Acxa decides she’s not willing to give up the community center just because some stupid adults might jump to stupid conclusions. So she goes back the next day and signs up for some – shudder – youth after school activities.
She signs up with a fake name; her real one is too memorable.
“Why hello there! Matilda Bucket, is it?” the man with the orange moustache says cheerily when he sees her signing up, “Glad to see you joining us!”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“We’re always happy to see new faces around here!” he informs her her brightly. His eyes are sharp, though, and she wonders how much he knows.
“Good to be here.” She says stiffly, the programmed social nicety uncomfortable in her mouth.
He smiles brilliantly at her before wandering away.
She decides all over again that she won’t actually participate in any of the activities ‘she’ signed up for.
…
There is something up with Lance and it’s bugging Keith. He’s been weird since Christmas and every time Keith asks what’s wrong, he deflects with a sunny smile that’s only just barely cracked around the edges and it’s driving Keith up a fucking wall. Also on the list of things currently driving Keith to drink are Lotor, the new director at work who Keith is pretty sure is the unholy fusion of Satan himself and a shampoo commercial, the choreographer Lotor brought with him (her name is Ezor and Keith isn’t sure if she’s hitting on him or threatening him when she drapes herself between his and Lotor’s chairs in the rehearsal room and casually chats about her time working as an exotic dancer on private casino boats for the rich and mega-rich, but either way it’s pissing him off), and the fact they’re working on a musical at the moment and he might have to put an icepick through his eardrums to get the music out of his head.
Keith does not have the time or patience to attempt to decode Lance’s weirdness on top of all the work stress. He emphatically Does Not.
Which is why he’s trying to stealthily force it out of him.
This is how marriage is supposed to work, right?
Keith’s plan of attack is simple but devastatingly effective – be so goddamn nice and considerate and generally terrifyingly Stepford-Wife-y until Lance freaks out and fesses up whatever’s bothering him just to return them to their pleasantly competitive and antagonistic status quo. It has worked in the past, to great effect.
(This is perhaps why Shiro gives him slightly wary looks whenever he asks how things are at home. Shiro does not understand how their relationship functions. Keith chalks this up to Shiro never having been married and just not having the life experience to understand this kind of love. Shiro chalks it up to Keith ‘being neurotic and probably needing several years’ worth of therapy’. Whatever. It’s all good.)
Nevertheless it’s day three of homemade dinners and Keith packing both their lunches before Lance has a chance to, making sandwiches out of the weird whole grain bread Lance likes so much but Keith thinks is too seedy, and including the weird drinkable apple sauce Lance not-so secretly prefers but Keith can’t stand. Lance has started looking around warily every time he opens the fridge, like he expects a clown to jump out at him like a frozen goods jack in the box or something. Keith has also done the laundry before Lance can get to it, put away all the dishes in the dishdrain before Lance can, and cleaned the entire kitchen. Keith is so tired from all this niceness he actually accidentally spilled coffee on Lotor’s purple silk button-down shirt yesterday. Which was honestly an unexpected bonus.
The ex-interns are looking at him with concern in their eyes and Adela keeps pretending not to hear when he asks for more coffee. Tony is leaving green tea on his desk. Farid is drawing demented doodles on the to-go cups. Alyssa is staying clear of it all like the smart girl she is.
“Keith,” Lance is frowning at him over his plate of lasagna (Keith got the recipe from Shiro and it’s only a little bit burnt), “what the fuck is going on?”
Keith takes a bite of lasagna because he’s proud of it and because if he’s chewing he can’t answer Lance’s question.
See? He’s being polite.
“Keith.”
Keith definitely burned this a little bit. It’s taking longer to chew than anticipated.
“Keith.”
Still chewing.
“Keith.” Lance kicks him this time, surprising Keith into swallowing his practically-liquified bite of lasagna.
“Yes?” he tries to ask innocently. What comes out is something close to a flat monotone. Oh well, he tried.
“What the fuck is going on, babe? Did you do something? Do you want something? You do realize no matter how many lasagnas you make me I’m still not going to be into you getting a motorcycle? I don’t want you to end up street pizza, no matter how good your health insurance is.”
Keith wonders if he can get away with taking another conversation-avoiding bite of baked noodles and cheese.
“Keith,” Lance is turning big blue eyes on him and oh fuck, Keith is a weak, weak man and Lance is pretty, “What the actual hell is going on with you? You’re freaking me out. Are you leading up to dramatically telling me you’re leaving me to return to your desert nomad lifestyle? Because that would…that would actually really suck. Please don’t leave me to live in a shack in the middle of nowhere with the coyotes. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to tumbleweeds. I couldn’t even visit you!”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Keith protests, “I want to know what’s wrong with you. And why the fuck would I leave you to go live in the desert without air conditioning or running water? I’ve done that before and it sucked. I like AC and flush toilets and having a garbage disposal in my sink! Also, coyotes are the worst.” Keith is pretty sure he’s glaring at the end of that speech, because that’s his default facial expression when confronted with emotion.
Lance’s face does a lot of things that kind of make it look like he’s been electro-shocked but without the intense pain. “How are we so bad at communicating?”
“I don’t know; you’re the one being weird.”
“I’m not being weird!”
“Are so.”
“Am not!”
“Are so!”
“Am. Not!” Lance says with an audible flourish.
Keith wonders if face-planting into his lasagna is an acceptable argument-winning tactic. “You’ve just been weird since Christmas. I wanted to know what was up.”
“So you were creepily nice to me for several days?”
“You’re my husband…I should be nice to you.”
Lance sighs; he looks tired. “Babe, you’ve said it yourself. We’re not…nice. We’re assholes. And we like it that way. It works for us. So…yeah, while I appreciate a thoughtful gesture or three every now and then…this pod person perfection is really disturbing.”
Keith mumbles, “That’s kind of the point?” Which has a fifty-fifty chance of offending Lance or making him laugh.
Luckily the latter wins, Lance cackles explosively. “You’re ridiculous, babe.”
“We’re ridiculous,” Keith grumbles, poking Lance’s foot with his own under the table.
“Yeah, and we aren’t really dining-room table people. What do you say we taking this into the living room?” Lance of course wriggles his eyebrows suggestively on the last sentence and Keith stares at him in under confusion.
“Are you inviting me to eat dinner or make out on the couch?”
“A little of column a, a little of column b.”
Keith is so distracted by Lance and their nonsense fight he temporarily forgets Lance never actually admitted what was bugging him.
…
Lance feels a little bit bad about seducing Keith instead of taking advantage of the opportunity to confide in him. But really, they’d had one of their weirdest squabbles to date over plates of lasagna and excessive niceness. Keith had not earned any heartfelt confessions, the underhanded sneak.
An underhanded sneak who admittedly had made a pretty decent lasagna.
…
Acxa doesn’t like team sports, she doesn’t like arts and crafts, she doesn’t like other kids her own age. She likes books and being left alone. (Maybe, she’s never not been alone so who knows whether or not she actually likes it). But if she brings a book and sits in the gym where most of the other kids are running around doing their scheduled after school whatever she looks enough like one of them that she can slip under the radar.
She can be just one of the kids and they can let her stay in this warm, golden place.
(She doesn’t know what it is about the community center that makes her feel so safe, so happy, she’s not even sure if it’s actually happiness half the time, more a sense of strange nostalgia for something she never actually experienced, a sense of belonging and home and family she’s never felt anywhere else.)
She still doesn’t talk to anyone, but she sits on the pile of tumbling mats wedged into the corner of the gym with a library paperback and watches everyone and feels almost content.
…
It’s a few weeks into the new year, the artistic director is making noises about hiring Lotor permanently (why, god, why?) and keeping Ezor on to teach dance classes (is there no justice in the universe?), things with Lance have returned to mostly normal (although Keith is still concerned, for the record), and somehow Keith has gotten suckered into teaching self-defense classes at the Community Center.
Nyma, the adult programming director, greets him with a smirk when he shows up on a Monday afternoon, duffle bag thrown carelessly over his shoulder. It’s his smaller duffle bag so it’s seen less wear and tear than his large duffle, meaning it only has gaff tape on it in a few strategic spots and he doesn’t have to use tie line to keep any part of it together anywhere.
Keith may have a problem throwing things away sometimes.
“Tell me again why I’m here on one of my few afternoons off?” Keith grumps.
“Because you’re a pushover,” Nyma says, still smirking.
Keith resists the urge to sigh heavily and glares at Nyma instead. This does nothing to stop her smirking.
“Your students will mostly be adults and a few teenagers,” she explains bluntly, “No one under the age of sixteen, and any minors are here with written permission from their parents. Don’t do anything inappropriate or actually break anyone or we’ll get sued and that would suck. Any questions?”
Keith has lots of questions, up to and including what he did in a past life to deserve this. He does not think Nyma can answer that one, so he just shakes his head mutely and goes to the locker room to change into his gym clothes.
…
Acxa may have to quit going to the community center. The staff have started to notice her again and it’s awful. The youth programming director in particular keeps trying encourage her to participate and yesterday he came over and asked her what she was reading. Like he wanted to have a conversation. Acxa responded by holding the book up cover-first in front of her face so he could both read the title himself and not make eye contact with her.
He’s too nice, too energetic, too much. She doesn’t want to talk to him; she just wants to…be near him and his kids. To orbit them and pretend she’s part of them but not actually be one of them. She knows better than that. She’s eleven years old. And she reads books way above her reading level and her teacher gives her the stink eye for reading ahead in class instead of following along (she spoiled the ending of Where the Red Fern Grows because come on, her classmates should know better than to get attached to the dogs in an award-winning classic dog book but now most of the girls won’t talk to her and her teacher took her aside to have a ‘serious chat’ about ‘appropriate times and ways to share things’).
She’s not like them, but she doesn’t want them to be the ones to remind her. She wants to sit her in her corner and read and pretend she could be one of them if she wanted.
She knows better to stick around once adults start getting concerned about her ‘social development’, though. But she doesn’t want to leave the community center behind, not yet. It’s her good place. She wants to stay around here where it’s warm and familiar.
So she’s wandering the hall today, avoiding the other kids and the youth director with the warm brown skin and laughing blue eyes who asks her what she’s reading and if her book’s any good.
Over in what she thinks of as the grown up half of the community center there’s something new going on. A man with long-ish dark hair pulled up in a stubby ponytail is leading a group of grown-ups, mostly women with a few men, through a series of basic self-defense moves. Escaping holds, how to throw a punch.
Acxa is intrigued despite herself.
Setting her bag beside the door she slips off her shoes and steps into the back of the class.
…
There’s a kid in the back row.
She’s small and scrappy with a short mess of blue-black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin slightly flushed from how much energy she’s throwing into every move. There is no way in hell she’s sixteen or older. But her sharp dark brows are drawn tight with concentration and she’s focusing mightily on getting every move perfect as she mimics what the rest of the class is doing.
Keith ponders what to do as the last hour of class passes. He keeps an eye on her. She’s concentrating but her eyes scan the room periodically, making sure no one’s paying too much attention to her. She’s close to the door but it’s not directly at her back. She’s got that feral look in her eye that Keith knows too well.
It’s the same glint that flashes at him from the mirror every now and then when he begins to doubt that his life could have possibly turned out this preternaturally good despite everything.
He leaves her alone and when class ends he doesn’t approach her but he does watch her. Two can play at the corner-of-the-eye game and he’s had nearly thirty years to perfect scanning a room. She escapes before the rest of the class really disburses, when they’re busy gathering their things and chatting casually amongst themselves.
She grabs a backpack on her way out and Keith hopes it’s just a school bag and she’s heading home after this. It looks too new for this late in the school year, pink and plastic-y and very Elementary School Girl™. It doesn’t suit her, really.
Maybe she’s a foster kid. Keith’s foster home had come with brand-new accessories that didn’t quite match up with the person he’d grown into either.
He thinks about her as he changes back into his street clothes, pondering this mystery kid. He’ll ask Lance about her tonight.
On his way out he stops to tell Nyma “I’ll be back on Wednesday,” with no further explanation.
…
Acxa tentatively likes the self-defense class. She checks the flyer in the lobby. There’s another class on Wednesday afternoon. Perfect.
…
Keith is thinking too hard. Lance can tell and he is Concerned. Keith thinking too hard is never a good thing. Keith thinking too hard typically ends with Keith doing something incredibly excessive and stupid because overthinking stresses him out and short-circuits some connection in his brain that controls his sense of proportional response to emotional stimuli.
Keith is frowning at his green bean and ham cube casserole. Admittedly, they both hate casserole, but really, what else is Lance supposed to make when neither of them has gone grocery shopping in two weeks?
“You okay, babe?” Lance tests the waters. You never know what Keith could be brooding on. He frowns just as hard over a stupid plot twist in a tv show as he does over a particularly awkward phone call with his father.
Keith blinks and glances up at him, “There was a kid in my self-defense class today.”
“Yeah, Nyma said they were opening it up to sixteen and overs with parental consent.”
Keith shakes his head, “No, this was a kid. A small one.”
“How small are we talking?”
“Ten, maybe a skinny eleven or twelve?”
“Girl, dark hair, kind of intense, doesn’t talk to anyone?”
Keith nods.
“Huh,” Lance says, “That’s Matilda Bucket. We’ve been keeping an eye on her.”
Keith raises an expressive eyebrow, “Matilda Bucket?”
“Yeah, I know, what were her parents thinking – ”
Keith shakes his head, “She doesn’t seem like a Matilda.”
“Well, let’s be honest, does anyone?”
That pulls a contemplative nod from Keith, the kind that says his brain’s already a thousand miles away. “She wasn’t disruptive or anything. Had more focus and control than most of the class.”
Lance nods, “She’s really contained. We’re a little concerned. But every time anyone talks to her she spooks and disappears. Coran says she signed up for my after school activities but she doesn’t actually do any of them. She just hides in a corner and reads.”
Keith’s face creases thoughtfully, a wry smile turning up the corner of his mouth, “Sounds like me as a kid.”
“Huh,” Lance says, he hadn’t thought of it that way. But now that Keith’s brought it up he can’t stop imagining a pint-sized Keith Kogane in Matilda’s place and it’s more than a little sad.
They really need to keep an eye on this kid.
…
They’re still reading Where the Red Fern Grows in English class. The last lesson the teacher awkwardly attempted to deal with the fallout from Acxa spoiling the ending (that was painful for pretty much everyone, Acxa reads under her desk for most of the ‘discussion’ only to get her book taken away for not paying attention). Axca is trying to read The Mists of Avalon because she heard it was about King Arthur and had a bunch of cool women characters but it seems to have way too many scenes featuring naked people kissing in it and not nearly enough fighting and magic for her tastes.
The local librarian is clearly not very well-suited to her job.
Then again, Acxa did lie and say she was looking for book recommendations for her foster mom instead of book recommendations for herself. Typically if you’re eleven and you ask the librarian for book recs from the grownup section they shake their heads at you, say “aren’t you precocious?” and give you something lame from the kids’ section instead. But clearly claiming you’re looking for a book about badass ladies, King Arthur, and magic for a forty-year-old woman is not a good strategy either.
The only upside to the whole debacle (that’s a new word, Acxa likes it, she learned it from another book last week and it’s one of her favorites) is that The Mists of Avalon is about 900 pages and huge so it doesn’t fit in her desk. She has to sit it on the top, and every time her teacher walks past her desk she has a funny little staring contest with the book like she’s daring it to make trouble because it’s not where it’s supposed to be and both she and Acxa know it. Acxa tries her best to look as innocent as possible when this happens. Acxa’s pretty sure her ‘innoncent face’ is just a blank stare but it still seems to get the message across effectively.
Still, a 900-page book doesn’t fit very well beneath her desk, making it a lot less surprising when she gets caught reading during the ‘class discussion’. She glares at it as it’s hauled away and mouths ‘traitor’ at its retreating spine.
She really needs new reading material. Preferably something with dragons, but she’s not picky.
…
Keith is aware his feud with Lotor is getting stupid, but he isn’t actually emotionally mature enough to care. Also, that perfectly coiffed bastard switched all the theatre staff coffee to decaf. And to add insult to injury, it’s all French Vanilla flavored. The caffeinated, normal-tasting coffee is somewhere but for the first time Keith doesn’t know where something is in his theatre and it’s killing him.
So he replaces all the staff creamer with packets of instant powdered creamer you get at motels and gas stations.
What? Keith grew up on that crap. He likes it. (He definitely does not but his tolerance for it is much higher than a normal person’s, much like his tolerance for sand in his shoes and alien-related bullshit is higher than a normal person’s.)
“Decaf is better for the heart, you know,” Lotor says in rehearsal, “I’m so glad they’ve switched over. You know, the man who invented decaffeinated coffee did so because he was convinced caffeine killed his father. Tragic story, really.”
Keith cracks open a Red Bull and pours it into his French-fucking-Vanilla decaf coffee while staring Lotor straight in the eye. He then tops it off with a packet of powdered creamer he stirs into the (heinous) beverage without breaking eye contact. He’s pretty sure Adela is videoing this on her phone to share with her cronies later. He lets her.
Lotor is looking distinctly ill by the time Keith raises the cup to his lips and takes a long swig.
That should not be nearly as satisfying as it is. He should probably make sure Adela doesn’t post this video on social media of any kind. Or give it to Farid, which is roughly the equivalent of posting it herself multiplied by roughly a billion.
…
“So I hear you and Lotor are battling for dominance,” Lance says apropos of nothing when Keith gets home,
Keith considers lying but gives it up as hopeless, “Yes,” he tells his husband instead, pecking him on the lips, “I’m winning.”
Lance pulls a face, “Babe, as much as I love kissing you, your mouth tastes like death.”
“That would be the coffee, red bull and shitty powdered creamer.”
Lance just sighs dramatically at the heavens, “Why, oh why do I find this man attractive?”
“I work out,” Keith deadpans from the bathroom.
“Shush, babe, I’m asking the heavens for guidance. They say ‘signs to point to yes’ which is useless.”
“Huh, didn’t realize the heavens were a magic eight ball.”
“Seriously? Of all my pop culture references that’s the one you get? Why are you like this?”
Keith shrugs, “I dunno, ask the heavens.”
A brief moment and it’s Lance’s turn to shrug, “Reply hazy, try again.”
“I’m more concerned by the fact that you have magic eight ball sayings memorized than anything else.”
…
Axca is pretty sure the guy who teaches the self-defense classes at the community center knows she’s there. But he hasn’t said anything, even though the flyers say the class is for sixteen and older and Acxa can’t even pass for thirteen. He lets her stick around instead, even though it’s been weeks and there’s no way he doesn’t know she’s been to every class. She’s reminded of a pair of cats she saw in one of her previous foster homes, an older cat and a kitten. The kitten was over six months old, growing into its paws. The older cat would pretend the kitten wasn’t around until the kitten tried to pounce on its tail or get its attention or play with it. Then it’d bop the kitten on the head with one paw and run away, the kitten chasing after it.
The lesson Acxa learned from the cats is that as long as you don’t make yourself obvious, as long as you don’t mess with the older cat, you’re invisible. You can mutually agree to pretend the other isn’t there, possibly forever, as long as you aren’t dumb. As long as you don’t try to play with the bigger cat.
So she decides the teacher guy is the bigger cat and she’s the kitten and for now she’s going to stay invisible for as long as she can.
…
It’s a conversation with Shiro that makes things begin to click together for Keith. It’s Shiro’s lunch break and they’ve met up at a small sandwhich shop halfway between the theatre and the hospital. And after all the necessary small talk is past Keith finds himself spilling the story of the mystery girl from the community center to his brother.
“Yeah, she’s maybe ten or a small eleven/twelve-ish. Lance and Coran are a little worried about her but they haven’t spotted any evidence of mistreatement. She’s just small for her age and kind of reclusive. She shows up at my class and does the exercises and doesn’t talk to anyone. Lance says she disappears whenever any of them try to talk to her but she doesn’t really leave, she just hangs around somewhere else.”
“It sounds like, for whatever reason, she’s decided the community center is a safe space,” Shiro observes, “She might be in fight or flight mode for some reason, you said you thought she might be in foster care – ”
Keith shakes his head, “Based on barely any evidence. Just a new backpack in the middle of the school year and that could mean anything.”
Shiro nods mildly, “You do have pretty good instincts, though.”
“Not about this kind of stuff, kids are Lance’s area.”
“Maybe, but fight or flight responses are yours,” Shiro reminds him gently.
Keith folds his arms and leans back in his chair, tipping it onto its back legs carelessly, “You’re not wrong,” he sighs gustily, “I just wish I could figure out what’s going on with this kid.”
“She reminds you of yourself.”
Keith snorts, “Maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot,” Shiro points out, “Her name,” – they’d both agreed that ‘Matilda Bucket’ sounded like a fake name – “is even a literary reference.”
Keith’s brows pulled togheter, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shiro said, “I’m surprised you didn’t notice – Matilda Bucket. It’s a reference to Roald Dahl’s books. Matilda – the main character is named, appropriately, Matilda. And Charlie and the Chocolate Factory the main character’s name is Charlie Bucket.”
“Holy shit,” mutters Keith.
“I used to read those books to you when you were little.”
“Yeah, you did…” Keith said, “Holy shit, I can’t believe I didn’t notice. Lance says she’s always reading when she’s around the other kids…Shiro, I think I figured out how to talk to this kid.”
…
The self-defense instructor guy is hanging around the kids’ half of the community center on Tuesday. He and the youth director guy must know each other because the youth director guy keeps stopping by where he’s sitting, leaning back in a folding chair, paperback book in his hands. Maybe he’s waiting for the youth director guy. Maybe they have plans. It’s hard to imagine them outside of the community center but they must do things other than teach self-defense and run around with other people’s kids, right? Acxa does stuff other than learn self-defense and watch other people’s kids run around. She supposes they must too.
Acxa wonders what he’s reading. She could walk past him to get to her corner from the door, or she could take the long way and avoid him. But then she wouldn’t know what he’s reading.
She decides to risk it and walks past his chair. He doesn’t acknowledge her, just turns a page. There’s a dragon on the cover of his book, coiled around a nameplate reading His Majesty’s Dragon. Acxa hurries away once she’s read the words, hoping the teacher guy didn’t notice her slowing down in front of his paperback.
He’s still there, joking with the youth instructor guy and the orange-mustachioed man. Mr. Moustache and Youth Director are tangled up in what sounds like an incredibly silly conversation about whether or not spaceship-eating-worms could survive on asteroids when she passes and she risks a glance up the self defense instructor and his intriguing dragon book. His eyes meet her and she knows she’s screwed. She’s the kitten and she poked the older cat.
Time to minimize the damage. “I like books about dragons too,” she says as innocuously as possible. There, that seems normal, right? That doesn’t invite further scrutiny and possible explusion from self-defense class, right?
He quirks a slight smile, “This one’s pretty good so far,” he offers, “Want to read it when I’m done?”
“I could get it from the library.”
“Sure,” he agrees easily.
She leaves before he can figure out a way to make that into a longer conversation.
…
She forgets the name of the author and messes up the title enough that the librarian can’t find it at first, then when they finally sort it out it’s only to find out the first book in the series isn’t at their location. Acxa tells herself this is fine and she didn’t want to read it that badly anyway.
…
“She talked to you, Keith!”
“I know, Lance.”
“My boy, Keith, I’m so proud of you! Communicating with youngsters, bonding with the next generation!” Coran gushes.
“She talked to you,” Lance says earnestly, “This is…this is major, Keith.”
Keith nods, running his fingers over the edges of the pages of his book – he’d picked this one partly because it was next on his pile of ‘to-read’ books and partly because dragons was one of the major things he’d have been interested in at age eleven that seemed fairly universal and not a product of his unique upbringing.
“Yeah,” he agrees with Lance, and a little with Coran. It is major.
…
Acxa decides to go to self-defense class despite her misgivings. If the instructor tries to talk to her or ask her if she has a ‘safe home’ and if she ‘needs anything’ she’ll bolt.
But it’s all very normal, except the instructor is a bit late and everyone is in place by the time he shows up. Class proceeds as usual, they’re learning kicks today and Acxa is consumed with lashing out at invisible opponents with her feet, maintaining her center of gravity, losing herself in the motions so much she actually forgets about anything else for a blessed two hours.
When she goes to leave she sees a pair of books sitting on top of her backpack, His Majesty’s Dragon by Naomi Novik and Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke. There’s a sticky note on one scribbled with dramatic, spikey writing.
I don’t know what kind of books you read – Dragon Rider is meant for kids and His Majesty’s Dragon is supposed to be for adults. But they’re both stories about dragons and I like them.
She looks up sharply to see the instructor folding up the practice mats. She waits until everyone else, all the adults, have finally left until it’s only her and him before clearing her throat and saying, “What is this?”
The instructor guy looks up, apparently surprised. He should be, she doesn’t normally linger. He shrugs, though, “You said you liked books about dragons. I like sharing.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“I’m not. I’m sharing dragon books.”
“You’d better not be some kind of pervert.”
“What the hell, kid? No, I’m not a pervert.”
She stares at him, “Why are you giving these to me?”
“I’m letting you borrow them. Not just giving them away.”
“Fine,” she says, “But why?”
He tilts his head to the side, “My husband likes space books. I like dragon books and Shakespeare and Dickens. I need someone to talk about dragon books with.”
“Don’t you have any other friends?” she demands bluntly.
He snorts, “Yeah, and they’re all rude to be too.”
She squints at him, “There’s something not right with you, dude.”
“I figure there’s something not right with all of us. Normal’s overrated.”
“So. I can borrow these books?” She’s not sure what to make of this.
“Yeah, let me know what you think.”
“That’s it? Nothing weird?”
“Nothing weird, I swear on my mother’s grave.”
Acxa nods decisively, “You’re a weirdo. But your books look okay. I’ll let you know.”
And then she leaves, heart about ready to beat out of her chest with terror. She talked to someone. She talked to someone. She talked to someone and now she has dragon books and maybe a friend.
What the hell?
…
“You lent her books?”
“Yeah.”
Lance sighs gustily and leans his head on Keith’s shoulder “Jeez, why didn’t I think of that!”