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You’ve been planning this for ages, he thinks to himself. Really, seriously, there is no reason to be anxious. You’ve done everything you need to do. Right? Right??
It’s sound reasoning, once you take off the edge of hysteria. He’s spent nearly a year preparing for this moment. Almost immediately after the accident, when he was still struggling to keep a level head and his best suit had to be rolled up and pinned at the right elbow so he could get to the funeral, he started the prep. It was so soon that he didn’t even realize at first what he was doing. It was like something inside him that had slumbered his entire life blinked open its eyes, and things that he’d never seen before were suddenly glaringly obvious. He never thought about fostering kids until he woke up missing an arm and a brother, his own foster dad leaning sadly over him as his recently orphaned niece curled up against his good side with her arms wrapped around his neck.
So really, he’s ready. More than. Logically speaking, he’s already had some practice with his niece—uh. Well, she’s not his niece anymore, he guesses. Not really. He’s her guardian, which makes her his… his ward? His child?! Dear god, no, he’s not her father. She’s just a family member who is now in his care. And now, a year after the accident, they’re waiting for the social worker to bring kid number two. The natural next step—you foster one kid and obviously, you’re going to open your home to more of them. There’s literally no one on the face of the planet who didn’t know that this was the eventuality.
And yet… he curses in his own head. Sacred left femur of the holy ghost, he’s so nervous. Why is he so nervous. He rubs the sweating palm of his left hand on the side of his jeans, glancing once more around the room. He’s tempted to dart forward and rearrange the books on the living room table, but the last time he tried it his niece smacked his hand away. Right now she’s clinging to her grandpa’s back, her prim little hands clasped in front of his throat and her head tilted against his neck. She’s less than enthusiastic about having another kid in the house, but they talked about it a lot and finally, she agreed. At twelve, she’s a force of nature. Her hair is dark and unruly—she isn’t a fan of brushing and no one likes to push her too hard about it. It fits her, in a way.
She looks over. He swallows. “I made a mistake,” he says aloud, unprompted.
His father snorts, adjusting the little girl’s grip. He’s wearing a delightfully proper vest and bowtie combo, but that won’t stop him from picking his son up and shaking him if he needs to. “Oh, you’ll be fine, Number One—”
“No, I mean… they suggested I pick up a night-light and I just realized that I completely forgot. What if he needs it? What if—"
He’s cut off by the doorbell. In a panic, he glances at the two other occupants of the room, his legs suddenly made of air bubbles. His niece wrinkles her brow and clings closer to her grandpa, and the old man pats her hands soothingly, urging his son up and toward the door.
He has to swallow three times before he manages to stand up.
“For God’s sake, stop worrying!” the old man says to his stiff back. And then, to the little girl, “Your Uncle sure gets worked up easily, don’t you think? There’s no reason to panic, and yet there he is, panicking! It’s like he’s forgotten that there’s a Target right down the street.”
Right. Right. The Target. He struggles with the urge to turn around and make a face at his dad before he swings the door open.
The kid is… small. He seems even smaller than his niece was at that age, which is eleven and some change, though really they’re both probably average and he’s just overthinking it. He knows that he met the kid a few times before, at the group home, but for some reason, it feels different now. It’s a brisk August day and he’s dressed in a coat four sizes too big for him. It’s not cold enough for that, but he was probably told to wear it, so he is. He has one hand in the social worker’s, who is holding a black trash bag presumably full of belongings.
Before the social worker can even say hi, the kid is pulling himself free with a smile that shows off a missing tooth, holding his hand out to shake, proper and polite.
“Hello again, Mister!”
“Hey,” he says back, and reaches forward a little awkwardly with his prosthesis.
“Whoa!” the kid explodes, completely derailed from his manners the instant he sees the purple robotic arm. “You didn’t have that before! Is it your real hand? Can you move it like a peace sign? Which hand do you use when you play rock paper scissors?”
“I, uh…”
“My sister Nina used to tell me that everybody had a ‘tell’ when they played rock paper scissors, but if your hand is a cyborg hand made out of robot parts then how can you have a tell? You can’t tell what robots are going to do until they do it. I bet you win rock paper scissors all the time.” He looks up critically, smushing his lips to one side. “You remind me of Shiro.”
“Who is Shiro?” he asks, leading the kid inside. The social worker hands over the bag and gestures for them both to go sit. She has to run, but that’s okay because the kid is already talking a mile a minute.
“He’s this cool, awesome space explorer! He was out on Pluto to do science and these aliens abducted him! They chopped off his arm and replaced it with this wicked robot arm that lit up, and it could cut through anything!” The kid bounces up on the couch, grinning widely. “He’s the coolest person ever, basically. Can I call you Shiro?”
He blinks. “I… sure, why not? He does sound like a pretty incredible dude.”
“Sweet! I’m gonna show you the cartoon, you’ll love it. I’m the lead protagonist, Lance,” the kid says, standing up again to strike a pose where his finger and thumb are in an L shape resting against his chin, his other hand cocked like a gun resting on his shoulder. It’s so nonsensical that Shiro… Shiro starts to laugh a little, and he ruffles Lance’s hair without even pausing to think.
“My, what a vivid story you paint,” the old man says, leaning forward. Shiro’s niece clings to his arm. He strokes at his goatee, a sparkle in his eye, as he pulls her onto his lap, watching Lance closely. “Who would I be? Let’s hear it, I’m dying of curiosity!”
Lance squints, leaning back critically. “You’d be… uh, Coran! He’s this crazy old alien who fixes their giant castle ship. Except he’s got this wicked cool moustache, not a beard. Have you ever had a moustache?”
Coran laughs boisterously at that and wipes a pretend tear from his eye. “A moustache! Oh, to think of it! Never, my boy. Is that a requirement for this 'Coran'?”
“Hm. I guess not. But I do think you’d look very handsome with a moustache.” Lance grins, pushing the sleeves of his oversized coat up his arms. “Now, for you?” He looks at the girl, seemingly unfazed as she leans away. “There aren’t that many girls, but I guess you’d be… Pidge.”
“That’s not my name,” she snaps. Coran lays a hand on her shoulder and she slumps. “I mean… I guess if you want to play that game it’s fine. We can do that.”
“Oh.” For the first time, Lance looks a little nervous. He pulls at the strings hanging from his hood, thinking hard for a moment. Shiro wonders if he should nip this in the bud now—they would probably be just as happy if he put on a movie for them. But Lance was so excited about the cartoon… he’s not sure if he has it in him. Lance rocks on the balls of his feet, his face scrunched up in concentration, and Shiro crosses his fingers. Finally, he says, “Um… well, maybe… do you want to be the Princess?”
Her eyes widen. Not much, but Shiro sees it and Lance does too. “There’s a princess?” she asks, voice hushed. Her grip on Coran loosens just a little.
“Yeah! Her name is Princess Allura and she’s this royal alien girl who controls the castle ship with her magic! Is that… is that okay?”
Slowly, the girl comes down from the couch to stand in front of Lance. She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head, glancing over at Shiro, who doesn’t think he’s breathed in the last two minutes. “Hm. Yeah, I guess so. Tell me more!” she commands.
Lance jumps up with a whoop, going to root through his bag for a comic book. “Come here, I can show you! Look, here she is. She’s the most important part because her life force is connected to the five robot lion ships that combine to form this giant robot man who does all these cool tricks with his sword.”
Allura nods along, and soon they’re sitting side by side at the table, and Lance is telling her all about the paladins and the galra and the savior of the universe, Voltron.
“I think this is going to work out,” Shiro says conspiratorially when Coran has to take his leave. Coran only smiles, giving him a heart-stopping smack on the back. He waves with his new arm as Coran fires up the truck to head off, and when he comes back inside it’s like whatever creature is living inside his chest just blinked again, forcing him through another paradigm shift that inspired the world to slip one step closer to perfect harmony. It’s all so clear, now. The bayards and the war and the Princess and Voltron itself. He sees it like he sees the very walls of the home that has only been theirs for a few scant months. It’s easy and familiar, and he’s never felt more like himself.
He’s also never felt more like himself when his brain wakes him for the third time that night, same as it does every night. He lives in a state of constant sleep deprivation. He’s more than used to it at this point. At least the nightmares have been getting better, and Coran even thinks he might be ready to get back behind the wheel.
Not tonight, though. Tonight all Shiro is ready to do is check-in on Allura and Lance, make sure they’re both still asleep, then slink back into his own bed. He usually only pokes his head into Allura’s room once a night, but something about having two kids in the house is putting him a little on edge. …Okay, way on edge. His anxiety from earlier resurfaces. He tries to stuff it back down. If he hasn’t found anything amiss in two passes, what exactly does he think will happen on the third? He huffs, hand scrubbing at his gunky eye. His stump follows the motion before he remembers that he doesn’t have anything below the elbow at the moment, and he has to consciously think about how to grip the door handle in the correct hand instead of reaching forward with phantom fingers.
There are sniffles in the darkness. Seems like the third round is the charm. He’s suddenly thankful for the fact that he doesn’t sleep through the night.
“Hey, buddy? I’m gonna turn the light on, okay?” he calls. When he manages to find the switch, he turns to find Lance huddled up in the bed, his face streaked with tears.
Oh, no. Oh, no no no. Shiro’s gut clenches, and he almost starts crying in sympathy. Somehow he manages to bury the impulse, instead walking over and hovering a little awkwardly, his hand raised between them because he’s just not sure what to do. He wants to panic. The feeling is already rising in his chest. But he doesn’t, because he needs to listen to the words that Lance is whispering. Words he admits like he’s tired of having to say them and he just wants them to go away, words about being afraid of the dark.
“Not always, because I know it’s just a big shadow because the planet’s in the way of the sun and everything,” he says, but his chin wobbles. Fresh tears fall. “I learned that in science class forever ago.”
“But… sometimes it still scares you?” Shiro says. He understands that. He understands it very well. A thousand cars drive down main street every day and no one gets hurt—most of the time, there’s nothing wrong with an automobile. People take thousands of drives without so much as a fender-bender. But sometimes…
Lance shrugs like he can hear Shiro’s thoughts. “Sometimes I get nightmares and I forget that it’s just nighttime. My brain thinks it’s storming outside and the power is out and—”
He’s shivering. Even though his blankets are pulled tight around his shoulders, his little frame is shaking.
Cue the crushing realization that Shiro forgot the damn night light.
Oh lord, have mercy. He’s not cut out for this. Allura was one thing—Allura came with everything she needed, all her clothes and books and hair ties, even furniture. The blueprint was already there, from the canopy above her bed to the little glitter stars glued to strings that wrap around the window. All they had to do was move everything. Setting up her room so it was just the way she wanted it took, like, two hours tops.
He has no idea how to provide a safe and comfortable environment for a kid who has nothing but half a garbage bag’s worth of belongings in varying shades of hand-me-down.
“Okay, okay,” he mutters to himself, kneeling down beside the bed. “Hey, buddy. What can I do to make you feel better?”
“Um.” Lance sniffles, but his tears are starting to slow, now. “Um. Um. If you… if it’s okay, sometimes Mama would make hot chocolate? But you don’t have to do that, I think I can go back to sleep now.”
Shiro leans back on his heels. Hot chocolate is a Coran essential, he’s pretty sure the old man stocked their cabinets with plenty of the stuff. He smiles at Lance, encouraging him. “Hot chocolate sounds great. Do you want to come to the kitchen with me or are you okay here with the light on?”
“I can stay,” Lance whispers, rubbing his eyes. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Shiro isn’t so sure about that, but he doesn’t argue. It only takes a few minutes to make three mugs of fresh chocolaty goodness, and another couple to wake up Allura. She would literally never forgive him if everyone got hot cocoa but her.
They all sit on Lance’s bed, slurping up the treat. Allura’s head keeps bobbing, her eyes threatening to close and stay closed, but Lance is still wide awake. He giggles a little when Shiro gets hot chocolate on his nose, but otherwise, he’s oddly quiet, unnerved. Like this is a vigil, an observance. Like it’s meaningful in some way that Shiro can’t parse.
After Shiro tucks Allura back in bed, he comes back to find that Lance is still sitting up, his eyes huge. He doesn’t look like he’s ready for Shiro to leave, let alone to try and go back to sleep. Shiro does the first thing that comes to mind—he holds his hand out for Lance to take.
The speed that Lance scrambles out of bed is worrying, but he manages not to trip himself on the blankets. In one hand he’s holding tight to something wrapped in a plastic bag, and with the other, he clings to Shiro’s left palm. “Cold!” he yelps, rising onto his tiptoes as he reaches the wood flooring in the hall. Shiro doesn’t say anything, just bends down to wrap his arm around Lance’s back, scooping him up. Small legs wind around his waist as he takes them both the few steps to his room, turning on the lights—Lance settles in his grip like they’ve done it a million times before.
It isn’t until he tries to lower him gracefully onto the bed that things get messy, and Lance giggles when he accidentally knocks the plastic bag to the floor and nearly tips over trying to grab it. “Got it!” Shiro says, joining in the laughter. The weight of the thing is oddly familiar—he squishes the bag a few times, feeling the thin plastic move over something that could be fabric. Lance pulls it close, and that’s when it clicks: it’s a stuffed animal.
Hm.
Lance rolls, making room and patting the bed. Shiro goes to turn off the lights, and he sees the moment Lance’s face drops. He murmurs a reassurance. There is no way he would plunge them into complete darkness after everything that's happened tonight—this room has a dimmer switch. Thank god for whoever installed it; it means that he can leave the lights on, cranking them down until there’s nothing but a slight glow to keep the deepest shadows at bay. Then he scooches Lance all the way over and pulls the sheets up. The difference is almost immediate—tension bleeds out of the kid until he’s flopped comfortably on his side of the bed, curled around the mystery toy.
“Who’s in the bag?” Shiro asks, carefully sliding in beside him.
“Oh! Um, her name is Mary.” Lance wriggles a little closer, tucking his head under Shiro’s bicep. Shiro’s hand hovers for a moment before he rests it on top of ruffled brown hair. “She’s a koala. I wanted to get a shark, but Mama said sharks were too scary for my little cousins.”
Shiro hums. “Is there a reason she’s wrapped up like that?”
Lance shrugs a little. “Um. I guess she doesn’t really like being impolite. Miss Josie said she needs to get washed, so she’s just staying in the bag until she’s clean. No one had time to help me wash her yet, I guess.” He’s quiet for a long moment before he scrunches her close, the plastic wheezing. “She’s still kinda muddy,” he whispers.
Muddy. Shiro has to physically stop a shiver from coursing through him. He closes his eyes against the barely there luminescence of the overhead light. The mudslide, the social worker told him, had nearly knocked the entire house off its foundation. It had been sudden and total in its destruction. He’d tried not to commit the details to memory—details like how it took them three hours to dig out one little boy, alive and safe inside a car that had been knocked on its side. How there was almost nothing to salvage, at least not without major excavation equipment. How two weeks later all the progress they made was covered by the detritus of a second storm.
He curls his arm around the boy, holding him tight to his side. “You can always come sleep in here if you need to, okay?”
The little figure burrows under the blankets, pulling them up above his head. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I’m good at sleeping on my own.”
“But not tonight.”
A movement that could be another shrug. “I guess not. Our old Pastor said it’s okay to ask for help. But I don’t need help, usually.” He peers out of a fold in the fabric, one eye shining in the near-darkness. He is very small, Shiro thinks suddenly. Eleven is such a small number. Eleven years is nothing. Shiro’s hand dwarfs the elbow it’s resting against. He can’t imagine someone this small all alone, curled up against the window of a sideways car, waiting for help, unable to even see outside. “Unless you need help sleeping,” Lance says, breaking through his thoughts. He’s watching closely like he knows exactly what Shiro was just thinking about. “I’d be more than happy to help you out, Sir.”
“I would appreciate that,” Shiro murmurs. Then he turns on his side, pulling Lance right up against his chest. Almost immediately, Lance wraps his arms around his waist. Mary the Koala is pressed between them, snug against his stomach, and he feels like this hug is for all three of them. “We’ll make sure that Mary gets a bath tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah!” Lance says, excitement getting swallowed by a huge yawn. It only takes him a few minutes to fall asleep, curled up safely in Shiro’s arm.
It’s odd, really. Shiro blinks down at his newest ward, a softness pillowing his heart as he watches the kid’s chest rise and fall. His brother lost his life because of a car, but a car is what saved the life of the little boy now sharing his blankets. What are the odds? There’s no rhyme or reason for it, really, but at least sometimes fate’s whimsy comes up in their favor. He’s glad that Lance was protected when he needed it the most. For the first time since his accident, Shiro thinks about the crushed remains of the Volvo and it doesn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
Sometimes things work out. He’s never been more grateful that he’s here to see it.