Archive of Our Own ^beta

Upon getting the breakfast on the table, Hunk often drowsily gazes into space, neither very articulate nor lucid; he’s gracefully face-flopped into his own breakfast several times. Lance traces the rings underneath Hunk’s dark warm eyes, and Shiro (probably) lectures Hunk on the virtues of getting enough sleep, although Hunk can really only make out every few words.

Maybe if you didn’t drink so much larkquirk all day, says Pidge sagely, before dumping off the equivalent of half the pot into her own mug.

And Hunk abashedly nods and chuckles, unable (i.e unwilling) to really explain why he’s awake at night as often as he is. He prays the team doesn’t put the pieces together. He’d soon as have them believe Hunk truly had a bottomless hole for the stomach as opposed to the truth.

It’s stranger than anything else they’ve encountered thus far in space.

And Hunk knows there’s been some stiff competition.

o-O-o

When he was still a little child he insisted on joining his grandparents for their very early morning shifts at the family bakery. Any flowery impressions Hunk might’ve ever had of baking for a living were effectively crushed well-before he understood the back-breaking labor it entailed, because Tinamatua cheerfully jostled him awake at four a.m for work. She gently joked that rousing Hunk was a two-person job, and sometimes Tama tickled his feet until Hunk came to, burying his face in his pillow to stifle his giggling. “Good morning, little bear.”

“Good night,” Hunk groused with no real ire. It was their old joke, but he was pleased when his grandparents laughed anyway.

He would trudge down the stairs after them, scarcely human as he crawled onto his chair for breakfast. Tama made the coffee and slipped a bit of it in Hunk’s mug of milk when Tinamatua wasn’t looking.

Sitting with his grandparents with their coffees made him feel like an adult, the way his sisters’ steady breathing did as he crept past their room. Hunk would slip his hands into his grandparents’ rough, dry and arithic ones as they walked to work, the roads still dark and deserted. Hunk had the frightening and distinctly-gratifying impression they had the world to themselves for awhile.

Upon arriving they set to work, and Tinamatua often slipped Hunk a bit of Pani Popo when Tama wasn’t working as they floured the tables. That was before it was time to knead bread dough, although Hunk thought punching sometimes was the better word. His grandparents taught him to punch the dough as vigorously as if it owed them money.

“Never mind, little bear,” his grandmother would say kindly when Hunk’s face fell upon pulling out his first few bread loaves. They were all lopsided at best. “You know our neighbors are always asking for your bread.”

Tama frowned. “I don’t want loaves leaving this kitchen until they’re perfect.”

“He’ll get there. Right now, what they want to taste are the love and good wishes you put into your food,” his grandmother said mildly, poking Hunk in the cheek with a floury finger until at last he smiled. “And they’re all here, I promise. It’s why your loaves are more filling then most.”

And Hunk would start over, happy when his grandfather’s hands guided his own. As his own hands became cracked and dry, he prayed the best wishes from his pulse surged into the food.

Much later, after they’d lost their business and all memories of the place were sepia-toned and softly polished, Hunk’s desire to somehow enfuse a message of goodwill even for strangers in whatever he cooked still breathed in him the way dough did, rising to the surface like something warm and alive.

It still does.

More so.

o-O-o

Hunk had been a deep sleeper back at the Garrison; it wasn’t uncommon for Lance to wake him via whacking him with a pillow from the top bunk.

And in a sense he still is, because if undisturbed Hunk can sleep like a hibernating bear. Now he frequently (albeit less so now) wakes in the night.

When he does, briefly exists in that disorienting blur between the Garrison or his room in Samoa, until it registers to him he doesn’t smell home. And the shadow patterns playing over his eyes are wrong.

He normally lies there for a few moments, in-between flight and longing to return to sleep. But he invariably heaves himself up and wanders off, with all the tottering grace of a new father at the stage of true weariness wherein it’s really irrelevant if you go on just a bit more.

Sometimes Hunk wakes very late into the night or very early into the morning genuinely hungry—no shit, Sherlock, he blithely imagines someone saying upon observing his girth.

But more often than not if he actually jerks awake without the castle alarms sounding in his ears, it’s because of an emptiness in his stomach that steadily moves its way up his chest. He sits with it quietly, thinking thoughts he can’t quite recall later on before wandering to the kitchen.

It is time to work, after all.

o-O-o

Every time he flicks the light on he muses again on how the kitchen here is nothing like the bakery’s, or his tiny one back home in Samoa. It’s a mixed blessing; after all, this kitchen can comfortably accommodate more than two people whom don’t need to work back-to-back to work. He revels in how the cold room hums with anticipation; how every titanium-like surface gleams and how the drawers are filled with all the tools he’d ever wanted and more. This was far superior to the kitchens he’d tried to volunteer in at the Garrison (they’d shooed him away more than once) and closer to the cooking show he’d secretly always wanted.

Still, he’s a bit wistful for home’s tiny wooden counters that are worn and scarred—he remembers the burn mark from his first attempt at making candy—and have groaned underneath countless platters of food during reunions when inside and out the warm house was filled with the chatter and clatter of happy people.

But again, it’s time to act with purpose, and get to work.

He enjoys the challenge of equivocating completely alien (literally) ingredients with those on Earth (Aplona is a wonderful substitute for cinnamon, Lavtov a stronger vanilla, Rekikio chocolate-like but perhaps requiring a bit more sweetener.) And there are so many spices and herbs that are virtually incomparable to those on Earth—Malivoki turns out to be savory-sweet, and a welcome addition in hearty dishes, and Kiraslavomarkotar (you couldn’t make this up) is a bitter food that none the less tingles your senses like pine-needles.

Upon getting to work (thankfully he keeps plenty of ready-to-prepare ingredient kits on hand; his time window is short) Hunk slowly immerses himself with the task at hand, and patiently waits.

o-O-o

Lance is Hunk’s most common repeat offender.

He typically wanders in around somewhere between the Witching Hour and the Why-Does-This-Time Window Exist frame. More often than not his eyes are glazed over. (When he senses Lance is awake Hunk knows by now to dim the lights just a bit.)

If bunking with Lance at the Garrison taught Hunk anything, Lance is something of an insomniac. He un-ironically uses a face mask and Pidge’s old headset to listen to raindrops whilst sleeping. And if ever there were an incentive for Hunk to tread quietly in their dorm was the universal law that a Lance Not At Rest Would Stay Not Stay At Rest, and would wake you at two a.m asking if you wanted to play cards or Mario Kart.

This particular night, Lance stumbles in so coltishly Hunk briefly wonders if Lance has started sleepwalking.

“Sup, big guy,” he murmurs affectionately before plunking down at the kitchen table and nearly missing his seat entirely.

“Good evening to you too,” says Hunk, checking the progress of his pots. “More like good morning.”

“Mmmmrgh.” With his green facial mask, Lance looks remarkably like an extra from The Walking Dead.

“You feeling okay?” Hunk asks politely, knowing full well he’s not.

Lance plunks his face on folded arms. It takes what Hunk feels is a bit of effort before he mumbles, “I don’t want to life.”

Hunk flashes him a fond smile, taking a careful taste of the beige contents of his pot. “Maybe this will make you want to life even just a little.”

A tic later Lance is trying to peer over Hunk’s shoulder without much success; Hunk is briefly reminded of Manaia and Losefa hopping beside him at work an effort to check his progress. “What are you making?”

Arroz de leche. “We-ell, I couldn’t really sleep either,” Hunk lies. “And just thought I’d try experimenting a little with the spices I brought back from Rivvikarson today.”

He gestures happily to the small wicker basket on a countertop nearby. “I dunno, I thought it would be fun.”

When Hunk moves aside for the liter of milk (blessed be their cow) Lance takes the opportunity to glance inside, and Hunk turns to find Lance staring into the large pot as intently as if beholding his future (past.)

“Everything okay?” Hunk asks nervously. Oh God, if this isn’t right, it’s going to be worse than terrible.

Lance slowly shakes his head, and Hunk briefly entertains the idea of impaling himself on the kitchen scissors for being the most thoughtless person alive. But then he sees Lance beaming, flustered as a child on Christmas morning.

“…I…wow. You know, I had a weird moment just as I was walking down the hall over here.” He shakes his head again. “The smell filling my head…was really…” Lance visibly struggles for a moment. “…disorienting.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No!” The word steps on Hunk’s question mark. “Did you know this smells just like my abuela’s rice pudding?”

“Really?” Hunk asks, the picture of bemusement. “Wow. That’s amazing.”

Lance in all likelihood doesn’t remember, but when his first care package came in from home it contained a Tupperware container of this stuff. Hunk remembers Lance attacking it in their dorm with all the zeal of a starving child whom certainly had not eaten dinner two hours ago.

“Oh, God, yes,” He moaned, eyes rolling back with ecstasy. It was all Hunk could do not to burst out laughing. “You have to try this! I insist!”

Well, Lance admittedly didn’t have to try all that hard.

At least Hunk has a vague idea of what the dish needs to taste like. Finding the substitute ingredients isn’t easy, but it’s not too dissimilar to finding substitutes for lactose-intolerant friends back home. You really just had to keep looking.

“Wow, that’s really cool.” Lance slowly inhales again, smile reaching his eyes. He makes to lick the spatula and Hunk gives him an affectionate but firm swat on the forearm. Huffing near-inaudibly, Lance trudges back to his seat, arms crossing. He impatiently wags his foot in the air until at last Hunk slowly spoons the gelatinous mixture into a bowl (plucking a flower from a nearby vase for the tray; why not?)

“I love you,” Lance says dreamily as Hunk carefully puts the platter down in front of him. “I wanna marry you.”

Hunk blushes and awkwardly laughs. Lance’s eager and affectionate humor doesn’t fluster him now as it did the first day they’d met: “Wow, you’re a real Hunk, aren’t you?” That was shortly before Lance started cheerfully introducing him to everyone as Hunk as if they’d been friends for ten years instead of ten minutes. And from then on that was simply what everyone called him. Occasionally even Hunk forgot his real name. “Don’t let Allura hear you say that.”

“Yeah, well, Allura can only prepare goo,” Lance points out as he picks up his spoon. “She can make and serve goo ten thousand years old. I think that’s the extent of her culinary expertise.”

“….this might not taste exactly the same,” Hunk points out uneasily, worrying the corner of his apron. He starts when Lance pauses after his first bite, spoon still hovering near his mouth.

Lance bows his head, hair fanning over his face. Hunk takes the moment to gently push a glass of water in front of him.

Not a second later Lance seizes his bowl and starts wolfing down its contents, squealing upon burning the roof of his mouth. He hastily huffs and puffs on the pudding before attacking it again, sucking on the spoon as his eyes lid dreamily.

“So, I take it this meets with your approval?”

“Mmmrgggh,” says Lance helpfully, flopping back in his seat and Hunk seizes the chair before it can topple over. “You’re amazing. You are so amazing!” He gestures at his plate with as much aplomb as if the bowl holds the blueprints of the master-plan leading to Zarkon’s imminent defeat. “We served this up back home in Cuba all the time!”

He draws the bowl up to chin-level and resumes shoveling the sweet rice into his mouth, but a moment later Lance pauses, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk’s. “It has to be the same thing—wait, did you have some kind of equivalent dish back home in Samoa or something?”

“You know what? We might just have,” Hunk says thoughtfully as he took a seat. “I dunno the actual name of this food—“ Not true. “—but I also know I’ve had it before.” True enough. “A lot of these dishes are sort of ubiquitous—you can find cross-cultural resemblances.”

Lance flings his arms around him and Hunk instinctively enfolds him in a bear grip. As much as people have teased Hunk for attack-hugging (glomping, someone called it once) it’s sort of just instinctive, particularly with Lance who is just accustomed to holding and being held like a koala. The two are easily the most enthusiastic huggers aboard the ship, and Lance is just Lance, and his Lance-like effect on people is that you couldn’t help but love him. Especially on nights when Hunk understood that Lance also woke in between here and home with his mama calling him up for school with the frequent sound and smell of rain.

“So,” says Hunk smilingly when they part, clapping a large hand on Lance’s small shoulder. “I guess this is my cue to make this again?”

“Does James Brown get down?”

“…I don’t know who James Brown is, or if he does in fact get down, but it rhymes, so I’m guessing that’s an affirmative.”

o-O-o

It would certainly be nice if this strange prescience appeared in a combat situation, though it never really does. Hunk intuitively woke at home when one of his little sisters had had a nightmare or his sickly grandfather was gazing wistfully out the window in his room, but his late-night alarms have never been as acute as they’ve been in the Castle of the Lions. Maybe it’s because there are more people here, so many more wounds, so much at stake. So many hungry hearts, particularly at night, when everyone is small.

Hunk doesn’t understand why he’s developed this sense, though he theorizes Yellow might have something to do with it. He and the Yellow Lion have seeped into each other like an hombre effect, orange steadily lapsing into gold, and Hunk feels…bigger inside than he used to.

Yellow affectionately nuzzles his mind sometimes when he wonders about this, suggests in his articulate way of speaking without words that this ability was just innately Hunk’s. It just expanded with his newfound resolve to protect the universe and keep Voltron from toppling over.

Hunk doesn’t know if that’s not maybe a step too far. After all, he’d be such a better help to the team if he had any special skills. “You’re the nice one,” Pidge had said once, and he glowed quietly the way he had at Yellow’s affirming approval, which felt like having a coal pulsing gently inside him like a jewel.

But he ran the slowest. Pidge is a human computer, and while he does understand that his technological prowess is so much better than it used to be, he still doesn’t feel he can really hold a candle to her. Lance could shoot a bee across a football field if he wanted to. Keith (Hunk thinks fondly) is a flurry of knives and has all the potential of becoming a lethal assassin if he weren’t so kind. (And he is, he really, really is.) And Shiro is…Hunk shivers not-unpleasantly. Shiro. There isn’t really much more to be said on that front.

In the meantime, Hunk’s emergency cooking-senses are tingling. Right. He’s as indispensible to the team as a caterer.

But when he contemplates The Matter of Things Yellow’s consciousness warms Hunk like sunlight. It’s enough to make him less-embarrassed, and while he’s certainly not crowing about his extended emotional antennae, it’s still something. Maybe he could get a cape.

Hunk would sooner hang up his chef tools than confide in his teammates about this particular ability of his, but considering he can practically hear pudding, there’s not much use in wasting it.

o-O-o

Hunk tends to get up a bit more hastily if he feels Keith—a bit more kick in his wakeup call? Simple intuition? He’s not going to torment himself over the whys and why-nots—up and about. If Keith Kurogane was in a mind to eat, Hunk’s first incentive is to get a plate in front of the boy in soon as humanly and Galran-y possible. He honestly does worry that while Keith does have a decent muscular build, the boy probably weighs something between Not Enough and Starving Kid in Africa.

Keith would probably commit hara-kiri if he knew, but for once he follows Lance in a pretty close second in regards to late-night journeys to the kitchen. Hunk has no intention of telling Lance so, because Lance would make it a point to keep one-upping him. Hunk is near-certain that if Keith contracted pneumonia, Lance would immediately land on a quarantined planet in hopes of catching dragon pox or (somehow) cancer, and in all likelihood literally die trying to do so.

One night, when Hunk stubs his toe in his haste to get to the kitchen, he immediately goes for the food buried deep in the icebox (frozen and preserved food is okay if it doesn’t come from a grocery store.) As the broth is heating and the fresh meat (that’s non-negotiable) is sizzling in the pan, Hunk gets to work on making the noodles. A good chef has to multitask.

“Sup, my man?” calls Hunk with a quick and completely unnecessary look over his shoulder as Keith slowly enters, expression inscrutable.

Keith says nothing. If Lance craves attention and affection and is happy to let you know, Keith has never gone out of his way to ask for it. When Hunk gives Keith bear hugs without thinking, the forced nonchalance he feels in Keith’s too-stiff posture is a signal that Keith’s at a loss as to what to do with touch. Still, he’s never pushed Hunk away, which means physical affection isn’t entirely unwelcome as it is foreign.

Hunk keeps his eyes on his work now; Keith’s in an emotional place and might leave if he’s concerned the mask will slip. The shadows underneath Keith’s eyes tell a story, which Hunk knows deep-down is as heartbreaking as it is admirable.

Keith hesitates at the doorway as Hunk continues stirring, adding the homemade noodles (thank heaven he keeps an emergency supply.) “Thought you’d be zonked tonight, considering just how much action we saw today.”

Out of the corner of his eye Hunk notices Keith gives the slightest of noncommittal shrugs. Differentiating between Keith’s expressions (Blank Look number Three means cautiously receptive) is just part of the job. “Just didn’t happen that way.”

“Ditto,” says Hunk calmly, carefully turning over a piece of meat. Krysov meat is pretty similar to pork, though Hunk never again wants to see its source. “Maybe you didn’t get enough at dinner or something.”

Keith says nothing. Hunk still keeps his back turned on him. The story of Keith’s life, he thinks.

Nooope, this meat will not burn.

“Well, since I was awake anyway, I thought I’d go ahead and make a big pot of soup to last the week.” It will probably last a day or two at best. “You’re welcome to some if you want.”

“….sure?”

“Oh yeah. Grab a chair.”

Keith slowly sinks down at the kitchen table, and Hunk thinks with quiet amusement he can hear the boy pouting. “The training hall is on lockdown.”

“Probably Allura or Shiro’s way of telling you need a rest,” Hunk says mildly, adding the smallest sprinkle of qurinor. For whatever reason it has a soporific effect, although Coran confirms it’s not a dangerous substance. He starts filling a nearby bowl. “Here’s my way of saying you need something in you.”

This meal is a bit more of a shot in the dark. The bits and pieces of his life Keith shares about life before the Garrison are few and far between, and Hunk collects them as eagerly as if they’re dropped jellybeans. (Three-second rule doesn’t apply to candy.) Ask Keith what he wanted to eat and Keith would only say there wasn’t anything he really didn’t mind (which isn’t the slightest help to Hunk.)

It’s painful to consider, but Hunk wonders if Keith’s unpicky pallet came with eating what you got at the orphanage, and knowing you didn’t have any other option.

Hunk dabs at his eyes; he ought’ve put the zakrio (a very similar-to-leek vegetable with just a bit of tarter aftertaste) in the fridge.

At least he knows Keith tends to reach for spices and hot sauces when it’s available, and meat is one of the precious few things he’d have seconds of.

Soon enough, Hunk has an enormous bowl of noodles ready (calories, Keith needs those), strips of meat (protein) and plenty of vegetables (for obvious reasons.) He adds the closest doubles he’s so far been able to find of garlic and ginger.

He would’ve liked to have added a chicken egg, but when he showed a scribbled picture of a hen to Coran, the man looked at him as if he were insane.

“I agree with him,” Lance said wisely as he milked their cow. “Space cows? That just makes sense, Hunk. Space chickens?” He shook his head and tsked. “I expected more of you, with your grades being higher than mine at the Garrison.”

Hunk sets the bowl in front of Keith, whom after taking a few cautious sniffs at last tastes the ramen. A second later his eyes are a pair of stars, and he’s attacking his food with gleeful gusto. Hunk curiously wonders if Keith is even tasting the food as he slurps it down.

Hunk silently lets out the long breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “Thanks, Keith. I really appreciate it.”

Keith gives him a strange look, reluctantly lowering his chopsticks (Hunk is impressed to see that a third of the food is already gone.) “Um.” Keith has broth dripping down his chin. “…I think that’s…my line?”

“Thanks for sitting with me, I mean.” Hunk says earnestly. “I would’ve been lonely if you hadn’t.”

Keith remains quiet for a few tics.

“…uh, well, you’re welcome.” He sheepishly tucks a hand behind his head. “I can’t remember the last time I had this.”

“Ramen?”

A shy smile. “Someone cook for me.”

Hunk smiles back wistfully. “Of course.”

As Keith plows into his food Hunk slowly heads over to the freezer and starts scooping out churned ice cream he’s made from rippiberry (Keith has helped himself to plenty of rippiberry before and it’s technically a fruit serving.) “Let’s get some dessert in you. You like rippiberry?”

“Well…yeah. The people who say they don’t are liars.” Keith’s shoulders drop a bit, and his smile is lazy as he pushes aside his empty ramen bowl to make way for a larger ice cream dish. “Um. I don’t suppose you’re getting married anytime soon?”

Hunk is so flustered he almost decides not to serve Keith ice cream at all.

The resolution only lasts for a moment.

o-O-o

Pidge is a bit more difficult.

Hunk knows because she seldom goes to the kitchen of her own volition; if she’s awake she’s of a mind to work, especially if she’s having a nightmare (and Hunk can tell, though quiznak knows why.) Thankfully he keeps an arsenal of sandwiches ready (well, he keeps the ingredients ready in a box; otherwise the bread gets soggy. That’s an abomination Hunk puts on-par with mistreating orphans. Musically-inclined orphans. Which everyone knows is the worst kind of orphan there is.)

Pidge has two eating settings: Eat Everything In Sight or Forget I Need Food to Live. When the latter is On, Hunk patiently makes assorted sandwiches (and frequently prepares an accommodating little bag tied neatly with a bow, because he can) and makes his way over to Pidge’s room. When he knocks and Pidge wearily invites him in, he waits a moment for her to collect herself before he does. Tonight’s such a night.

“Hey Hunk.” She doesn’t look up from her computer.

He chuckles fondly; Pidge knows his footstep. “Hey yourself.”

“What do you need?” She says thickly, adjusting her glasses and keeping her eyes studiously fixated on the screen. And Hunk knows she’s been crying. The frustration she’s feeling is as palpable to Hunk as static; he can practically hear the whirring of Pidge’s brain like an overworked computer.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” He asks, drawing nearer to check on her progress.

Pidge is a bit more accommodating to late-night visits if she feels she’s taking care of Hunk instead of the other way around. Pidge is, after all, naturally wary and suspicious of what she suspects is someone being patronizing to her (which Hunk thinks is stupid, considering she can hack in and dismantle an alien government before lunch.) That being said, nothing makes Pidge bristle so much as being told what to do.

Hunk wonders briefly if maybe one of the many reasons she’s so desperate to find Matt was that he was one of two people (i.e, Shiro) she let her hackles down around enough to allow to play Space Brother and Space Dad. “Do you want a hand with this decoding?”

Pidge hesitates at that.

“You really don’t have to.”

This is actually progress. Not long ago, Pidge would’ve immediately said “No thanks, I’m good,” before strongly insinuating that she’d like Hunk to go away by suggesting he do a litany of other things.

And Hunk would have to respect that, because anything else would’ve been Wrong, and he’d leave her with the food he’d prepare. Sometimes she’d eat it, and sometimes not (the sense of unease that lingers with him when she doesn’t is pretty telltale.)

“Seriously. Put me to work; I literally have nothing else to do, and it’s not like practicing hacking into digital archives is going to hurt any. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Part of Hunk’s incentive to become a better engineer and improve his technological prowess (Besides the trite fact that he is genuinely interested in these things) is the fact that Pidge is happier to accept his help now that they’re a bit more on equal footing. They have more to talk about, and the shared language makes for a deeper sense of companionship.

Not with a small amount of pride does Hunk realize Pidge has become comfortable working in a group, which therefore leads to his master plan of Sandwiches. He could laugh-maniacally with pleasure; Zarkon has nothing on him when it comes to being an evil genius.

“Well, sure. Other computer’s on the desk; I kind of got stuck on some quantities in that locked Galran programming we got the other day. A fresh pair of eyes might be just the thing.”

“Cool, thanks. Here, brought you a snack.”

He gently pushes the boxes beside Pidge, and with a quick word of thanks she seizes a sandwich. To Hunk’s growing fascination he sees Pidge’s jaw positively drop like a snake’s before she plunges it inside. Pidge hums in contentment, kicking her dangling legs back and forth before she inadvertently reaches inside the second box.

The softer and powdery texture of what she grabs makes her hesitate this time, and she actually look down. As Hunk settles into work, he glances at Pidge, whom as abruptly frozen against her chair. “Oh. Oh, my God.”

A second later the fried, sugary zeppoli has flown down her gullet with all the vigor of Shiro when confronted with one of Slav’s visits. Pidge’s head twists around immediately, her lips liberally smeared with Hunk’s homemade renditions of chocolate and powdered sugar. “Did you know my family loved these?”

Hunk had, actually; he remembers Pidge fondly sharing a tale wherein Matt tried recreating the zeppoli their nonna made whenever she visited from Italy. The end result tasted like Disappointment, but Matt had actually been fascinated to closely-monitor the kind of chemistry that went into preparing food. “Seriously? Wow, I hadn’t a clue. That’s awesomesauce.”

Why can’t he be honest? It’s not really as if his freakish memory regarding food is anything to be ashamed of, per say. But although it doesn’t matter, the secret flutters pleasantly inside; the way he felt playing hide-and-seek as a kid wherein he wanted and didn’t want to be found.

“Don’t tell my mom this,” Pidge says warningly, helping herself to more. If ever there were anything telling about Hunk’s culinary skills, it was the fact that he managed to distract Pidge from her work. “But this is better than hers. I mean, not like my nonna’s, but…”

She suddenly plays with the hem of her hoodie again, and Hunk decides to break the tension.

“You’ve got a sugar mustache,” he says mildly, and Pidge snorts as her contraband-alien Cuddlepuff floats serenely into Pidge’s lap. Matt (the second mustached puffball) settles on Hunk’s knee. Hunk coos immediately, snuggling the patient puffball and nuzzling his cheek against the soft warm fuzz.

Oh, if only they could attack the Galra with an explosion of these sweet creatures. Everyone would drop their weapons and their bloodlust would be abated immediately. Then the soldiers would be preoccupied with more important matters, like collecting all the different puff colors and buying accessories. “Maybe you, the puffballs, and Coran should start a secret society.”

“It’s not really secret, with these on our faces,” says Pidge, swiping at her mouth with her sleeve. “Honestly, Coran should just focus on founding a support group for people whom have been cryogenically frozen for a long time and wake up finding they have to save the universe.”

“Why do I get the feeling the turnout wouldn’t be that high?”

“I get the feeling it’s just the opposite,” she retorts, wiping her hands on her pants. She turns back to her computer, casts a longing look at the waiting donuts, and attacks them again. Hunk wonders what they ever did to her, but in all likelihood they had it coming.

Matt (the puff) quietly floats out of Hunk’s arms over to Pidge, and Pidge strokes him and Cuddlepuff both absently, flopping against her chair as if she were entirely boneless. Probably the sugar crash.

“When we find your brother, we’ll have to throw him a bash. I’ll make these again for you both.”

“That’d be good.” Pidge’s voice slips into a softer register. “Make all of them.”

“Done.”

Hunk waits until her head starts nodding. When it looks like she’s in danger of head-keyboarding, he stands, stretches, scoops up Pidge, and tenderly tucks her in.

o -O-o

Shiro is by far the hardest to console.

For so many, many reasons.

Hunk’s bizarre, telepathic-baking senses don’t tingle so much as slap him awake, over and over again when Shiro is having a night terror. For a moment Hunk is as paralyzed as a child jolted awake to find someone is actively bludgeoning them to death, and just as helpless.

The first, ghastly night he wakes knowing Shiro is in hell, Hunk world turns red, pulses to the pounding drumbeat in his ears. He can taste the smell of fire and burnt shrapnel, something Hunk has had the repeat pleasure of flooding his senses during combat. Worse still, there’s the awful rush of something else metallic-smelling, and he almost feels it pooling around his knees.

There’s screaming from all sides, and eventually he realizes so much of it emitted from himself. He thrashes madly in sheets twisted around him like snakes, freezing despite the glittering sweat on his forehead. One of his arms is now a paralyzing, focal point of agony actively cutting into him. He thrashes his other arm wildly in the air—not waving but drowning—as he tries freeing himself from the sheets. In the howling, hot, dark storm Hunk’s mind has become, only a mantra is decipherable:

Let me die, let me die, let me die.

He gasps at the sensation of Yellow’s frenzied consciousness surging into his own, as abruptly as if Hunk has just backed (fallen) onto stone. The mental images of Yellow all but tearing his hangar apart to get to him were almost just as disorienting and frightening as the hallucinations, because never before had Yellow radiated horror and bloodthirst the way he had. He was convinced Hunk was being murdered, was clutching his consciousness in his own as if afraid Hunk’s life would rapidly drain out if he didn’t.

At first it was worse. Hunk sobbed from where he lay paralyzed, momentarily so hysterical he felt like a bird waking to find itself in a cat’s jaws. He almost laughed at the idea, refrained from doing so. Otherwise he might never stop.

But as Yellow raced through his mind to find evidence of any physical wounds—and nearly short-circuited from sheer relief to find none—the confusion and gentleness emanating from him helps Hunk’s heart slow a bit, which was a profound relief because it beat itself so much against his ribs it seemed intent on breaking free. He hiccupped and lay on his side, waiting for the world to stop spinning…

Quiet, lucid facts steadily slowed his breathing and steady him: I’m the yellow paladin, I come from Samoa, I wanted to go to the Garrison so much I was willing to leave home, the stars were tugging at me despite how much I like home, I beat Lance’s high score on Mario Kart, Pidge’s score is still higher than mine on Rainbow Railroad, my lion loves me, my lion loves me, my lion loves me.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hunk’s eyes lidded a bit.

That was the mantra he hoped his food conveyed when words sounded too petty, soppish or embarrassing.

The words were as solid as stone, anchoring him

Because Hunk had been legitimately afraid he’d float out of his mind.

I’ll never let go of you.

A sheepish smile against his pillow, something like a blush.

A gentle, loving brush of thanks before making to roll out of bed, spots blurring in and out of his vision. What in the world—universe—Hunk could do in the face of something like this was beyond him, but he had to do something.

Otherwise, the guilt was too much. He felt almost complicit in Shiro’s suffering.

But Yellow was having none of it.

A second later Hunk couldn’t move at all once again. Bewildered, he managed to at least feebly flopa bit. Big mistake. He leaned over the side of the bed and retched, dry-heaving.

Yellow’s response was immediate: Hunk wasn’t going anywhere.

“You don’t understand,” Hunk mumbled, head still spinning. Right now, he just wanted to binge-watch the ceiling, but had to get up. If he weren’t so exhausted he would’ve punched the bed with a bit more force. “Shiro—“

He gulped. Yellow’s mind flared like a supernova, the brightness and enormity of it all dazzling him. It could so easily rip his own consciousness to pieces, though of course Hunk knew Yellow never would.

That being said, those teeth were closing around him in a bizarrely-gentle but perfectly implacable hold, and while this had never happened to Hunk before, his dark eyes widened with apprehension.

“No—“

And he was slowly tugged down….

….down….

The glittering gold was rapidly darkening. Down. He was going down. He couldn’t, not now, but the exhaustion was so much he couldn’t really resist.

Hunk fell back against his pillow, hand slowly curling in his blankets as he slowly shook his head, eyes flickering.

But a second later his eyes (which seemed as if they were trying to glue themselves shut) at last won the fight, and Hunk slipped into unconsciousness, so much so he was in the outskirts of the slightest chance of a dream, until he knew no more.

-O-
he following morning as Hunk was preparing French toast, he genuinely tried being upset with Yellow. He even carefully visualized building a wall between himself and his lion, and hoped Yellow took the hint.

But sustaining grudges just wasn’t something Hunk excelled at. He was aware of Yellow emitting definite sadness as Hunk tried distancing himself in their connection. Hunk suddenly remembered his larger-than-life childhood cat Pusheen, whom was far unhappier being ignored after misbehaving than simply being told off. Hunk kept his eyes on his work in the kitchen, but his lower-lip started quivering just the same.

Yellow really only had to send him the image of a lion with drooping ears and tail anxiously nudging him a few times for Hunk to crack like one of the omitari eggs he was whisking. The barriers built around his consciousness crumbled. That admittedly wasn't saying much, because Hunk suspected that if the barricades were physically manifested, they'd scarcely be ankle-length and just as ridiculous to try hiding behind. He grudgingly allowed his mind to press against a palpably-relieved Yellow’s. Hunk had the fleeting impression of Yellow nuzzling him, and he laughed aloud as he flipped over the sizzling bread.

“Dude, what’s so funny?” Lance asked from behind him, helping herself to the pitcher of juice Hunk had squeezed moments ago on the kitchen island. Hunk squawked and elbowed his mixing bowl off the counter. With lightning-fast reflexes and a bizarre dexterity that could turn a contortionist green with envy he miraculously recovered the bowl before it could overturn on the floor; wasted breakfast batter was a tragedy that would render Hunk into a state of mourning for the rest of the day. And possibly well-into the week.

“Um, nothing! Nothing. Nothing is funny.”

Lance crossed his arms. “So you burst out laughing like a maniac for no reason.”

Hunk tried smiling but the effort likely seemed pained, judging by the fact Lance had nervously taken a few steps back. “Oh, well, I was just thinking…uh, this batter was exceptionally…eggsellent. Get it?”

Lance only rolled his eyes as he headed out. “Look, leave the soul-withering dad puns to Shiro, okay? The secondhand embarrassment is enough to turn off my appetite forever.”

Shiro. Hunk turned back to the stove, staring blankly at the browning toast. Only his potent phobia of allowing food to burn allowed him to automatically transfer breakfast onto the waiting plate beside him.

“Oh, come on….”

To Hunk’s great frustration the tears started falling thick and fast into the pan. For every one he wiped away two came to its funeral and soon enough he had no choice but to turn off the burner. While he wanted his blood, sweat and tears to go into what he cooked, Hunk hadn’t quite meant that literally.

He staggered back and clutched his writhing stomach, fighting against its heaving contents in what felt like a losing battle as he tasted the warning sting of acid. The brutal gravity of the memories Hunk vicariously-experienced bore down on him with so much force of he wildly wondered if it would send him sinking into the floor. He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from making a noise, but he heard it just the same. I have heard my voice with a dying fall.

Yellow’s presence in Hunk’s mind blazed like a bonfire, and Hunk felt a warmth flood into his face, rapidly pouring into every cell of his being. Hunk’s eyes watered but he didn’t quite trust himself to close them. It was then he noticed his scalp was aching; his fingers were gripping his hair. Letting go took some effort.

No, he couldn’t blame Yellow for taking the scruff of Hunk’s proverbial neck in his mouth and carrying him out-of-range of the...radio waves, or whatever short-circuiting SOS Shiro unknowingly broadcasted to Hunk’s freakish-emotional antennae. After all, Yellow meant well, instinctively tried to shield Hunk like a parent would.

Shielding you is the same as self-defense, little one.

He shyly shuffled his feet, and Atlas shrugged. Feeling infinitely better, Hunk headed to the cabinet to fetch another loaf of bread. He resolved to make all of the French toast this morning. Not a lot. All.

When everyone gathered around the table to eat not-long afterwards, Lance and Keith began fighting over whom Hunk had served the choice tidbit of toast, despite the fact there was an enormous steaming platter in the center of the table. Shiro wearily decided to break up the dispute when the two had bit the opposite ends of Keith’s toast, and tugged and growled like starving wolverines.

While Shiro was distracted Pidge helped herself to tidbits off his plate, upon which Hunk had piled a ludicrous tower of French toast drenched with cream, berries and syrup. “I don’t know about you, but I like everything poached for breakfast,” she informed a clearly-disapproving Allura, taking a generous bite of Shiro’s razzleberries. “It just tastes better that way.”

When at last Lance and Keith sullenly picked at their respective halves of toast Shiro turned to Hunk in surprise. “Something wrong?”

Um, yeah. Anyone else would be in jail or dead. How are you even functioning, let alone stay the head of Voltron?

Hunk had to unglue his tongue from the top of his mouth as if it were stuck with a mild nut butter of his own creation. “Why do you ask?”

Shiro quipped a brow. “Um…you’re spilling water all down your front.”

Hunk blankly looked down at himself and affirmed that the tilted pitcher was not suspended over his cup. He yelped, ears turning pink as he slammed it down with a bit more force than intended. Shiro was now contemplating him with some concern, and Hunk’s heart positively ached.

How in the world would he suddenly say, ‘Hey Shiro, Just FYI: I intuitively know you were having an all-out panic attack last night. And apparently you have flashbacks featuring carnage and a parade of dead people I don't know. I felt your heart breaking. And then you slapped on a smile this morning for the sake of the team like a piece of tape over a crack in a pitcher. You really ought to understand only ever lasts for so long before everything come spilling out again. That’s too bad. Other then that, how about that weather?’

“Hunk, are you okay?”

What kind of stupid fucking question was that. Hunk silently contemplated his plate. He’d eaten quite a lot this morning, which was his wont when he was miserable. Admittedly eating a lot was what Hunk happened to do when he was happy, but there was little pleasure in it today.

No, Hunk wouldn’t dare humiliate Shiro in front of everyone by bringing up his....telekinetic empathy chip thingy. Shiro would just stiffen the way he did whenever Hunk worried aloud that he looked gaunt or pinched. He’d try reassuring Hunk all was well with a smile that had no real smile in it; it was a mouth contortion, nothing more. Telling Shiro one-on-one he could confide anything in Hunk would produce nothing but an empty affirmation. Hunk’s concern would only make Shiro uneasy, and Shiro would work that much harder to put on an All-is-Well facade that had to be at least as exhausting for Shiro as it was frustrating for Hunk. Few things were worse than helplessness.

“I, um…” Hunk faltered. He shook his head and asked kindly, “Nah. Just wondering what we’ve got on the itinerary today.”

The creases in Shiro’s brow lightened somewhat. “Well, as Allura said, the Genovi home world’s main export is weaponry, mainly guns. Their factory production supplies arms to no less than twenty percent of Galran troops, and if Voltron can just….”

And the deep river ran on.

Hunk did listen, but also heard a singsong voice in his head which was decidedly not Yellow chime, Secondhand, secondhand, secondhand.

Somehow Hunk understood that what he’d experienced of Shiro’s anguish had only been a veritable shadow of what kind of torment Shiro endured. Was enduring. And there was not a damn thing Hunk could do about it.

Well, there was one.

-O-

I don’t want you getting lost in his own violence.

Certainly neither does Hunk, but he and Yellow come to an agreement: Yellow is allowed to soften the impact of what Hunk receives on his nocturnal emotional frequency. Especially if (when) Shiro has another panic attack.

Yellow offers to pounce on and muffle this sorrow-perception of Hunk’s. After all, it's not unreasonable for him to hope his paladin's restful nights are less few and far-between. But the sentiment quickly eviscerates. Yellow doesn’t truly want to suppress any part of Hunk, although he’s plenty amused when Hunk is scandalized at the idea of dialing down his inner nighttime watch-alert. It truly never occurred to him.

There really isn't any use in ignoring it, Hunk tells Yellow later that evening during dinner. Once again, he can't help but gape at Shiro at the table, grateful that his leader and Allura are too engrossed debating recruitment tactics to pay notice. As Hunk over-chews his food and tries forcing his taste buds to function, he hopes Shiro won't have nightmares tonight partially for his own sake. The shame is swift and immediate.

My...whatever it is that seems like something cooked up by a mediocre and sadistic writer with too much time on their hands. I don't want to ignore it, even if I'm nuts. I'm not trying to smother their pain, honestly. I just don't think there are many antidotes better for your physical or mental health than some tangible proof that someone cares about you.

This power is an extension of your soul's core desire, little one, says Yellow proudly. My longing to protect you is precious to me. But I respect you more. I'll keep the bridge with you. If we're both insane for it, so be it.

"What's with the goofy grin?" Pidge asks in-between filching morsels off Lance's plate, peering over her glasses at Hunk's glowing expression."You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, man, you've been acting real weird today," Lance adds, pointing a starchy tarakari vegetable impaled on the end of his fork at Hunk.When Hunk simply laughs, Lance gives him a long blank stare. "Our mission isn't causing you to crack, is it? I'm kinda worried you're turning into some kind of lunatic."

"Says you! And um, okay, some admittedly other reliable resources."

The table explodes with laughter, and Hunk grins sheepishly. Being the obtuse source of jokes doesn't bother him much; it's another excuse for the castle to ring with joy. Maybe that's crazy. Perhaps his likely-quixotic desire to pillow the gruesome reality of war with tenderly-prepared food is insane at best. And after all, he does frequently talk with a Yellow Lion semi-living inside his head.

There's not much you can do about the latter, little one. I'm afraid you're stuck with me.

Hunk cannot think of anyone else he'd rather be unable to get rid of.

-O-

Tonight, it’s happened again.

Tar-drenched, white-eyed corpses are pooling in the outskirts of Hunk’s mind, pawing hands embedded with broken glass. Yellow’s enormous presence looms in a shower of sparks from where he'd been standing guard, and the lion roars.

Hunk by now understands that Yellow’s unfiltered mental-presence is like the sun. It’s blinding to look at directly, but even when you averted your eyes it remained just as obvious. The golden-flame illumination eviscerates the encroaching invaders.

He jumps up as quickly as if he’d received a taser to the spine. With not a small amount of gratitude for Yellow he squeezes his feet into his waiting lion slippers, and bolts down to the kitchen.

Hunk doesn’t know what would happen if he showed up at Shiro’s door right now unannounced and doesn’t really want to, but the tug in his gut tells him Shiro isn't in his room anyway. Hunk briefly doubles over before reaching the fridge, swallowing in shaky breaths. Yellow is protecting Hunk from most of the adrenaline inflaming Shiro's every sense, but that doesn't mean Hunk is immune. Nor does he want to be even now, when Hunk feels he could sprint circles around the castle, his bulk be damned.

Where Shiro might've staggered off to is anyone's guess, although Hunk has an inkling considering what he would do if he had the misfortune of being Shiro himself. He thinks it might be reminiscent of the awful Hans Christian Anderson tale The Red Shoes, which featured a girl whom put on a pair of cursed red slippers. Think Dorothy of Oz but considerably-darker; the red shoes never stopped dancing, and they only ever took the girl where she didn't want to go. At last the poor, exhausted heroine was reduced to begging an executioner to cut off her feet. Hunk's hands start shaking violently, and it takes a bit more help from Yellow to steady himself. He'd soon as join Zarkon before dropping the box hidden underneath all the produce (ergo ensuring no one disturbed it.) But at last he extracts the large white box, taking a cautious peep inside to ensure it was still whole. Even if Shiro wasn't.
Hunk hadn’t the slightest idea what to make at first. He was afraid of asking Shiro directly, because Shiro is like Keith and gets a bit strange if he feels that he’s singled-out to be coddled. Besides, Hunk thinks there's something infinitely more-fun and pleasantly-surprising in listening to a favorite song that just so happens to come on the radio than in playing a tune on repeat on your device.

He closes the box and heads to the stove to heat milk. Even if Black is the one being Shiro would divulge the library of his memories to on this ship, Hunk has never opened his mind to Black directly. It seems like such a gross violation of Shiro's privacy when the connection between lion and paladin is so personal. To Hunk, asking Black would be akin to reading Shiro's diary or trying to catch him naked.

But Black doesn’t mind talking to Yellow, whom of course doesn’t in the least mind talking to Hunk. It’s a strange game of telephone, but it works.Truth was what worked.
Soon Hunk is carefully pouring in hot chocolate into a thermos of hot chocolate. He teeters back and forth between whipped cream and a puffy candy similar to marshmallows before liberally pouring in both.

The dessert Hunk has paired with it is a moist Black forest cake, speckled with crushed cookies and dotted with berries Hunk coated in syrup to make them taste more like maraschino cherries. He wonders if Black appreciates the joke as he tucks away all his supplies in a basket.

He narrowly avoids dropping the basket as he sees Shiro slowly trudging towards his lion with the pace of a condemned man. Hunk inhales and squares his shoulders, face set as resolutely as if preparing for battle.

Let's do this.

If only he had his helmet, because right now he feels more nervous than when facing down a squadron of Galran ships. Right now he only has desserts in his arsenal.
He slowly makes his way to the hangar, swiping glistening palms on his pants on the way.

o-O-o

True to form, Shiro is standing in front of Black, and even at a distance Hunk can see that his hands are curled up into fists. At the echo of Hunk’s approaching footstep he yanks around, his face bloodless and gleaming. His eyes are stricken and overlarge, his pupils dilated to pinpricks. This is the face of a hunted and haunted man.

Hunk pretends to yawn, drowsily rubbing at his eyes (it isn’t all that fake-out.) I’m really not aware right now. I’m not noticing your weakness. You had to get a wary bunny to be comfortable around you at a distance well-before you could try picking it up. Anything else would likely result in its bolting away from you forever. The analogy seems so inappropriate here Hunk could laugh if there were any laughter in him.

“Hey,” he says too-cheerily, preoccupying himself with stretching. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

‘I’m sorry’ was trite and was never enough. A thousand would never be.

It's Shiro's turn to be unable to quit staring. Hunk gestures fondly to his lion.

“Came to see Yellow.” He holds up his basket and opens it like a peace offering. “Did you know Yellow can actually taste things through me? He likes sweets as much as I do.”

Silence. At least some color is trickling back into Shiro's face. And though he keeps exercising the fifth, his gradually-relaxing stance makes Hunk wonder if Shiro is slowly returning to himself. He can only hope.

A second later Shiro is shaking his head like a wet dog, and he claps a hand behind his head as he tries composing his twitching expression. Not for the first time Hunk wretchedly wonders if he's a self-righteous, nosy brat for intruding on Shiro in his most vulnerable state. He's never wanted to give someone a hug so badly in his life, precisely because he can't.

“I know it’s a lot, all this food,” Hunk continues, lowering the basket because Shiro shows no signs of accepting it. "I always bring extra if another Paladin might be here.” This time he genuinely chuckles. “It happens more often then you think.”
Both Hunk and Shiro jump as rays fall over them like spotlights. Yellow's eyes are glowing in the gloom, and he crouches until he and Hunk are nearly eye-to-eye. “Hey, boy.” Hunk sets his basket of goodies down and gives Yellow's muzzle an affectionate embrace, pressing his cheek against the lion's nose.

“Hey, Yellow wants you to know it’s okay to pet him,” Hunk calls to Shiro, whom by now has tucked his hands behind his back. Hunk prays he’s not wringing his hands the way he does when he thinks he’s no one’s noticing; that fake hand of his can crush bone. “By that I think he means, ‘pet me, Shiro.’”

Still the picture of uncertainty, Shiro nonetheless slowly shuffles up, and after a moment’s hesitation pats Yellow’s jaw. A low rumble echoes out into the hangar and Shiro stiffens once again, hand slowly falling back. Hunk gives him an approving nod.

“He’s purring. Hey, you’re good at this.”

Yellow slowly rolls over onto his side with a thud, muzzle still extended expectantly towards them both. Black is much too proud for this sort of gesture, but Yellow and Blue are a bit more shameless than the rest of the team when it comes to giving and receiving affection. Just like their paladins.

Shiro's hand slowly wanders out and strokes Yellow again, hand resting on the metal. “He feels so…warm. It’s amazing.”
“It’s funny, talking to the lions, huh?” Hunk says absently, grinning as he continues smoothing Yellow’s muzzle, whom (very gently) nuzzles back, first Hunk, and then a befuddled Shiro. “Sometimes I get so ingrained with Yellow—when I see through his eyes—I leave me behind for a bit. It was kind of scary at first, but nowadays I just feel so relieved. It feels like a part of me is missing when we get separated for too long.” He thinks for a moment and he frowns slightly. “Huh. I feel like I should be worried more about that, but meh. I really don’t. You?”

“Um, well…”

Hunk scoops up the basket and withdraws the box. He opens it, and begins cutting a huge slice before plopping it on a plate with cutlery.

“Here you go,” Hunk says gently, extending the plate towards him. Shiro looks positively dumbfounded as Hunk presses the plate rim against his stomach. At last Shiro takes the cake as gingerly as if handling a bomb he expected to go off any moment.

“This was my sister Manaia’s favorite dessert,” Hunk explains as he cuts himself a slice. It takes all of his self-control to cut a smaller piece than Shiro’s. He plops on the ground and merrily gestures Shiro to follow suit. Shiro casts an apprehensive glance at his own lion for before obeying, still not touching his food.

“She always insisted I make it for her birthday.” A fond snort. “After our family bakery closed, we didn’t really have the money very often to buy the girly custom-made cakes from the grocery stores she wanted.” Hunk wrinkles his nose. “…so I started learning how to better-decorate cakes so that my sister wouldn’t feel embarrassed when people came for her birthday party. Actually, she and our sister Losefa are twins, but Manaia wasn’t all that happy to share a birthday. That’s just how she is.” Hunk can’t quite keep the tremor out of his voice.

“So, Manaia decided she was born a week earlier.” As Hunk lets the decadent dessert melt on his tongue, he thinks he hears the corner of Shiro's mouth twitch at that one. “It confuses the heck out of people, trying to explain how identical twins were born a week apart. But I don’t mind making two cakes—it’s just another excuse to eat some. Not that you really need one, really. Do you want to try it?”

Shiro looks down at his dessert, the longing perfectly apparent on his face. But much to Hunk's great disappointment Shiro carefully extends the plate back. “You really don’t have to—“

Hunk hates to play dirty, but he knows it’s time for the big guns. Hunk gazes at Shiro, lower–lip slipping, the clear picture of dis-consolation. Sad kitties. Sad Yellow. Spoiled food.

“Or…do you not want to try it? Does it look bad? Oh…I thought I could cook at least a little bit. I really did. It’s my like my small contribution to the team. But if it looks that bad, I’ve failed you. I’ll hang up my apron. You can send me to my room if you want. I’ll never come out again.”

“Hunk, don’t be ridiculous!” Shiro exclaims in near-alarm, and Hunk quietly crows inside. And the Academy Award goes to…

Shiro clasps his shoulder. ”You’re a wonderful cook. The best I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”

“You do? Will you try my cake then?” He pulls out the thermos. "Or at least a little chocolate?"

“Uh—“

Shiro looks around the hangar as if looking for help. To Hunk’s surprise he thinks he detects an amusement that isn’t coming from Yellow.

“C’mon. A bit won’t hurt,” he urges, and Shiro looks down at the plate again. The longing is evident. Hunk opens the thermos and pours the steaming cocoa into the top before handing it to Shiro. “I think our lions would like the company for awhile anyway.”

Shiro does humor him and take a small sip of cocoa, eyes lidding just a bit. He takes a long draft after that, holding the cup in two hands. Hunk nearly plops on the ground with sheer relief.

“Yellow likes you,” says Hunk in-between bites. “In case you didn’t know.”

“Well.” And here is a genuine grin as Shiro lowers his cup. Hunk decides not to tell him about the mustache; no need to make him self-conscious. “Thank you very much, Yellow.”

“Yellow also wants you to know that our lions think about us when we’re away.” Says Hunk thoughtfully, and boy, he probably sounds high as a kite right now but he can’t seem to shut up. “All the thoughts. The good ones, I mean.”

“The best kind.” Shiro turns over the fruit on his fork, inspecting it. “Hunk, you’re a fantastic cook, but I shouldn’t really be indulging in this. This is actually a favorite of mine. One piece is too much, and the rest of the cake won’t be enough.”

“Hey Shiro, if someone called me a fat slob, what would you do?” Hunk asks curiously, lowering his fork. Shiro starts again as if struck.

“Someone’s been calling you names?” He sounds so genuinely outraged Hunk lets out a long, good-natured belly laugh.

“No, not here. No one calls me names here.” Hunk says easily, and Shiro bites his swollen lip. “But if you overheard someone saying that, would you be upset?”

“Of course I’d be upset. You don’t deserve that.”

Hunk briefly reminisces about the last time someone did mock him for his weight. It was on a dusty red planet they’d briefly stopped at to answer a distress call coming from a tiny settlement. Some teenage boy hecklers saw fit to mimic how Hunk ran, flopping about like beached fish, chests heaving back and forth with exaggerated exertion. They'd pointed at him and laughed as they comically extended their bellies, and Hunk quietly shrugged it off. No one on the team noticed, and he didn't care to enlighten them.

For whatever reason Hunk never saw those boys again after they relocated the planet's inhabitants safely away from the advancingly worrying activity of a surrounding ring of volcanoes. At the village's behest the team flew around the perimeter for hours searching for the stragglers, but they were ultimately unsuccessful. Yellow is surprisingly mute on a tragic situation.
“Captain, if it’s okay for me to indulge, it’s definitely okay for you.” Hunk says calmly, taking another bite. “I haven’t met anyone whom deserves a slice of cake more in a long time. Besides, if there’s anything you ever taught me, is that a good leader doesn’t have double standards.”

Shiro has nothing to say for a long moment. “I suppose. You know, I could try cooking for you for a change, if you wanted. I haven’t really done that but once since I’ve been here.”

Hunk tries keeping the horror from chiseling his face, and he swears he feels Yellow shudder. Yellow has tasted Shiro’s cooking through their bond. That was the first time he experienced mental anguish through his paladin.

“You trying to steal my job?” Hunk teases. Forget puffballs. They could finish off Zarkon with Shiro’s cooking, although Hunk doesn’t condone torture."Don't worry. That's my gig.

“You know something funny? No one needs dessert.” He inspects the cherry-like fruit, licks the frosting off it. “Not from a doctor’s perspective, anyway. It’s all just dead weight.” A wistful smile. “But we technically don’t need a lot of things for stayin’ alive. But nice things—“ He waves a hand in the air. “—if we don’t have nice things, what in the world are we fighting this war for?”

Shiro is dumbstruck. Hunk can’t help but go on. “There’s more to life than surviving.” His brow furrows and he mentally cringes. Open mouth, insert foot. “Wait, that came out wrong. But I will say survival’s no, no small accomplishment. That instinct is one of our deepest core desires.” He pops the cherry in his mouth and hums. “Right alongside that is craving for joy. Even if you think you don’t deserve it, of course you’re going to want that.” He gives Shiro a fond look. “There’s nothing, nothing shameful in that either. Even if happiness is kind of a work-in-progress for the rest of your life.”

Shiro is contemplating his dessert again. With any luck, he doesn’t think Hunk spiked this cake with mirthwater. Then again, if he needs an incentive...

“I get that the universe isn’t really all about giving people what they deserve.” If Shiro were ever any kind of indication. “So what we deserve it’s a little less relevant than we think. What matters then is what we want.” He takes another bite and hums, toes curling. “Right now, I want some cake.”

But suddenly Hunk lowers his fork.

“I want...to do my best for the team.” One day, he hopes Shiro can bring himself to confide in Hunk what Hunk already knows. But Hunk understands that the time hasn't yet come. But that didn’t mean Hunk can’t toss his heart at Shiro’s feet as a welcome for Shiro to do the same.

“When you make food for someone, I think it sends a message. I mean, as long as it’s not poisoned!” He exclaims, holding up his hands. “That isn’t to say the cake is poisoned! Although I think that’s exactly the sort of thing a poisoner would say, but never mind…

“Sweets are sustenance too, so I'm not saying I wanna clog your arteries when I make them. And I feel like the joy that comes with dessert is the reason why this war is worth fighting for. Well, um, okay, we’re fighting for more than just dessert, but in the big picture it's the small things that makes life worthwhile. So, in case we fail and die horribly, we should have cake when we can.

“Back to the whole ‘food sending a message,’ thing.” He’s too shy now to look up. “I want you to be happy. I want you to be at ease.” Shiro’s cooking inadvertently said I want you all to suffer, but Hunk delicately overlooks that. “If I could give you both of these things, I would.”

His next bite gets stuck in his throat.

“I’m sorry, Shiro.”

Shiro is silent. Then, his voice comes out soft and quiet.

“This is a popular dessert to eat in Japan around Christmas and New Year’s.”

He takes the smallest of bites, and for a split second Hunk wonders if Shiro’s stomach can’t yet handle it yet and seizes a handful of napkins from the basket in case that bite winds up (among other things) splattered on the ground.

But Shiro starts shoveling the dark chocolate cake as ferociously as Keith had attacked his meal, and Hunk watches on startled as Shiro wolfs the sweet down, not seeming to notice or care that his mouth is increasingly-stained with chocolate.

Hunk sends up a prayer to the Virgin Mary or Buddha or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whomever happens to be the head honcho that what went unsaid on Hunk’s part found its way into the food. Perhaps it did, because when Shiro lowers his fork, the tears are streaming down his face.

And despite the fact that Shiro is so clearly prematurely-aged he looks so young and vulnerable Hunk thinks he might cry with him. And so he does.

“Can I give you a hug? D-don't feel obligated to, I just-”

Shiro turns and seizes Hunk into a much-too tight embrace, and Hunk effectively has the wind smacked out of him. This is no small matter, considering Hunk is Hunk and has hugs that could break open chestnuts with their force. But Hunk feels the tears falling on his shoulder, knows his shirt will be chocolate-stained, and can't bring himself to care. He's feeling-far too privileged to care.

He just holds Shiro in turn, wishing to say something Profound and Meaningful and falling up short. During what could pass for minutes or hours Hunk is steadily aware of himself and the pain inside him for Shiro's sake. Zarkon would call this mutual distress weakness, but Hunk wonders if Zarkon turned grief into rage out of sheer fear of being torn apart by this raw emotion.

He marvels at Shiro's miraculous solidity in his arms despite the fact the frame contains a mobile living hell when these panic attacks strike. How what Shiro has seen isn't burning its way through the soldier into Hunk at their close proximity is another wonder, and Hunk almost wishes it could, despite the fact he'd been unable to withstand it without Yellow's help...

Hunk remains deathly still in those precious few moments Shiro allows such an honest face of fragility. When Shiro slowly pulls back, face blotchy, already clouding with embarrassment, he straightens once again. He looks sheepish, but grateful just the same.

"Um, sor-"

Then and there Hunk takes the opportunity to thrust a spoonful of melting cake into Shiro's mouth. Shiro lets out a rough noise toeing the thin line between laughter and a sob, and helps himself to cookie-cake once again. Hunk follows suit.

Just as Hunk fears losing Shiro on the battlefield so does he worry that after the fall of the Galran empire and the dust settles Shiro will feel truly lost without this all-consuming duty. Hunk lies awake sometimes even when he knows his friends' sleep is untroubled wondering if Shiro will ever have the opportunity to sit back with fruity umbrella-drinks and not worry whether or not going to bed is a prelude to an encounter with demons. If only Hunk were the demigod Gege, the Samoan entity whom turned every evil spirit he encountered into stone.

As they trade off sips of sort-of hot chocolate, the closest they're likely to get to the real thing, Hunk acknowledges in his heart of hearts desserts or even love alone certainly aren't going to be enough to save Shiro if one day he feels the siren call of the bottom of the river. The thought produces inside a fresh stream of tears inside.

But maybe in the rummage sale of small, strange and most-overlooked bits of their days, ultimately the only things worth having, Shiro will find salvation, if never complete cleansing. That's too much to hope for. But maybe it will be Enough for Shiro-more than enough for him to not exist on autopilot for the sake of other people, and live for his own happiness. It's Hunk's wish for the entire team he has come to think of his family, and hopes something trite as homecooked meals with contribute even the smallest bit.

When at last they do stand again, wiping messy fingers semi-clean they leave the hangar, and Hunk's hand slips into Shiro's before he thinks about it. He imagines steering Shiro away from a cliff, even if temporarily, allowing the deep river to run on.

And when Hunk does at last wave Shiro off to bed and stand vigil in the hall until he is certain Shiro's asleep, he creeps back towards his room and longs for a future wherein an entirely white-haired Takashi Shiro turns his face to the sun, and dies from sheer joy of having been alive.

-O-

A few weeks later Hunk quietly thrills as everyone crowds around the kitchen table, which groans underneath the weight of the craft supplies piled atop it. This is the mutual favorite haunt of the castle inhabitants, despite the fact they bump elbows on these benches. Keith and Lance tend to do that to each other with a bit more oomph.

It’s an unspoken irony that they insist on crowding each other when there are well-over a dozen enormous parlors at their disposal—cool, echoing and gleaming ones at that—but most are simply ignored. Maybe Coran does too well a job cleaning, but these sterile chambers smell of hospital-grade ammonia and resemble what Hunk guesses is a lunatic asylum. (Which in all fairness is not entirely unsuitable for the family.) But the vaulted-ceilings have a means of making you feel small, and are distinctly uninviting. The kitchen is where everyone conglomerates because it’s Warm.

Today the room is an explosion of pink, white and red streamers. Hunk has had a little too much fun decorating for the upcoming holiday. Coran reprimanded him for how much he spent at a craft store, which Hunk sadly supposes means he hasn’t bought enough.

To his great disappointment no one else but Lance and Allura expresses real interest in making valentines, but Shiro insists after the breakfast dishes have been cleared that everyone stay and participate.

“Come on, guys. It’s a valid team-building exercise,” Shiro urges, giving Hunk a shadow of a wink. “And it’ll be fun.”

Keith looks down at the stickers, glitter pens, and homemade cupid-shaped stencils with a martyred expression. Pidge scowls. “How exactly is this a team exercise?”

Shiro falters but quickly regains his footing. “Because it’s a good opportunity to…hone your creative skills. Yes, being inventive in a combat situation is vital to maneuvering your way out of danger.”

“Shiro, I seriously doubt the art of scented sticker placement is going to help while I’m being shot at.” Keith complains. Lance jabs Keith in the ribs with his elbow, and just as Keith shoots him a dark look, Lance pointedly gestures his elbow in Hunk’s direction.

Keith and Pidge grudgingly pick up their supplies, and Shiro gives them an approving nod. “And look at it this way; it’s a nice way for you guys to express how you feel towards each other.”

As Hunk idly begins scribbling a sunflower he thinks Shiro may have wanted to be more specific. True to form, Keith is at work on a blue paper heart, sprinkling glitter on glue letters that read, Quiznak Off. For someone whom expressed disdain in sticker-placement, there are quite a few smiley face-stickers littering the valentine. Meanwhile, Lance is coloring in red block letters of My Lion Doesn’t Like You.

Shiro is attempting to cut out hearts from folded paper, but each attempt results in a circle or diamond. Tracing the half of a heart doesn’t help him; the resulting shape is an octagon. He resigns himself to drawing a full heart and cutting it out instead. Allura has zeroed in on the glitter and is making curly-qs on her paper.

A half-hour later there's a new addition to the table: Slav’s many hands are at work cutting into pink and red paper, which he stares at quizzically.

Slav’s tiny ship found its way to the Castle of Lions. “There’s a seventy-nine percent chance I get sweets if I show up today,” Slav said bluntly as he descended from his ship in the docking chamber. True to form, Hunk bustled for the heart-shaped cookies in the cookie jar. Keeping the jar full is something of a full-time duty for Hunk, akin to perpetually pushing a boulder up a hill due to the many hands that sneak inside it. But he likes the challenge.

Allura delightedly seats Slav next to Shiro, whom grins at this development with all the cheer of a man waiting in the dentist’s office to have his wisdom teeth pulled, sans the laughing gas.

“You going to make Slav a Valentine?” Pidge asks lazily as she cuts into her folded square of white paper.

“I woulmm’t coumb onnit,” says Slav says with a mouthful of cookie, crumbs dribbling down his front as he finishes off one cookie and dunks another into a cup of punch. “There is a 97% chance in this universe that Shiro won’t give me what you call a valentine.”

“But there is a possibility? Pidge asks slyly, pushing aside her work and leaning forward in her seat. Shiro hurriedly asks her to refill the pitcher of punch and Hunk wonders if Shiro is planning on spiking it with mirthwater from a concealed flask on his person.

“I’m still a bit confused about this holiday, to be honest,” says Coran, watching Lance and Keith fight over the safety scissors. “Why do people celebrate a day about love by stringing up human hearts? It seems a bit gruesome to decorate a room with vital organs. Not to mention to compare falling in love like being shot at by a fat man in a toga.”

“And pink is the color of mourning in our culture,” points out Allura with a frown as she turns over her sparkly star-spangled card. It seemed as if she couldn’t bring herself to doodle any hearts. “Why is it a sad day? And how did this custom even start?”

“Well, the exact origins of Valentine’s Day are a bit obscure, but the day is technically in honor of St. Valentine’s,” comments Pidge as she heaves herself back into her chair. Coran quips a brow and Pidge patiently explains, “Sometimes on earth when we have someone really good, we call them a saint. Then they might get a holiday in their honor based around things they’re associated with. For example, St. Patrick is associated with the color green a lot, so on that day we wear lots of it. St. Valentine is associated with love songs and gifts. Hence the tradition.”

Coran’s eyes light up. “Awww.” He starts dreamily twisting his mustache. “I suppose this St. Valentine had a sweetie he lived happily ever after with. That’s why you give the people you care presents and cut-out organs.”

“No, he was a virgin,” says Pidge matter-of-factly, unfolding her snowflake to reveal diamonds and hearts. “And he died by disembowelment.”

Coran spews the punch he’d been drinking down his front. Allura looks truly alarmed now.

“You mean to tell me you celebrate the death of a good person by eating sweets?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s kind of like Easter back home,” Lance pipes up, humming whilst unscrewing the top of Keith’s glue bottle. “Well, technically things start two days before Easter on a day called Good Friday. That’s in honor of when this one dude who’s supposed to be nicer than anyone else ever gets tortured to death.”

“…and his death…is a good thing?” Allura asks incredulously. “What, do you dance on his grave?”

“Oh, relax,” Lance huffs, too distracted to notice Keith busily sprinkling glitter atop his hair. “You’re acting like he doesn’t even crawl out back from the dead two days later. And that,” he says with a self-satisfied air as he tips back in his seat, blissfully unaware that Allura and Coran have frozen in their seats and that he is shedding glitter like a German Sparkle Party participant. “Is why we celebrate Easter by eating candy and painting eggs.”

“Because of zombies?” Allura asks anxiously.

“Because zombies,” Lance agrees wholeheartedly. A second later he seems to have registered his words and he looks nonplussed. “Wait.

“Well, here’s a more cheerful holiday: In Cuba, we celebrate the feast of the three kings. They’re sort of like saints. They travel across a desert in an old story on camels.”

“What?”

“Camels are animals that eat straw, like Kaltenecker.” Hunk explains with a smile. He’s at work writing Pidge a Valentine spelled with binary code. “Except you can ride them. So, little kids like to leave their shoes out and fill them with hay. The idea is that the camels eat the straw on their way back home, and the kings leave sweets and toys in the shoes to thank the children.”

“Little kids, huh?” Keith asks innocently, resting his chin atop folded hands with a smirk. “Why do I have a feeling Lance was doing that up until the point he left home? What, do you still actually wait for Santa every year?”

Lance’s smile slowly fades. He looks as distraught as a child who has turned over in bed to find his puppy has been murdered in its sleep.

“Santa….isn’t real?”

Hunk jumps up so quickly he knocks over his chair. “No!” He slaps his palms on the table for emphasis, and Shiro looks at the ceiling as pleadingly as a man calling for deliverance. “In this household, Santa is alive and real!”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Lance. You. Shut your whore mouth,” Pidge tells Keith flatly, crossing her arms. “Are you trying to ruin Lance’s life?”

“Pidge!” gasps Shiro. “No!”

“Young lady,” Coran adds reprovingly, wagging his finger. “I think you know the proper etiquette in this sort of situation!”

“Please shut your whore mouth,” Pidge amends, and Coran clasps her shoulder in affirmation. “There now. That’s our classy girl.”

“If I didn’t know better, I swear I’d want to die.” Shiro groans, lying his head atop his arms.

“Don’t!” exclaims Allura. “Have you forgotten we need to defeat Zarkon?”

“I knew it.” Lance mutters, sticking his tongue out at Keith. Sensing the crisis averted, Hunk sits down again. “Who else brought the presents two months ago?”

“Hunk, maybe?” Keith asks dryly, and Hunk casts Keith an I’m-Not-Mad-But-So-Disappointed look he’d learned from Shiro, which sends Keith withering. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lance. Santa’s too busy delivering toys to bake cookies himself. He has billions of people to do that for him.”

“If they were kings, they could’ve traveled by airship, surely,” Allura murmurs thoughtfully, resting her mouth against her closed fist. “What sort of ruler would deign to travel on an animal in the wilderness?”

“Not to mention, their currency is candy and their only trading partners are children and Lance. These kings must be rulers of an impoverished planet,” pipes up Coran. “Perhaps if they come visit us we could gift them with some old blankets, toiletries and canned goods.”

“Hey Shiro,” Hunk asks nervously, hoping re-steering the conversation might alleviate the small but definite twitch in Shiro’s eye. “Do you do anything different for Valentine’s Day in Japan?”

“Valentine’s Day might actually be a bigger affair in Japan than in the west where it originates, believe it or not.” Shiro sounds a bit more cheerful now, but Pidge warily slides the glue away from Shiro just the same without actually using it. Possibly she’s as worried as Hunk is that Shiro will contemplate huffing it.

“A lot of Japanese culture is admittedly a bit reserved expressing romance and public affection compared to the west, but on a holiday specifically celebrating love, all bets are off. That’s why people often take the opportunity to confess strong feelings to people they like with stuff like honmei choco, or homemade chocolate. Giri-choco is kind of this obligatory, perfunctory store-bought stuff for acquaintances. But gifting homemade chocolate on valentine’s day is a declaration of love.”

“That so?” Lance asks dreamily, and he curiously peeks at Keith, whom is looking down at his handiwork clearly lost in thought. “Thinking about someone?” He teases.

“Hey, where did Hunk go?” asks Pidge, looking around the table.

Hunk scurried to the kitchen the moment Shiro mentioned honmei-choco and not a second later; his mind is already whirring as he rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. Valentine's Day is tomorrow and there's not a second to waste. He slaps on a Keep-Out sign outside the kitchen and hopes that his family will trifle not with not with a man wielding kitchen knives like samurai swords.

Had he heard Shiro mention the romance tidbit Hunk might've hesitated. But he didn't, and Hunk Garrett, cooking-spitfire to the end, gets to work. The kitchen begins wafting with the smell of baking chocolate, and more than a few faces peek in to check its progress.
o-O-o

Later that night Hunk sleeps peacefully even as Lance tiptoes down the stairs. There's nothing troubling Lance per say, although he is on an errand.

It might just be second nature to him now, but he does warily eye the shadows as if bracing himself for an attack. But upon seeing no assailants or psychiatrists lurking in the shadows, he gives himself a mental pat on the back as he creeps into the kitchen.

But to his great surprise and admitted dismay, the room is already occupied.

“What are you doing in here?” Lance asks, planting his hands on his hips. He looks as affronted as if Keith had been lying in wait to jump out at him. Again.

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Keith retorts, making a very rude hand gesture Allura had taught him one rare lazy afternoon. “I was here first.”

“Yeah, well, this kitchen isn’t big enough for both of us.” Lance grabs two spoons from a nearby jar and twirls around like batons, held at the ready.

“It’s enormous!” Keith insists incredulously, throwing his arms open as his voice rings off the walls. “It is literally enormous!”

Pidge slowly shuffles in her green lion slippers, rubbing at her bleary eyes. “Wow. Pajama party?”

“Not you too,” moans Lance, smacking his hands on his cheeks and pulling downward. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

Pidge sidles up to them both, making a very rude hand gesture Keith had taught her one rare lazy afternoon. "We might not technically be inhabiting a free planet, but I have every right to be here."

Just as Lance and Keith open their mouths to retort, Shiro wanders in and does a double-take. “Oh.” He stands a little straighter, unaware of the thunderstruck looks the rest of the team are shooting him. “Um. Good evening.”

“…please tell me you’re here because we’re under attack,” Lance whimpers.

“What? No.” He sidles to one foot the other. “I…well, I couldn’t sleep. And I thought well, maybe I’d give my hand again at cooking.” Lance’s spoons slides from his limp fingertips to the floor with a clatter. “Hunk makes it look so easy. And fun.”

“Genocide is not fun,” said Keith, narrowing his eyes.

“For once, I agree with him,” said Lance, throwing his hands on his hips again. “I’m pretty sure Hunk banned you from the kitchen.”

“Shiro.” Says Pidge. “No.”

Clearly crestfallen, Shiro nonetheless tries for a winning smile. “Actually, I already did. Cook, I mean.” He gestures towards the freezer, and Pidge slowly backs away from it as if it were a landmine. “I was just hoping to see how it was setting.”

He crossed the room and Lance and Keith scramble from his path as he opens the door. They're partially-expecting to see the freezer's other contents throw themselves to the floor as Shiro removes a stainless steel bowl and peers inside, face falling a bit. “Um. I thought I was getting better. I really did…”

Pidge is the first one whom dares approach (Keith imagines giving her a citation of courage for that one) takes one look, and shakes her head.

“Shiro. You made ice cream. And you burnt it.”

“I guess it’s progress if you didn’t set off the sprinklers this time,” says Keith reasonably, leaning back against the counter.

“Plus, if you burned it, it could only be better-tasting than last time,” chimes in Lance helpfully.

“So, why is everyone in here?” Lance asks, eyes narrowing. “Remember: Snacks are in the pantry if you don't need me to draw you a map. After that, I kinda need the kitchen.”

“Maybe I do too,” snaps Keith, crossing his arms. “I’m going to introduce you to a novel concept: you’re not the only person in the universe who wants to use a kitchen. I’ll give you a moment to wrap your head around the fact.”

“Hey. I’m the brains of this operation,” Pidge complains, tapping her tiny, green-slippered foot with all the authority of an empress. “And my brains are saying that the youngest should get first priority.”

“Guys,” Shiro says firmly, and the three have the grace to look a little abashed. “It’s like Keith said. There’s plenty of room for everyone here.” He clears his throat. “That being said, it’s very late. You guys should be in bed at any rate. If you need a snack, then take one and get some sleep."

“So should you,” Lance protests.

"Well, um...I'm the oldest." Shiro looks most uncharacteristically sheepish. “If my ice cream didn’t turn out, I wanted to bake something instead. I need the oven.”

“I need to put my head in one if you’re insisting on baking.” Says Keith, and he and Lance actually high-five each other.

“I’m so glad I can count on my team for unconditional support,” snaps Shiro.

“Keith, you shouldn’t kill yourself. Who’s going to be left to kill me?”

“I’ll do it,” promises Pidge, and Lance beams at her.

“See Shiro? We can do teamwork. But what were you even planning on making? You know Hunk already took care of baking treats for tomorrow.”

“Nothing.” Shiro mumbles. “Just…

“Ooooooh!” Pidge has zeroed in on the ingredients Keith has already put on the counter. “Who are you making chocolate for?” She sings, rocking back and forth.

“Just because I have the ingredients for chocolate doesn’t mean I’m not going to—“ Keith stutters before all but smacking himself in the face. “The chocolate…it’s to thank Hunk. It’s thank-you chocolate, is all.” He nods over at Shiro. “That’s normal on a Japanese Valentine’s Day, right Shiro?”

“Well, it is,” Shiro agrees, turning around to glance at the clock. The Paladins know just the same that it's subterfuge to hide a smile.

“Although it’s worth bearing in mind that homemade chocolate is usually exchanged between couples.”

“Ha!” Lance exclaims, jabbing a finger in a pouting Keith’s chest with all the glee of a vindictive judge. “Heard what Shiro said? Just make him a card if you want to thank him. But don’t make anything. After all, you don’t want to give Hunk the wrong idea, so you can just take your sorry behind back upstairs. Shoo.”

Keith’s eye twitches. There's a vein pulsing in his face.

“…I still want to bake,” he mutters. Lance looks outraged.

“What? No. You don’t—“

“And why not?” Demands Keith, and now the two are all but nose to nose. “Let me guess: Because you want to do the thing.” It’s not a question. “Well, that’s really too bad, because you won’t be thinging anything.”

“Oh, c’mon! It’s not like you’ve actually ever prepared a meal here! Your culinary expertise is probably Chef Boyarde, which is still admittedly better than Shiro, but still!”

“You two can just stop,” Pidge sighs, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “You’re seriously being petty and childish about this.”

“Thank you Pidge,” says Shiro gratefully. Pidge’s eyes narrow.

“You can just forget about it,” She informs everyone, a smile uncurling on her face distinctly resembling the curl of the Grinch’s. “I’m making Hunk tiramisu. My Dad proposed to my mom with this recipe.”

“Oh, come on!” gasps Keith, outraged. “You think Hunk wants a girl who starts fires in space malls?”

“That was an accident.” Pidge retorts calmly.

“Excuse you? You were cackling to yourself on your handheld computer. Then a store of electronics just happened to blow up!” Lance's eyes bore into Pidge's. “Coincidence? I think not.”

“Look. Hunk and Lance were trying on clothes," Pidge nervously explains to Shiro, whom by now has crossed his arms and is giving her The Look. “Hunk found a nice striped shirt he could’ve easily removed the extra pair of sleeves from. Lance decided to get a sparkly shirt to connect with his Inner Rainbow Brite.”

She throws her hands in the air. “When they came out of the changing rooms, some hecklers decided to call Hunk fat, and Lance a girl in such a derogatory way as to insinuate there was something wrong with being either. So of course I got a little heated." Shiro doesn't look pacified in the least. “Because I’m a supportive teammate. I decided to constructively divert myself from hitting them by typing in in a transmissible code I've been experimenting with. It just so happened that the signal emitted from my new virus happened to overload the circuits of nearby small electronics at a nearby outlet.” Shiro buries his face in his hand. “So they all blew up. Ker-pow. And the sprinklers went off.”

“Pidge" Shiro's praying to another power for deliverance."You realize I generally disapprove of this sort of thing."

“It was an accident! And it's not like I don't regret wasting perfectly good tech."

"Accident?! You were laughing maniacally when the security guards gave chase!"

“Well, maybe I accidentally did it maliciously.”

"Why does every mall we visit burn to the ground?" Keith asks.

“Probably the economy. Point aside, if you guys had any idea as to how good this tiramisu is, you’d know whatever you cook up doesn’t compare. Hunk's going to choose me.”

“You’re a pyromaniac!”

“Yeah, well, Hunk is going to have to weigh that against the fact that I make a kickass tiramisu. We all know what wins. Punk forever!” She thrusts her fist in the air.

Keith uncertainly glances into Shiro's bowl. "Waaaaait. You aren't cooking for Hunk too, are you?”

Shiro looks like a deer in the headlights; Lance immediately looks into the ruined food. “Hey, this looks like it was brown once!” He accuses. “You were trying to make chocolate!”

“Well, I think this was chocolate at some point.” Keith extends a finger toward the Thing. “Now I think it’s a chemical weapon.”

“Nice.”

Shiro turns scarlet before pinching the bridge of his nose between his fore fingers.

“Look….let’s just call it an American Valentine’s Day celebration, okay? Just make chocolate for people you like. And we like everyone on this ship. Like, not…like-like.”

“That’s bogus. What better way of telling someone you than with a dessert?”

“I knew it!” shrieks Keith. “I was here first! I get to make Hunk cookies!”

“Again,” says Pidge sagely, expression clearly pitying, “Nothing stands against the power of tiramisu.”

“What, you planning on proposing to him with it too?”

“My mama always said skank-ho, get you a man whom can cook,” said Pidge with a shrug. “I might be paraphrasing. But might as well do now what I’m probably going to do eventually. Plus I've always secretly wanted to sleep on his stomach. It’ll like cuddling with Totoro.” She sighs, eyes sparkling. “Do you know how cute a little Totoro’s going to look on top of our wedding cake?”

“You’re way too young to be worrying about that!"

“Shiro, I wouldn’t recommend trying to win Hunk over with your cooking. I thought you liked Hunk. People don’t like being poisoned.”

“It isn’t about that, Pidge! I wasn't-it was just a valentine's day gift, and nothing more!"

“Then why not just ask Allura to land at the space mall in the morning so that you can grab him a dessert?" Keith asks, eyes narrowing. "Why does it have to be homemade?”

“What were you planning on making?” Lance asks Keith darkly.

“Cayenne chocolate chip cookies. I assume you’re cooking with Play-Doh?”

“I know how we settle this,” growls Lance, and the two bend their knees and raise their shoulders like cowboys staring each other down in a duel. “You and I. Iron chefs. We’ll have a bake-off and tomorrow Hunk chooses one of our desserts.”

“You guys,” says Shiro weakly. Whatever torture he might’ve endured in the bowels of the Galran capital could not have prepared him for day-to-day life at the castle. “Stop. Just stop.”

“Again. Tiramisu,” points out Pidge impatiently. “Look, you want to marry Hunk, Keith wants to marry Hunk, Shiro wants to marry Hunk—stop flinching, Shiro, you know it to be true—I want to marry Hunk—well, I hate to break it to you, but we can’t all marry Hunk.”

There’s a long, horrible silence.

“We can’t?” asks Lance, clearly crestfallen.

“Good evening.”

"Aaaaaah!"

The kitchen is a chorus of cries as Slav enters the kitchen, wearing a long nightcap and matching striped pajamas. "Don't worry, paladins. I just want a snack.” He gives them all a sly expression as he wanders over to the cookie jar. "Although, I couldn't help but overhear your dispute."

"I bet you could." Shiro mutters between clenched teeth.

"Hardly! You were so loud I could hear you from upstairs. And actually,” Slav adds as he withdraws four cookies and pops two in his mouth. “Regarding all of you marrying Hunk? This is one of approximately forty-percent of universes in which you can.”

There’s a long silence.

“Go on,” says Pidge.