Work Text:
Shiro's arm, though the initial intentions were completely opposite, brought them together.
Of course, the pair had met a number of times before the Kerberos Mission, and they'd connected over said incident and over being Voltron pilots. Yet, Shiro's arm would always lead the two sitting around Pidge's workbench, hunched over his prosthetic with her grumbling under her breath, Shiro smiling as patiently as he could possibly manage.
But it wasn't just her working on it which made it an item of significance.
It was everything that came with his arm.
The night terrors that were tattooed into his head with the injuries the area battles earned him being the needle, Shiro began to have a habit of pressing his exhaustion to the back of his head by means of space caffeine and light training. He mindlessly roamed the halls of the Castle of Lions, desperately clinging onto consciousness, when he began to find multiple accounts of bluish-white light pouring from both Pidge's hotspots- her Lion's hanger and her room. They'd run into each other, in the kitchen, in the halls, on the outside of the showers, though not an action was taken, not a word said, until one night when Pidge opened the door to his room and stumbling in, stiffly sitting next to him on the bed with the excuse 'It was gonna happen sooner or later.'
With the arm came blocked memories, and when those memories came into light they mutated into monsters, the faces of those he'd murdered in cold blood haunting him, the blood on his hands thicker than he could swim through. The monsters cam and the visions of the Druids shook him until he was a babbling mess that crashed into Pidge's arms whenever she snuck into his room like a dam crumbling and water breaking through like the tears from his eyes had. The way his mind had silently convinced itself that he couldn't be called human, only a shell of a man after what he had seen was reversed as soon as she knew about it, dull fingernails running through his buzz-cut hair while he shook, the phrase 'It's not your fault, Takashi' now justified.
It was when she was working on his arm when his chest first squeezed when she grinned at him. It was after a night terror that her hand intertwined with his metallic one. It was after a long talk that she worked up enough courage to kiss him, and he her.
The arm began what she toughed when he needed support, what she focused on when he was in pain, what she pressed her lips against when he was scarred.
As he looked back, he didn't hate his arm so much.