Chapter Text
It has been so long since the team has had even half a second to breathe to themselves, let alone take a break. That’s the thing about fighting a relentless empire of space Nazis – there is ten thousand years worth of shit to fix. They are seven people. Breaks are a pipe dream if not a total fantasy.
But they are, quite simply, seven people. Seven people who cannot function every second of every day with no time to step back, gather themselves. Whether or not they have time for a break is irrelevant; they either schedule one or one will be scheduled for them. So they do, reasoning one single day at the beach would be well worth the sand that would be invariably tracked into the castle, to remain for eternity.
Of course Allura and Coran had been ready to go immediately, having all their clothes and belongings on the castle, but the rest of the team hadn’t thought to pack a swimsuit when they went to check out the weird vives Keith felt int he desert. And there’s a kind of unspoken rule about many things in the castle, as haunted as it is – no one really wants to dig through rooms with old ghosts to find something that might fit them. It feels wrong.
Luckily for everyone, Lance’s needle-threading abilities aren’t limited to flying. He’s pretty good with his hands, too, and after securing some material from Coran, he gets right on it.
For Pidge, he creates what is vocally convinced is the ugliest set of swim shorts to ever see the light of day. He’d been inspired the very second he saw the neon yellow fabric with patches of barf green-brown, littered with pictures of weblums posed in such ways that could only be described as grotesque. He complains the entire time that simply looking at the fabric makes him physically ill, but Pidge is ecstatic. She doesn’t even mind when Lance refuses to continue working with the material, instead making her a swim tee out of plain black.
Hunk, much more used to being Lance’s model, is happy with a pair of orange trunks that match his headband exactly. Shiro gets a pair in his favourite colour – a dusky pink – and bites back tears, because he is the dweebiest most emotional dork of all time. (Lance was originally going to do the same for Keith; make him a pair in his regular emo colours. Maybe even something that matched his nerdy go-go boots, as abhorrent as the swim-shorts and boots combo would be. But at the last minute he was struck with the divine urge to be a dick, and decided instead to make Keith a pair of plain maroon shorts, and then embroidered ‘dorkass’ into the waistband of the shorts with the same colour. He finds great joy in knowing that Keith will be wearing around a pair of shorts calling him a dorkass. He looks forward to telling him, after Keith wears them for a couple hours and has to live with it.)
On the day they finally get to go, the excitement in the air is palpable.
“Do you have to wear those shorts?” Allura asks for what is probably the fifteenth time in as many minutes.
Pidge sniffs obnoxiously. “Lance poured his heart and soul into making me these wonderful shorts and all you’ve done is shit on them. I should tell him you have no appreciation for his art.”
“It might improve them if I actually defecate on those abominations,” Allura mutters darkly. She glares at them as if they are specifically responsible for Zarkon himself.
Tired of listening to the same argument for fifteen minutes, Keith groans loudly. “For fuck’s sake, we’ve been waiting here for, like, two hours! How long does it take Lance to throw on a pair of shorts and get –”
“Throw on a pair of shorts?! Mullet, please. We are going to a public beach . I am looking like a babe or I am not going.”
Six heads swivel to the source of the sound, revealing Lance in all his glory.
Clearly, Lance has taken the creative opportunity to treat himself. Instead of just making a pair of trunks and throwing on a t-shirt, like everyone else (except for, of course, Allura, who looks absolutely ethereal in an elegant white one-pieces that matches her hair, and a sheer sparkly cover-up that reminds everyone that she is, in fact, royalty), he has taken the time to craft himself a calf-length yellow sundress. He has also somehow fashioned himself what absolutely must be be universe’s largest floppy sunhat, and –
“Are those mom sandals?” Hunk asks, aghast. “Jesus Christ, Lance.”
Pidge bursts out laughing. “If by babe you mean MILF,” she chokes out, because she has zero shame.
Shiro goes scarlet.
“Pidge!” he scolds. “You don’t just call people MILFs!”
“What’s a ‘milf’? Allura asks, frowning curiously.
“I swear to God if any of you tell her what MILF means – “
Shiro doesn’t have to worry about the rest of the paladins corrupting Allura’s brain (not that his efforts will matter, because she and Hunk have an agreement, as the resident gossips – any and all garnered information will be shared at a later date to be analysed and recorded) because they’re all laughing to hard to get any words out. Except for Lance, of course, who does his very best to appear offended but can’t quite manage.
At least being called a MILF is still kind of a compliment, no matter how teasingly Pidge had meant it. And he can concede to the point that he has seen his sister in law wear a nearly identical outfit, now that he’s thinking about it, and she’s actually a mom, so. Pidge may have a point.
“Whatever,” Lance says rolling his eyes. He bites his lip to tamp down his smile, shaking his head at the paladins, then lights up. “Wait, if I look like a MILF, I’ll attract all the DILFs! Score!”
Pidge, Hunk, and Keith sober up immediately, laughter disappearing from their faces at the thought of Lance’s flirting. Shiro sighs.
“How come you always ruin all my good jokes?” Pidge whines.
Lance smirks at her. “Not my fault I’m funnier than you are.”
“You are not – ”
“Are too!”
Coran, sensing an impending argument and possible wrestling match, speaks up. “Perhaps we should make our way to the beach while there’s still sunshine, hm?”
Everyone makes various noises of agreement, making their way to the exit. Hunk shifts the pail and shovel he has in his hands. Keith adjusts his utlity belt, which looks absolutely ridiculous paired with his swimsuit – not that he cares. Shiro takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.
God. He cannot wait to sit under the sun and sleep the whole time, leader duties be damned. Someone else can watch the troublemakers that are is teammates. Hopefully no one would drown, because Shiro is not monitoring that shit. He is tired. He needs a break. He is going to nap for six straight hours, and no one is going to stop him. The entire Empire could descend with every single ship they have and Shiro will simply say no. Not happening.
“Not a single fucking one of you is leaving this castle until I watch you put on sunscreen.”
The pure conviction in Lance’s voice makes everyone pause and turn to look at him. After a moment, Pidge breaks the tension with a dry laugh.
“Alright, Mom, sure,” she says sarcastically. She sticks her tongue out at him before turning back around.
Lance wastes no time entertaining her scathing wit. He pulls out a bottle of SPF 80 from what appears to be actual thin air, waving it emphatically at the paladins.
“Since all of you refuse to care for yourselves,” he says, pausing to look pointedly at each of them in turn, “I suppose it will fall onto me.” He gestures in front of him. “In line, children, hold out your hands. You must put it on your face and ears and neck and any exposed skin. No exceptions.”
No one moves. Lance claps his hands sharply, startling them.
“Chop chop! Form a line!”
The paladins just blink at him, gobsmacked.
Keith speaks up first. “Where did you even get a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic? We’ve been in space for a whole-ass year!”
“Yeah, and why are you only being anal about it now?” Pidge adds.
Lance glares at them, hands on his hips. “I am responsible about my health, and had a bottle in my backpack when we were abducted.”
Four pairs of eyes roll in tandem. Lance insists on saying they were ‘abducted by aliens’ when they left in Blue, because he’s extra, as if it wasn’t him who boarded Blue first. As if he did not see the glowing blue wormhole and immediately suggest they go through it. ‘Abducted by aliens’ yeah right – he boarded their ship and asked them to take him to their leader, more like it.
It’s a pointless argument to convince him otherwise, though. The paladins have tried dozens of times to no avail.
“Anyway,” Lance continues. “I used the fabricator to make more bottles when we first got here, along with shampoo and conditioner and stuff, all of which I delivered to your rooms. I have been under the impression that you have been dutifully using your protection from actual skin cancer like rational people, but it has recently come to my attention –” he looks pointedly at Pidge, who had been burned so badly on the last planet that the skin on her face peeled off in one go like one of Lance’s face masks, a comparison he did not find nearly as funny and thought-provoking as she did – “that the four of you cannot be trusted to apply protection like grown-ups, and so you will be treated like my niece and nephew, who are the only ones in my family who still complain about, once again, actual protection from literal cancer. So.” He looks at all of them individually, eyebrows raised and jaw set. “Again: line up, children.”
The paladins begrudgingly form a line, sensing from Lance’s tone that although he’s making jokes and speaking lightly, he’s one-hundred percent serious. He shakes his head and tuts at them every time he squeezes a dollop of white goop onto each of their hands.
Allura and Coran, recovering from their shock, exchange horrified looks.
“Human skin has not yet evolved protection from radiation?”
“And you complain about the only protection you have?”
“I’ll remind you that humans are only two hundred thousand years old,” Lance says to the Alteans. “So no, we haven’t really evolved superpowers yet. As for Allura’s point – ” he raises an eyebrow at the other humans, who are finally beginning to look slightly chastised – “some people are just plan stubborn.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point, mother, we are wearing the sun protection,” Pidge says impatiently. “Can we go to the beach now?”
Lance nods. “As soon as I grab some water and snacks.”
“And you complain about the only protection you have?”
This time, it’s Keith who groans. “Come on, Lance, I’m sure there’s water and shit on the beach, and I don’t want to wait the billion years you’re foing to take to pack or whatever. Can we please just go.”
Lances raises a judgmental eyebrow again, and picks up a bag no one had seen from a few feet down the hall.
‘Bag’, frankly, may not be the right word for it. It is approximately the size of Pidge, it’s so massive.
“What do you even have in there?” Pidge asks incredulously.
“I think you can actually fit the Green Lion in that bag,” he agrees observationally.
“We’re literally only going to be gone for, like, ten hours,” Keith adds.
Shiro only sighs. Every moment of nonsense is one less minute of his tropical nap – minutes he mourns deeply.
Despite the complaining, Lances haughty eyebrow does not lower. “I notice that none of you have a bag.”
“…So?”
“What are you planning on drying off with? Sand? Especially you, Shiro – aren’t you napping? As for all the alleged water and snacks on the beach, Keith, I don’t see you packing any GAC. And you’re the most accident prone person I’ve ever met, Pidge, did you bother to bring a first aid kit?” He pauses, looking at Hunk’s shovel. “You nailed it, Hunk. No criticism for you.”
Hunk beams. Lance smiles back, then turns a very knowing and prim expression to the rest of the paladins.
The ensuing silence has Lance dripping smugness.
“That’s what I thought. None of you dorks ever plan ahead, yeesh. You’re welcome. Now, come on – we’re losing sunlight! Let’s go!”