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The bright white lights blinded Lance as he stepped into his Garrison apartment. He tripped over shucking off his boots at the front door, catching himself on the shoe rack nearby, and grumbled a string of curses under his breath. A frustrated sigh ripped its way through his chest, and he had to take a moment to pause and realign his chakras, or whatever bullshit Marco liked to say.
Once he wasn’t at any more risk of screeching like a banshee into the otherwise silent night, Lance made his way into the kitchen, where the digital clock on the oven mocked him with a glaring 2:38 AM on the display. Ignoring the innate dread the time brought him – like waking up in a cold sweat thinking you forgot to do your homework when you’ve been out of school for half a decade – Lance grabbed the fridge door and stared blankly at its contents.
“Why am I even doing this?” he complained to himself, snatching miscellaneous ingredients off the shelves and angrily slapping them against the counter. “He is so rude.” He moved to the cabinet and slammed his next victim – a mug with an image of a grumpy cat with its middle finger up – next to the kettle. “So ungrateful.” He gripped a knife now, plunging it mercilessly into a tomato, its red guts bleeding out onto the cutting board. “Why do I try so hard with him?”
Lance set the knife down, working on assembling a simple cheese and ham sandwich as the water boiled. The routine motions put him in a trance, even as his mind kept racing. A beeping brought him back to attention, and he found that the sandwich was sitting finished on the plate in front of him. He brewed the tea, throwing scoops of sugar in out of habit, just how Keith liked it. Lance rolled his eyes at himself and leant back against the counter, taking a moment.
When they first joined Voltron, Lance could not understand Keith in the slightest; he was impulsive, angry and defiant. He was impatient and always putting himself and the team in danger, and Lance balked at the lack of respect he showed Allura and Shiro. It was a frequent point of contention between the three of them, and it translated into arguments between him and Lance, too.
One such day, after Keith had rushed into a confrontation with a group of sentries without waiting for backup, Lance snapped. This time, his brashness cost Pidge valuable information on her family’s whereabouts, and she had run out of the mission debrief crying. Lance felt red-hot rage course through his blood in that moment. He’d never seen Pidge break down like that before, and before he knew it, he was pressing Keith against the wall, teeth bared, sneering at him to apologise. But the former Red Paladin had instinctually thrown up his defences and stormed out of the room.
Later, when Lance was rubbing a swamp-green face mask in before bed, Shiro showed up at his door.
“Oh, hey, Shiro,” he’d greeted, surprised. It wasn’t standard for him to show up at their living quarters like this.
Shiro wore a pinched expression, shoulders pushed back in a way that spelled trouble.
“Lance, can I talk to you?”
Fuck, he thought to himself with a grimace.
“Sure thing,” he said out loud instead and stepped aside, letting Shiro pass through the threshold.
He fumbled with his hands a little, sitting on the edge of Lance’s bed before patting the spot next to him on the mattress. Lance wordlessly and obediently sat down, heartrate elevated with nerves.
“Listen,” Shiro put his elbows on his knees, head hung to the side to look him in the eyes, “Keith…he doesn’t trust easy. He’s been betrayed a lot in his life, by the people closest to him. You may think he’s indifferent, but in reality, he feels everything with such an intensity that he just doesn’t know how to deal with it all. He shuts down. It doesn’t defend his behaviour today, but I just wanted you to be aware of his perspective, too. Be a little patient with him, okay?” Shiro finished, voice stern, but gaze flooded with concern.
After that, Lance had taken the conversation to heart. It took a while to gather enough patience to punch through Keith’s walls, but he got there. They became a duo, partners, a team. They were co-leading Voltron.
It wasn’t always easy. Keith still snapped at him, still shrunk into himself when things got stressful. Each time, Lance had to peel back the spiky layers and drag him to bed when he spent too much time poured over mission reports. And he still fashioned him late-night snacks and sickly-sweet teas, even after Keith spit something rude in his direction and kicked him out of the office.
Taking a last calming breath, Lance took the food and drink and slipped out of the apartment, foregoing his shoes inside. Keith’s office was just down the hall, – the only room with a faint glow of light flooding under the door. He shuffled his feet reluctantly, pausing to collect himself at the office door before sliding it open.
Keith was where he had left him – sat hunched over several data pads strewn over his desk and chewing on a digital pen. He didn’t glance up at the sound of Lance walking in, but his shoulders bunched up in a way that showed he’d noticed the intrusion.
Huffing through his nose at the childish behaviour, Lance padded lightly to the table, setting down the plate and mug over the mess of reports. Keith’s head immediately snapped up, gaze burning.
“Lance, what the hell, I was reading,” he scowled, glaring at Lance as the other calmly collapsed in the chair opposite him. He picked at his nails in an unimpressed manner, ignoring the snippy attitude.
“Eat,” he ordered, gathering the abandoned reports to his side of the desk and forcefully sliding the plate towards Keith.
Keith tried arguing, but one hard glower from Lance and his mouth snapped shut. Lance took his time reorganising the reports by category and date, ignoring the way Keith watched each of his movements with the precision of a hawk.
A few minutes passed before Lance was able to concentrate the last of his awake braincells to skim through the reports, jotting notes on the margins in blue ink, contrasted with Keith’s red ones. It was a cute habit they’d gotten into to distinguish their comments, sometimes leaving messages for each other to find later. They were lucky these notes were only accessible by the Voltron team, even though he was certain Hunk was nosy enough to spy on them.
By the time Lance had finished going through three reports, Keith had barely made a noise other than the occasional sip of his tea, so it garnered Lance’s attention when he loudly cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly, eyes flitting between looking at Lance and down at the table. His hands were clasped together, fingers fiddling nervously over the empty plate. His lips were bitten raw as he made tenuous eye contact.
Lance watched his squirming wordlessly before letting out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh and reaching out to cover Keith’s hands with his own.
“Baby, we’ve talked about this. I know you’re stressed, but you can’t shut down on me. I’m here to help you.” He gently massaged Keith’s knuckles, watching his boyfriend’s shoulders drop in acquiescence and his eyes fall closed.
“I know,” Keith whispered. The scrunch in his brow was unrelenting, and Lance felt obliged to smooth it out.
His fingers traced the sharp features of his face – over the dark circles under his eyes, along the ridge of his scar and finally, over the split skin of his lips. Tenderly, he cupped Keith’s face, leaning over the desk to brush the lightest of kisses on his forehead.
“I love you.”
Lance stared through the bleariness in his indigo eyes, finding them swirling with exhaustion and guilt.
“I know,” Keith repeated quietly, resting his forehead on Lance’s and deeply breathing in his cologne.
When they pulled apart, Lance stood up and silently dragged his chair next to Keith’s. He plopped himself down, tucking himself under his muscular arm. Keith gripped his side securely, ghosting his fingers over his bicep in a way that sent shivers down his arm.
Relaxing slightly, Lance shoved a data pad in front of his face, lifting his head up to quirk an imploring eyebrow at him.
“Are you done being cranky?” Keith rolled his eyes and nodded, snatching the screen out of his hand. “Good. Now, last week’s report,” Lance started, feeling his partner stiffen. “We’ve got to talk about this, Keith, come on,” he warned, pointing to the controversial paragraph that led him to storm out of the room in the first place. “Planet X’lah in Sector 23-G asked for more volunteers for their relief efforts.”
“Where are we going to get that many volunteers, Lance? We’re already spread thin as it is,” he contended his previous argument, irritation lingering in his voice.
Lance watched him further assault his abused bottom lip and gently reached out to tuck a strand of messy dark hair behind his ear, tampering the frustration before it had the chance to form.
“Look, their main issue is looters, right? So, they need to outsource some kind of security detail.” Keith chewed on the inside of his cheek while Lance contemplated a viable solution, eyes glazed over where his fingers gripped the edge of the wooden table.
“The Blade doesn’t have any more operatives to offer them.”
“What about the Garrison?” Lance turned in his chair, pulling his knee up to his chin and leaning his leg against Keith’s side, carefully watching his pinched expression. “I could liaison with Matt and Mr. Holt. Maybe they have some rebels in the area willing to help out.” Carefully, he swung his other leg over Keith’s and creeped a calculated hand over his chest. Leaning into his space, he whispered seductively in Keith’s ear, “And if that doesn’t work, your boyfriend, the cool ninja sharpshooter of Voltron, could offer his services.” His head tilted to the side, watching Keith’s resolve crack under his gaze.
Sighing, Keith squeezed his side, fingers gliding over the space between his hip and ribs, slipping just under the belt clasped around his waist.
Lance might not be the perfect right-hand man, but he knew every subtle twitch of Keith’s eye, every frustrated clench of his jaw, every angered tightening of his fist under the board room table. He knew when to subtly lay a hand on his lower back and lead him out of the room to cool down. He knew when to take over negotiations when Keith started staring daggers at every garble of a snobby planet leader. And he knew when to step back and let Keith’s authority shine through.
“What would I do without you?” Keith drawled sarcastically, his frown finally smoothing out.
Lance’s lips quirked upwards.
“Die, probably.” He carelessly played with the buttons of Keith’s shirt as his tone sobered. “We’re a team, Keith. Don’t push me away.”
Keith stared at him for a moment before nodding, defeated. With a small pull of a smirk, he placed a soft kiss on Lance’s self-satisfied, smiling lips. As they separated, Lance jumped from his seat and contorted himself into a long stretch, catching the way Keith’s eyes hungrily lingered on the flex of his arms.
“Well, now that we’ve got that issue sorted, let’s go to bed. But don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” he pointed at the man. “You still need to make this up to me.”
“Oh,” Keith stood up, stalking up to him like a predator would to its prey and placing his calloused palms on Lance’s hips, “I know exactly how I can make it up to you.”
They kiss, and Lance could feel the desire seep into his skin through his touch. He squealed as he was practically thrown over Keith’s shoulder, giggling all the way to their room.
Yeah, neither of them was perfect, but they were perfect together.