Chapter Text
It's the middle of summer. It's hot, it's sweaty, and it's only 0800 hours.
Lance is dying inside.
He mentally reviews his work for the day, already looking forward to the end of it when he can lie in bed and binge-watch Netflix: Drop off niece and nephew at school, check. He's promised his sister that he'd drop off some lunch at her work today, so he has to do that right before he heads to the Garrison at 1000 hours. Maybe Hunk's interested in lunch together? Lance makes a mental note to text him about it.
Actually, Hunk at the Garrison for lunch would be pretty neat timing for Lance. The Galactic Coalition is meeting today, and somehow someone has roped Lance into it.
A red light turns on just as Lance nears the intersection. No other cars are coming from the opposite direction.
Lance groans, rolling his eyes.
He pulls out his phone a second later to text Hunk, and switches on the radio as an afterthought. A catchy, sickeningly sweet song with lyrics he doesn't bother to register pops out; maybe it's some of that new K-Pop thing Nadia had told him about? Lance hasn't been able to keep up with the latest trends after five years of space. The three years he's been back haven't exactly reintegrated him into society. Lance cares less as time goes on.
As he clicks on Hunk's chat, he spontaneously presses the Call button instead of texting. The line starts to ring, and Lance stares at the car in front of him, eyeing their Moana bobblehead in the back with a little jealousy. A memory of a time bygone, of Coran telling him to always be wary of bobbleheads comes up without effort. He's not sure why Coran is scared of bobbleheads, but if you look at it that way, why does Coran do anything that he does?
The line beeps. Connected.
"Heyyyy, Lancey," comes Hunk's voice, slightly breathless and underslept. Lance instantly grins.
"Hunk, my man!" Lance sets the phone on the dashboard as the light mercifully turns green. "Lunch at the Garrison today, whaddya say?"
"Uh," Hunk's voice is nervous. "It's a Wednesday, Lance, I can't close the bakery for lunch—"
"Padma can handle the bakery for an hour," Lance waves away his concern. "Come on, man. The Coalition are meeting today. You know they're gonna make me speak. Please? Please, Hunk?"
"Lance," Hunk groans. "Agh, fine, fine. It's, what, eight-hundred? I'll be there in like, four vargas."
"Hunk," Lance says sincerely, finger hovering over the disconnect button. "You're the best. I'll see you soon."
Click.
Lance has a mini staring contest with the Moana bobblehead before he drops his eyes, driving instinctively back to Rachel's house. Moana's head bounces as Lance speeds up, and for some reason, that feels like foreshadowing.
He gets back a few minutes later and unlocks the front door with his key, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing in the mostly-empty house.
Lance is the only one in the household without a proper, full-time job (or school all day, for that matter), so he's almost always tasked with cleaning up the house after everyone leaves—even though his part-time at the Garrison pays the best by a long shot. Lance's housekeeping isn't a specified job; his sister, as much as they bicker, wouldn't dare burden him with more work—because according to literally everyone in his family, any kind of busywork triggers up his supposed trauma—but really, Lance is happy to do it. He doesn't have much else to keep him busy, anyway.
So he picks up some papers, cleans a few dishes, and makes a few beds before giving up and moving on to Rachel's lunch. He makes pasta, Hunk style. It's good, he decides as he taste-tests. Needs some salt.
Soon, he’s got Rachel’s lunch packed in a neat little reusable container (one of the nice ones, not the Tupperware graveyard collection in the bottom drawer), and it’s—he checks the clock—still over half an hour before he needs to even think of leaving the house.
Bored, Lance flops down onto the sofa, phone in hand, thumb already swiping on muscle memory.
He has two messages from an... Alexa. Who's Alexa again? Lance racks through his memory—is it that girl he'd met at the grocery story?
The texts are easy to respond to. A star wars meme, and a reference in the caption. Lance smiles at the simplicity—at least Darth Vader hasn't changed, right?
He's abruptly reminded of Keith, who's never watched Star Wars. Lance hadn't spoken to him for a solid movement when he'd found out. Keith had rolled his eyes and said, When we get back to Earth, you read iAnimal Farm and I'll watch Star Wars. It's fair deal.
Lance hasn't read Animal Farm yet.
He's tired of his phone now, so he goes into his room—formerly the guest room—and idles about, wondering what to do. Lance puts his bayard on his nightstand, hooking it off his belt. He still takes it everywhere he goes—force of habit, he supposes. That, and a hell lot of memories of fresh, red blood under the purple lighting of Galra ships.
A call from his (other) sister Veronica snaps him out of it. Lance clicks Accept Call and presses the Speaker button, leaning backwards on the backrest of his bed in idle disinterest.
"Yo," Lance drawls.
"Lance," Veronica says, her voice urgent. Lance sits up straight at once, and his brows furrow in concern. His bayard's in his hands. "You need to get here sooner than ten. Change of plans, apparently."
Lance rubs his eye. "They're rescheduling?"
"No," Veronica says, voice annoyed even through the cell reception. "Apparently the Coalition members are coming to Earth. Along with some additional hotshots, but no one's giving me a full list."
There is a pause.
"What?" Lance exclaims. "The Garrison's actually letting people on Earth?"
"Not the Garrison. UNCGA and the United World Board's overruled the Garrison's word. I thought you'd wanna know."
"Wouldn't it be so funny if no one told me and I missed the entire thing?
"Lance!"
"Yeah, yeah," Lance grumbles. "Fine, ugh, whatever. I'll drop off Rachel's lunch and be there pronto."
There's a small burst of static. "Please never say pronto again."
The line disconnects.
Lance gathers his things and Rachel's lunch quickly, wincing as he drops it once. He locks up the door, and he's back in the car, and for some reason he's reminded of the Moana bobblehead. Something about its eyes.
The Garrison's main conference room has never looked this polished, which is saying something for a place where “polished” means “vaguely less dreary.” There’s little flags on the table. Someone put out water bottles. The apocalypse must be scheduled for noon.
Lance is supposed to meet Veronica there, but she's nowhere to be seen. Instead, a bunch of officials and ambassadors and what-not are starting to notice him. He doesn't appreciate the attention, not anymore. His collar is far too scratchy and he's got some dirt under his fingernails, and he's afraid everyone in the room can pick up on it.
The meeting's been pushed back by a little. Either that, or Lance is early, but that one is less likely.
He fiddles with his Garrison badge—scuffed, some kind of fancy plastic bearing his name. Lance McClain, Earth, Former Paladin of Voltron. He's sure that it's the main cause of everyone noticing him. He wonders why they can't call Hunk, then remembers Lance is the one who made the stupid mistake of deciding to work for the Garrison. In his defence, Lance likes being a flight instructor just fine. It's just the rubbing-elbows part of the job he doesn't enjoy—not anymore, at least.
Inexplicably, his fingers twitch near his bayard.
"There you are," Veronica's voice is sudden, making Lance jump.
She has a clipboard in her hand, and her hair is in a restricting ponytail, tighter and higher than he's ever seen it. She looks like she's eaten a lemon whole. Nerves. Gets to the best of 'em.
Lance puts on a giant smile as she nears, raising both hands in a small, sychronised wave. "Finally!" he chirps, plucking the clipboard from her hands. "This the list?"
"No," Veronica snaps, snatching it back. "And that's classified, thank you very much. Now, come on, the General's putting you to work. I hope you have your charm on. You're gonna need it."
Veronica spins on her heel and Lance has to jog to catch up with her, which is rude, because he’s pretty sure she’s only moving that fast so he’ll break a sweat and mess up his already-doomed hair. The clipboard flaps against her hip like a weapon.
“What exactly does ‘putting me to work’ mean?” Lance asks, fake cheerful. “Because if it’s ‘stand in the corner and look hot,’ I need a little bit of a warning to pose properly.”
“It means shut up and don’t start an intergalactic incident,” Veronica sighs. “You’re the only Paladin rep on site whom we can actually exploit. Unless you can convince your friend Hunk to come...?”
"No can do, sisteroo," Lance skipped happily. "He's coming to get lunch, though. I hope the menu's good today, or he's gonna take over the kitchen again."
"Ah," Veronica says robotically.
Then—she falters so suddenly, so sharply, so unnoticeably that he almost doesn't realise that there's something she's been keeping from him. Almost.
Lance raises an eyebrow without preamble, smile fading "What is it?"
A beat. Veronica scrutinises him.
"Classified," is the clipped reply.
Lance scoffs. "Is that any way to treat me?" he says, being difficult on purpose. "Loving, doting brother? Saviour of the universe? Galactic hero? Coolness personified—"
"Shut up," Veronica says, rolling her eyes. That's how he knows he's gotten to her. "I got the gues list."
Lance hums. "Let me guess, let me guess," he says excitedly. "The ashen remains of—"
Veronica stops walking, and holds his shoulder so that he comes to a stop as well.
“Be serious,” she says urgently, eyes flicking up and down the corridor like she’s expecting spies in the drywall. “I'm only telling you because if you find out in front of cameras, you’ll have an aneurysm and yell something the press will be running for months. So—deep breath, okay?”
"Whoa, that bad?" Lance frowns.
He mentally runs everything that could make him ruin the Garrison's entire public presence in front of a public. He ends up with a very short list: If they brought in Sendak's weird half-corpse for "symbolic closure," if Slav somehow ended up on Earth again and was back on his dimensions bull, if Allura—nope. Not thinking about that.
Lance shoves back his thoughts after that, staring blankly at his sister.
Veronica sighs.
"Lance," she says patiently. "The Blade of Marmora just sent word that they're sending a representative."
Lance's whole world stills.
He blinks.
The Moana bobblehead appears inexplicably in front of his eyes, taunting him. Saying, "did you really think you could ignore your old life, Lance? Did you think you would have more time? Did you really think this universe works that way?"
Then he realises Veronica's looking at him like he belongs in a mental asylum, and Lance realises he's been gesturing without realising it.
He takes a deep breath.
And then he adjusts, as he always does. The grin is back on his face.
"Don't give your sister a chance to take you to a therapist", the Moana bobblehead says before smiling widely and disappearing with a loud, "WHEEEEEE!"
(He might need the therapist, actually.)
"Nah," Lance chuckles dryly, raising his finger as if to make a point. "Nope. If Keith were coming to Earth, he would have called, or some—never mind, what am I saying? It's Keith."
The situation sinks in. There’s a dull roar in Lance’s ears that only increases the longer he stares at Veronica, who’s already turned on her heel again.
He follows, running to keep up.
"Oh my GOD Keith is coming!" Lance shrieks, then composes himself, arms flailing as he walks. "Wait, no, it's fine!"
There's a small pause where Veronica just stares at him disbelievingly.
"...If you're going to pine the entire meeting, tell me so I can redirect your work, please," says Veronica.
"I—Pine?" Lance interjects madly. "Pine? What—Veronica, what?"
"Be so serious," Veronica says, smiling meanly. "I know you."
"I hate you. Have I ever told you that? I hate you so much."
Veronica gives him a look. "Tell me you can be professional."
"I can be professional," Lance says snootily. He can see when his response makes Veronica slump her shoulders ever so slightly—she knows his mannerisms just as well as he knows hers. She knows which joke is to relieve the tension, which joke is a plea for help.
Veronica sighs anyway.
"What?" Lance croons pathetically. "I can! It'll show him, not calling—!"
"And now you're fixating," Veronica informs with deadpan delivery.
"No, I'm expressing my righteous indignation," Lance lifts his nose into the air. She actually laughs at that. Lance grins, taking it as a victory.
They walk slower now, calmer.
Then the doors to the main briefing room hiss open with that soft, sterile Garrison pshhh noise, and whatever light-hearted chaos they had between them drops like a rock. Veronica straightens her spine. Lance adjusts his collar. His palms are suddenly clammy.
Which is silly, really. Keith isn't even there yet. And why does he even care? It's not about Keith. It's about the stupid Coalition, and stupid politics, and he's going to say something stupid, isn't he?
The room is starting to fill, slowly. People—most of species Lance recognises, some he doesn't—talk softly. The sound is like a distant murmur, some sterile noise that they have to play on obligation. He sees some people he knows from the Coalition, and when he smiles at them, it doesn't reach his eyes. Some have taken seats, some are eyeing the room like it's an uncivilised mine (which, compared to some of their worlds, it probably is), and some outright jeering.
Some are licking the table.
Lance's brain does a small double take at the inhuman faces after so long.
It stirs a hurt somewhere he can't recognise.
"Hey," Lance says to Veronica. "I'm... going to the rooftop. Just call me when things aren't so boring, okay?"
And he's gone without waiting for a response. Something feels off in him, something uncomfortable that wants to break out of his skin and live its own self.
(He remembers Allura.)
Lance opens his eyes and he's suddenly on the rooftop.
That dry, ozone tang that always comes with Garrison buildings in the summer—like the AC's on the fritz, again—hits him sharp and dry.
Lance leans against the railing, arms braced, chest heaving nonsensically. The city sprawls beneath him in warm tones—sunlight catching on glass, on ships parked in awkward little patterns, on buildings that are way too Earth for what today’s going to be be.
He wipes his palms on his pants—useless. They’re still sweaty. The kind of nervous sweat that comes not from fear, but from knowing and feeling too much. It's strange, because Lance has never experienced anxiety in the form of sweaty hands before—nervous tics, hand-through-hair, sure—but never sweaty palms. It's like Lance has changed more than Earth has, and the thought terrifies him.
There’s no breeze. That’s what gets him. Not the heat, not the weird humming silence of the Garrison roof, not even the creeping dread curling in his stomach like he swallowed a lion-sized guilt trip. It’s the stillness. No wind, no relief, just a heavy, sun-bleached silence that sticks to his skin like shame. Lance closes his eyes, leans forward on the railing until the metal digs into his ribs. His collar itches. His badge feels heavy on his chest, like it wants to crawl off his body.
Sometimes, he wonders if he should have stayed on Earth after all. Up there, it was always moving, moving, moving, and the pain never really caught up, not really. It's always one thing after another, no rest for the weary. Here, he's stayed still long enough to remember everything—all the things he's personally reaped, all the things he couldn't. Every single moment that went wrong sticks to him like superglue, casing him in shell after shell until he's a mere silhouette of the person he used to be.
That's how Lance feels—sticky.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, staring at nothing and everything.
The sky is so, so, so blue.
And then—because this universe lives to mess with him—he hears the rooftop door open. The hydraulic hiss fills the air like toxin, leaving Lance frowning.
He takes a sharp inhale, and then he holds.
"Your sister and Kolivan kicked me out," Keith says matter-of-factly, like this is a normal day. "Has anyone told you you're predictable?"
Exhale.
"Hi to you too," Lance snaps, and he can see Keith's shadow still behind him. "Can't call ahead, can you?"
"I would have if I'd known," Keith grumbles, moving to take a seat.
Lance finally turns to look at him.
And of course Keith looks the same. A little older. Hair longer, messier. He’s still in the Marmora gear. But all Lance needs is to meet his eyes to know that he’s still Keith. Still that same damn look in his eyes like he’s memorising the exits. It's how he knew when Keith came back to them, before, with news about Lotor. It's how he knows now.
Keith lowers himself down with the weariness of a soldier, and Lance is suddenly horrified at the fact that he hadn't realised that Keith must be fresh off mission. The sight of fire covers Lance's eyes, and he takes another small breath, but it's easier this time.
"Kolivan's here?" Lance changes the topic with expertise. "Not Krolia?"
"She's on another mission," Keith doesn't look too bothered by this, but Lance doesn't let the lie slide easily; he raises both his eyebrows until Keith shrugs in return. "I think she just doesn't want to be on Earth."
Lance hums, understanding.
They sit in silence—not heavy like a weight, but like a memory. It smells like hot concrete and dried-out jet fuel, and so, so familiar. Keith stretches one leg outside the railing, eyes on the horizon like it might blink first. Lance is struck by how different they both are—Keith has become softer, rounder around the edges, harder to read but easier to see; where Lance has become sharp as space-steel, cutting anyone who gets close.
That, and Keith's mullet is longer. Jesus Christ.
"...Shrio said you're teaching now," Keith says eventually, his voice flat without expectation. Lance can't quite place his tone.
"Flight instruction," Lance says in the same voice. "Part time. Takes you back, huh? Pay is high like you would not believe. Turns out Voltron puts quite the sparkle on your resume."
Keith tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually trying to picture that. "Do you have to wear the uniform?"
Lance shrugs, grinning sideways at him. "I'm supposed to."
Keith actually laughs at that, clear and mesmerising. It’s barely audible, but Lance catches it. Catches it, and stores it in the permanent memory of his brain, ready to be rewatched and relived anytime. His stomach does a flip. "I bet you don't even fly upside down in the sims anymore."
“I’m a teacher, Keith,” Lance says, faux-offended. “I have a responsibility to my students and the structural integrity of Garrison property. Also the cafeteria’s right under the sim room. Last time I tried something fun, the ceiling caved in and the General had to explain it to, like, five sets of angry parents.”
Keith grins, like he’s letting himself sit with that image. “Bet the kids hate you.”
Lance snorts. “They worship me. I’m basically a minor deity in the flight sim room. Call me Saint Throttle, yeah?”
Keith laughs again, and god, it’s like the first breeze of the day. It hits Lance square in the chest. He's about to faint. He covers it up by shifting where he’s leaning, turning slightly to face him better.
“What about you?” Lance asks, and immediately regrets it.
What about him? Lance knows what it's like out there. Keith looks away, and for a second, Lance thinks he won’t answer.
But Keith lives to deny him, of course.
"There's...been an uptick in stuffy politicians these days," Keith snorts. Then he adds, “I miss it sometimes. The castle. The team.”
Lance raises an eyebrow, and he's drawn away from the dry heat of the saccharine summer by Keith's expression, which is somewhere between soft and searing—his eyes have a shine to it that Lance has a strong feeling that Keith will ever tell him about; never tell anyone about.
Lance says, “Even me?”
Keith’s lips twitch, and he looks away, but Lance isn't running anymore. “Even you.”
That takes him by surprise. He's expecting a sharp jab or sarcastic commentary, but he's still unused to the honesty of Keith's complexion, no matter how besotted he's chosen to become by it. At the end of the day, though, he'll think about how better they've become, and that'll carry him through the night.
He wants to thank Keith for allowing him this side of himself, for trusting him.
Then he thinks about how indignated he'd be if Keith said any of that to him, and he swallows it down.
Stay, is what he really should say.
"Geez," Lance laughs nervously, because he's bad at confrontation. "I missed ya too, mullet."
Keith grins. "Lunch after this?"
"Bad news, I'm already booked," Lance says, then hurries to follow up when he sees Keith frown. "Good news, it's with Hunk! You can be my little surprise. He's gonna be so happy to see you."
Keith hums, surprised. A small smile; genuine and warmer than any expression Lance has seen on Keith grows on his face. "Thank god. I miss Hunk's cooking. Has he taken over the cafeteria again?"
Lance laughs, and for a minute, he forgets everything but how to be happy.