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Summary
Lance leaned casually with one arm against the frame, the other loosely picking at the hem of his open button-up. Familiar. And not. The same unconscious habit he'd had since the Garrison. Sleeves rolled up over forearms built from nearly two years of farm work rather than the feathered muscles of a trigger finger.
Keith let his eyes trail the drape of worn cotton over square shoulders. The shoulders he had traced with light fingertips in the threads of morning, the shoulders that had supported him upright as he bled out in an alien field. The shoulders he'd watched shake and heave over a toilet the first time Lance had shot someone point blank, the shoulders he'd held in a castleship bed while the roiling mess of the universe narrowed to the sliver of air between their mouths.
"Your fly's down," Keith told him.
Or: Keith visits Lance after the war's end. What they won't talk about complicates things.