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00. Lance has wanted to be a Jedi his entire life.
It’s his deepest, most sincere and heartfelt desire.
A Jedi is belonging.
A Jedi has purpose, a path and a place in life. A Jedi looks after others; a Jedi takes care of people. A Jedi is a protector of the galaxy. It’s a longing and a calling Lance has always aspired to.
A Jedi is great, and a Jedi is kind. A Jedi is a keeper of the peace. A Jedi has the Force, wide open and beckoning, bright and true. Lance has loved the Force and the Light for as long as he can remember.
A Jedi looks out for others. A Jedi looks outs for their own.
A Jedi belongs.
Lance is going to be a Jedi.
Little Lance, a handful of years old and toddling on tiptoes in the creche, pudgy face smushed against the transparisteel of the creche window. Stubby fingers leave messy prints, watching all the ships come and go in the distant hustle and bustle of Coruscant night traffic. That’ll be me someday.
Little Lance, older, peeking out from amongst his crechemates as they travel the halls. He watches the robes of the great Jedi Knights swishing about their ankles, Padawans rushing to catch up. That’ll be me someday.
Little Lance, sneaking out to the Temple Gardens late at night to watch the waterfall play, closing his eyes and listening to the Force gurgle over rocks, splash onto stones. The soft breeze of the Force through the grass, the flowers, the trees. The Force is everywhere. A pair of Jedi sit in the grass nearby, quiet, heads bowed in meditation. The Force swirls around them gently, a stream in its own right. Lance hides by his waterfall and observes, content. That’ll be me someday.
Lance, even older. Finally a Padawan himself, following at the heels of his Master as they head down to the hangars for their first mission assignment. Looking over his shoulder at all the other Jedi embarking on ships, returning from missions of their own. A hub of galactic peace, in and out, busy keeping the galaxy safe.
That’ll be me someday.
Lance, at the conclusion of his Trials.
Jedi protect.
Jedi belong.
Lance is going to be a Jedi.
01. Lance and Hunk have been best friends since the days of the creche.
“Are we getting anywhere?” Lance asks, leaning on the engine. The sleeve of his robe swings down and nearly smacks Hunk in the face.
“Watch it!” Hunk warns. He’s cross-legged in front of the ship’s engine, the door to its innards wide open and waiting. Larger parts are scattered on the floor next to him, a handful of tiny pieces suspended carefully in midair by his shoulder. They dart out of range of Lance’s robe; Hunk bats Lance’s sleeve aside and calls them back, floating them neatly within reach. “Lance!”
“Sorry.” Lance shifts appropriately, pulling the billowing fabric of his sleeves up and resting on them like a pillow. The engine malfunctioned a few systems back; Hunk’d pulled them out of hyperspace before any real damage could be done. They’re parked on some quiet little forest moon out here in the middle of nowhere while Hunk works his mechanical magic. “What’s the prognosis, doc?”
“I think I can do it,” Hunk says. He frowns and reaches in; the Force hums bright and content as Hunk tugs on something inside the machine. “Just need to - oh, come on.”
“Need a hand?” Lance offers.
Hunk shakes his head. “Not one of yours. Did you comm the Council?”
“Did,” Lance confirms. Hunk grunts an affirmation and sticks his head into the engine entirely. The bang of a wrench on metal floats out; Lance pitches his voice louder. “They can send a ship to pick us up if we need it, but it’ll be a while. The only other team out here in this quadrant of the Mid Rim right now is delayed.”
“Delayed?” Hunk asks, ducking out. “Can you pass me the hydrospanner?”
Lance waves his fingers. The Force responds easily to his call, lifting the appropriate tool and dropping it into Hunk’s waiting palm.
“Thanks,” Hunk says, ducking back in. His voice echoes from inside. “Who’s delayed? Do they need a pick-up instead?”
Lance shrugs, shifting his feet closer. “I asked, but the Council said no. Just something about ‘negotiations’ taking longer than anticipated.”
“Guess we’re not the only ones having trouble,” Hunk mutters. Something clatters inside the engine with him. He swears. “This is the last time we borrow a ship!”
“Excuse you, this ship’s doing great,” Lance croons, patting the broken engine fondly. “Aren’t you, girl?”
“Sorry. I’ll be clearer,” Hunk says. Lance can almost hear his eyes rolling. “This is the last time you get to borrow a ship without me checking her over.”
“Hey!” Lance squawks. Hunk laughs, his chuckles echoing. “Blue’s a good ship!”
“Did you name her?” Hunk asks, pulling his head out. His hair’s somewhat mussed above his standard ribbon. “She’s tan and green, Lance. There’s nothing blue about this ship.”
“She feels blue,” Lance coos, rubbing his knuckles affectionately over the busted metal. “Don’t you, my beautiful friend?”
“You’re unbelievable,” Hunk says, as if he’s even surprised. Lance grins. With a simple wave of Hunk’s hand three of the little pieces floating in midair drop down; Hunk catches them, squinting back into the engine. “And you get to explain this one to the Council, by the way. ‘Hey, where’s the ship you guys left with? Why’d you come back in that old thing?’”
Lance gasps. “She’s not old! She was a gift! Queen Luxia was grateful!”
“And also because ours was wrecked, no thanks to a giant serpent water-demon-thing that someone decided we had to awaken,” Hunk says. “Next time I tell you I have a bad feeling, listen to me.”
“It worked out in the end,” Lance protests, flopping down to sit by Hunk’s shoulder.
“It did,” Hunk agrees, “But next time, listen. Unless you want to be held captive by weird mermaid girls again.”
Lance pouts. “I thought they were nice.”
“Because they were flirting with you, Lance,” Hunk says patiently.
“What’s it like to get premonitions?” Lance wheedles instead, folding his legs underneath him. Lance is well-trained in many regards: he can fly almost any kind of ship, he’s super good with a lightsaber, and he’s awesome at negotiations (if he does say so himself). His training’s been thorough; Lance is proud to use the Force like he does. There’s a freedom there, a safety and a surety in the Light that Lance has never found anywhere else.
For all that he loves it, however, the Force has never seen fit to send Lance even the tiniest glimpse of the future. Which, considering how bent-out-of-shape Force Visions sometimes make Hunk, Lance doesn’t mind in the slightest.
“They’re useless, when your best friend won’t listen to you,” Hunk says.
Lance groans, flopping sideways. “Hunk!”
“Kidding,” Hunk says, grinning. The remaining two pieces floating in midair float gently into his hand. “Kind of kidding. If you’re going to sit there, you can be useful. Hold these, I need to concentrate.”
“So demanding,” Lance pouts, but scoots closer to help anyway.
02. Lance has looked up to Shiro for as long as he can remember.
Which is probably why this moment is absolutely, horrifically, entirely embarrassing.
Or it would be, if Lance was more than semi-conscious.
The Force inhibitor they injected him with - whoever they are, Lance can barely remember the species’ name - is still running through his veins, making his thoughts slick and stupid. His thoughts slowly tumble over one another when he tries to grab them, tries to slot them into any reasonable semblance of order or logic. The Force eludes him, its absence sickening and gone. Normally it flows through him like water, beautiful and strong, but now he can’t…he can’t…it’s like drifting through a terrible fog.
He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been here. A few hours? Days? Everything’s a bit of a blur. There’s the fog between him and the Force; Lance tries to reach through it, strains out for anything, but there’s nothing. His thoughts are oil, thick and slippery. There’s the hard surface he’s lying on; there’s a distant spark of pain burning in the back of his head, maybe. The lights are too bright and hurt, especially around the door, where it’s extra sparkly and red-hot shiny for some reason. They could at least have turned off the light. Maybe that way he’d actually get some sleep.
Wait.
Extra…red-hot?
What the -
The door blows open. Part of it falls away in an explosion of metal and flames, letting in a burst of blinding light from the hall. A figure stands in the now wide-open, smoking doorframe, backlit like a rescuing, vengeful angel.
Huh.
“Lance?” says the angel.
“Hunk, I told you to go,” Lance says. Or tries to. The words trip over his tongue, thick and clumsy. All he gets out is some kind of whine vaguely shaped in the sound of “Hun’, I’oldu…”
“Lance,” the voice repeats, urgently. Lance forces his eyes open again. Someone’s bending down over him, blocking out the light from the hall and the stupid bulb overhead. Their face swims in and out of focus; dark hair, closely shaven to the sides except for a tuft in front. Strong nose. Worried grey eyes. What?
“Lance,” Shiro repeats. He leans closer; his hand’s on Lance’s cheek. The tiniest trickle of the Force hums in at his fingertips. It’s warm. For just an instant the headache’s gone. Lance’s eyes flutter closed. “Lance, can you hear me?”
“That’s me,” Lance mumbles. Definitely doesn’t make any sound related to “szat’smmborf.”
“Lance?”
“Uh-hmm,” Lance says, eloquently. He might actually just groan.
Shiro’s entire face softens into something more affectionate, more fond. “They got you good, huh, buddy. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can,” Lance says. Or means to. It definitely doesn’t come out like “‘fcurschmaumble.”
“Going to take that as a no,” Shiro says, and kriff, is he smiling? Lance can’t make his eyes focus, but Shiro’s voice definitely has a smile in it. Kriffing hell. “C’mon, up you go. We have to get out of here.”
He slings Lance over his shoulder like Lance is nothing more than a sack of potatoes, and carries him bodily, just like that, out the door.
Lance tries to keep track of their passage as they go, but it’s hard with his vision wavering in and out like this. They’re underground, judging by the path Shiro’s taking. Lance doesn’t remember these halls whatsoever. The last thing he remembers is -
“Hunnnghk,” he groans against Shiro’s shoulder.
“Hunk’s fine,” Shiro says. A tendril of Force wraps around Lance’s headache again, tugging, easing. Lance can’t help his sigh of relief. “Commed for help and we came. You doing alright?”
“Mm’fnn,” Lance manages. He swallows. “‘m fine. You - wha -?”
“We were closest,” Shiro explains. He’s supporting Lance easily with his left hand, clipping his lightsaber to his belt briefly with the fingertips of his right. “Council sent us, but we would’ve come anyway. Keep breathing, Lance. You’re doing fine.”
Uhhh. “ ‘Wh’e’?”
“We,” Shiro confirms, pulling out his commlink and speaking into it. “Guys, what’s your ETA?”
“We can meet you in the hangar in three minutes,” comes the reply. Lance frowns - or tries to. It’s more of an uncoordinated twitch of his facial muscles than anything. He knows that voice.
“Wait,” Lance struggles to say. Who’d Shiro come with?
Shiro ignores him. Lance probably would too if their positions were reversed.
“Do you have him?” the commlink asks.
“Affirmative,” Shiro says. “He’s - “
Shiro stops suddenly, feet skidding on the stone floor. Lance struggles to raise his head. He can’t manage that, either.
“Halt,” orders a mechanical, tinny voice. “Hands up, Jedi!”
Kriffing.
“How did you end up on a planet with battle droids?” Shiro asks Lance, incredulously.
“They didn’t say they had battle droids when they asked for aid,” Lance tries to explain. Approximately three of the words make it out (“th’y ddn’sulgheshemm”). He gives up.
The comm squawks a burst of static. “Shiro? Shiro, are you there? What’s happening?”
“Hands up, Jedi!” The droids command. “Don’t move!”
“Minor delay,” Shiro confirms to the commlink. His voice is thoughtful, and almost…amused? “We’ll meet you in the hangar momentarily.”
Metal feet clack against the floor. Lance still can’t see with his face flopped into Shiro’s shoulder. “We said, hands up!”
Shiro’s shoulder shifts under Lance’s midsection. “Lance, buddy. I’m going to need to set you down for a minute.”
“My ‘saber,” Lance groans, with a supreme effort of will. “I’ca fight.”
“I have that, and no, you can’t,” Shiro says, still with that amused lilt in his voice.
The determined click of blasters interrupts him. “Don’t move!”
“I’m just putting my friend down,” Shiro says, deliberately slow. “He’s hurt.”
“I can fight,” Lance tries, one last time, as he’s gently slid off Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro sets him carefully down in an alcove in the wall, cupping the back of Lance’s head to make sure he doesn’t jar it further. Lance slides down the wall bonelessly, unable to so much as lift his head once Shiro pulls his hand away.
“Surrender!” the droids order.
“Mm,” Shiro says. He drops something into Lance’s limp palm: the commlink.
“Shiro,” Lance croaks, as Shiro stands.
“Rest,” Shiro tells him. “We’ll be out of here in two minutes.”
Even with his blurry vision, Lance can just make out the determined glint in Shiro’s eyes, steady and firm above a scarless face, one single thick streak of white in the otherwise perfect set of bangs. How Shiro got that white streak is legendary.
As is Shiro, the youngest Jedi Knight in six centuries.
“Last warning,” the droids command. “Surrender or be destroyed!”
“Not doing that,” Shiro says easily, and in one smooth motion calls his lightsaber to his right hand and ignites it.
The greatest regret of the mission, Lance thinks, is not being captured in the first place. It’s not the loss of the Force, thanks to the inhibitor drug still coursing through his veins. It’s not even that Hunk and his bad-feeling-number-twelve were right.
No. Lance’s greatest regret is that he passes out before he can watch Shiro single-handedly take down six battle-droids, armed only with a lightsaber and the strongest, most unwavering trust in the Force that Lance has ever seen.
Lance is never going to live this one down.
03. Scratch that, scratch all of that: the greatest regret of the entire mission failure is that being rescued by Shiro also means being rescued by Keith.
Lance comes to because people are yelling.
“Everyone on?” bellows a voice from afar, sharp syllables brash and blunt. Lance knows that voice. Aw, hell, he knows that voice.
“Go, Keith!” Shiro shouts. He’s carrying Lance again, slung over his shoulder. Did early promotion to Jedi Knight come at a total loss of any basic field first aid?
“What happened?!” says a blessed voice rushing towards him - oh, that’s Hunk, oh thank the Force, that’s Hunk. Relief surges through Lance’s chest.
“Hunk,” he cries, stretching out a hand. Or tries to. The drugs mean he just moans and weakly flings his fingers into the fabric of Shiro’s hood.
A hand grasps his anyway, calloused and warm. “Is he okay?” Hunk asks, worry thick in his voice.
Before Shiro can answer the ship shakes, hard. Shiro staggers but somehow doesn’t drop Lance. Hunk yelps.
“You might want to buckle up!” Keith shouts, probably from the cockpit. Keith. Of all the terrible luck.
“‘m not letting Keith save me,” Lance groans, trying to kick his feet so Shiro’ll set him down. His feet don’t even twitch. “Put me back. No. No way.”
Surprising absolutely no one, only half of the syllables make it out. (“ ‘mnahleKeeeeef…”)
“You sure he’s alright?” Hunk asks, following in concern as Shiro carries Lance further into the ship. “He’s kind of out of it.”
“Understandable, after what they dosed him with,” Shiro says. His voice reaches Lance as if through a distant tube. The world tilts; something soft presses against his back. Shiro’s hand cradles the back of Lance’s head again, laying him down. Even so Lance’s entire world spins - he can just barely make out Shiro’s face still, and behind him, Hunk’s wide-eyed worry. He squeezes his eyes shut, miserable.
“Lance,” Shiro says. “You need to go into a healing trance, okay? It’ll do until we get back to Coruscant and can put you into bacta for your head. Can you go into a trance yourself, or do you need help?”
Oh hell no. Lance doesn’t need help with a healing trance. He’s the best at these. This is his chance. He’s totally got this.
He raises a hand to say so - maybe cock the trademark finger-guns in Shiro’s direction - but can’t actually get his hand more than a millimeter off the bunk. His fingers really just flop weakly against the medical mattress.
“Uh,” Lance groans.
“He needs help,” Hunk summarizes for him.
The ship shudders beneath them, harder. Hunk grabs for a hold; Shiro braces Lance against the bunk with one hand.
“Keith?” Shiro calls urgently.
“I got it, I got it,” Keith shouts back. The ship shakes again, harder. “Krithspit!”
“You got him?” Hunk asks. “I can man a cannon.”
Shiro nods. “Go.”
Hunk squeezes Lance’s hand and lets go, robe brushing Lance’s failing fingers as he leaves. Lance should say something - total encouragement, maybe - but the words are stuck in the fog, lost in the slick of oil inside his head. The Force is still so far away it’s sickening. He hates this.
That comforting broad hand settles on his forehead, gentle and firm.
“Breathe,” Shiro suggests. The Force swirls under his palm of his right hand; his glove’s ripped, exposing bare skin. Lance can feel Shiro’s pulse through the contact, steady and strong. Shiro’s fingertips are warm as he brushes Lance’s sweaty hair away. “Let me help you.”
“You came for me,” Lance murmurs. It’s the easiest thing he’s managed to say all evening.
Shiro’s smile warms his voice, too. “Of course we did.” The Force presses, insistent, strong. It reaches out to Lance like tendrils of wind, brushing back the clouds trapped in Lance’s brain. Lance sighs, the fog drifting wisps at his corners.
“Breathe with me,” Shiro murmurs, and Lance does.
04. It’s not that Lance doesn’t like Keith, per se. It’s just that there’s all kinds of better, totally-valid-and-not-petty-at-all reasons not to (shut up, Hunk).
For one, Keith’s - prickly, or something. He’s super quiet. He’s never really said more than four words to Lance, even when they were assigned to a mission together back in the day. He’s curt and closed and Lance has definitely wiped that mission from his memory, thank you very much. Clearly they didn’t work well together or the Council would’ve tried again. Case closed.
Keith’s an excellent swordsman. He was the first one in their early classes to advance to the next form of lightsaber technique, always reaching, always going first and always outdoing Lance by a landslide. Even now it’s not uncommon for Lance to come back from a mission with Hunk, seek out one of the sparring bots, and find Keith’s set some new record or other. If Lance wasn’t an awesome Jedi who could release his anger into the Force and all, it’d be infuriating.
There’s also the fact that out of everyone in their age-group, Keith was picked first by a Jedi Master to be a Padawan.
He was picked first and he was picked early. And even though it’s been years, even though Lance did get chosen before his thirteenth birthday, even though that’s long past and now they’re all Jedi Knights anyway so it doesn’t even matter, it still….stings, sometimes. Just a little.
The other big reason to Not Like Keith is that Keith’s primary partner for field work just so happens to be Shiro.
Nine times out of ten they’re off together, completing missions with aplomb and speed and legendary success and blah, blah, blah. A dream team. Fine. Lance gets it; he has his preferred field partner, too. He wouldn’t trade Hunk for anybody. He certainly wouldn’t trade him for Keith.
Which is why when Hunk comes down with a nasty case of the Andorian flu the day before the Council summons arrives, Lance barely manages to hide his dismay.
“I can do it,” Hunk insists, but the very act of speaking sends him into an explosive fit of sneezing.
“You’re sick,” Lance says patiently, fluffing pillows. He’s helpfully fetched every pillow in their apartment, propping Hunk up and making sure his airway’s as unrestricted as possible. It’s a nasty bug, but all the meddroids can do for Hunk is administer the vaccine and wait for it to take effect. He hands Hunk another handkerchief, fresh from Lance’s stash - a habit he’d gotten into as a Padawan. “You stay here and rest. You good? You can reach the water from there, right?”
“Yes, Master,” Hunk mimics grumpily, already reading for a holopad. “Is this yours?”
“Yours,” Lance confirms. He’d tucked away all the ‘pads with anything remotely busy or stressful, like the Council’s latest mission request? Totally stressful. The only holopads left within Hunk’s reach are puzzle games, exotic cooking magazines, and that one interesting holo-opera Hunk claims he doesn’t like (but definitely does).
Hunk’ll figure it out eventually, maybe, but hopefully not before he falls asleep for at least a quick nap. Hunk’s supposed to rest, not worry about the mission details on the Council summons. Especially since there’s no way the vaccine will take hold fast enough for him to join Lance for it.
Lance is just going to have to work with a different partner for this one.
He rocks back and forth on his heels all the way up the turbo lift, all the way up to the Council chamber. Mostly it’s nerves. The last time he went out without Hunk, he’d had to do it with that weird Balmeran Rax, and that had been, uh…interesting. Less exciting than the time Lance got paired with that one Arusian, though - Lance doesn’t even remember her name, it’d been that bad. None of it even comes close to the disaster that was the Keith-mission.
Lance shudders. Maybe he’s cursed. Does the Force work that way? Maybe he needs Hunk in order to have a successful mission. Maybe he’s better off telling the Council to wait, to find someone else to do this “time-sensitive” whatever.
No. Lance is a Jedi, and as a Jedi he has a duty. He’s not shirking this because he’s nervous. Lance is skilled and strong; he’ll make a success of this no matter who his partner is. They won’t live up to Hunk, but that’s okay. Lance can work with anybody.
Unless it’s Keith.
…the Force can’t hate him that much.
The lift lets him off on the Council floor. The young attendant there waves him in.
“Ah, Lance,” says Master Coran, seated in his deep brown chair. The other Jedi Masters of the Council nod in greeting as Lance slips in through the door. “Good of you to come. How is Hunk?”
“Definitely got the sniffles, but on the mend,” Lance says, “This is about the mission, right? I can work with whoever - ”
He stops short, because he’s finally caught sight of the anomaly in the room. The other person summoned before the Council, standing in the middle of the Council chamber floor and, oh Force, oh no, smiling apologetically in his direction.
“Keith’s ankle is broken,” Shiro says, taking no notice of Lance’s open-mouthed bug-eyed Gungan-fish impression as his jaw meets the floor. “He’s down for the count as well. Mind if I join you?”
05. Lance has never met anyone with as much control over the Force as Shiro.
The Force has always whispered to Lance like water talks to trees. It’s easy to listen and easy to drink in. It guides his choices, rushes through him with significance, answers, a simple ebb and flow that’s deeply comforting. He’s certain the Force manifests itself to other people in other ways; sometimes, in meditation or when he focuses hard enough, Lance can feel it. The Force swirls around Hunk, for example, as bright and warm as Lance’s own energies, welcoming and gentle as a sunbeam.
Shiro’s so steeped in it, so firmly grounded in Light, that he practically shines.
The Force ripples and sways around him, tender, attentive, little wisps of a waiting breeze. When Shiro calls on the Force to soothe ruffled feathers at the royal dinner on the planet they’re visiting, it’s so subtle Lance barely notices. When they’re nearly overtaken by the palace’s personal guards, insistent the ‘honored Jedi’ stay in their rooms and don’t go into the city, Shiro’s Force redirection of their attention is so gentle and firm that Lance has to fake a coughing fit so the guards won’t notice his squeal of glee.
When they discover the outlawed rebels on the edge of town, frightened but not cowed, it’s Shiro’s battle plan that regains the city - quick-thinking, clever, genius. Lance’s favorite part of the entire thing is standing on the eve of that battle, the moment when Shiro pulls his lightsaber out. The blue blade hums in the darkness as he tilts his head, whispers to Lance: “Can you swing in from the south? You’ll only have one shot.”
Fierce pride bubbles warm and expansive in Lance’s chest.
“Yeppp,” Lance smirks, and does.
Needless to say, the mission goes really, really well.
It’s not the last time Lance and Shiro partner up, either. Keith’s ankle takes time, which leads to Mission Two - and then even longer, as Keith tries to train too soon and makes everything worse (which Shiro reports with fond exasperation as he arrives for his and Lance’s Mission Three). Hunk takes a brief stint at teaching - basic ship repair while the primary Jedi-instructor is away - which gives Lance and Shiro Missions Four and Five.
And so on. It’s amazing. Shiro isn’t Hunk, of course, but - who is? For a substitute, Lance has to admit, Shiro’s not bad. Not bad at all.
(“And this isn’t an opinion tinged in hero-worship, of course not,” Hunk teases, when he and Lance are back in the field again.
“Shut up,” Lance says.)
One afternoon, back at the Jedi Temple after his and Shiro’s impromptu mission streak has ended, Lance goes up on a whim to ask if Shiro wants to spar. Shiro’d mentioned last time that he’d be happy to teach Lance some tricks - when they aren’t in as confined an area as a ship, or as tense an area as ‘peaceful’ negotiations - and Lance fully intends to take him up on it.
Shiro’s quarters are in the same section of the Jedi Temple as Lance’s, just a floor or so away. Lance bounds up and knocks on the door.
The door swishes open.
It isn’t Shiro.
Lance’s jaw drops. “Keith?”
“The hell?” Keith blurts, right back.
“Is that Lance?” Shiro asks, from further inside.
Unbelievable. Lance gapes, staring. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Keith snaps. “What are you doing here?”
“You live here?!” Lance squawks. “But - “
“ ‘Living’ is a broad term when you’re hardly ever home,” Shiro says, finally in line of sight over Keith’s shoulder. He smiles. “Hi, Lance. What can I do for you?”
“Uh,” Lance says, still reeling. “Uh?”
“Unless you came for Keith?” Shiro asks politely, or it would be polite if not for the frankly mischievous glint in his eyes. Lance, seven missions in with Shiro, knows that glint.
“No!” he yelps, windmilling back. “Him?!”
“He’s just mad I saved his ass,” Keith says. He pulls away from the door to push around Shiro and back inside. “Twice.”
“Once!” Lance hollers at his retreating form. “Don’t remember the first. Doesn’t count!”
Shiro shakes his head, which he’s totally doing to hide the fact that he’s laughing. Traitor. “Quite the history. Keith, do you still need help with -“
“No,” comes the sullen call from within. A door slams.
“How did he manage to slam an automatic door,” Lance whispers.
Shiro rolls his eyes, amused. “Keith is a man of many talents. Come in, Lance; you’re welcome here. Ignore my rude roommate.”
He steps back, freeing the entry to his apartment. His and Keith’s apartment. Kriffing.
“I will if he will,” Lance declares, and steps inside.
06. The dream changes everything.
“They’ll expel you from the Jedi Order.”
Lance gasps; his head whips from side to side, struggling to catch a view of the speaker. No one is there. He’s alone in the middle of pitch darkness - no floor, no walls, no ceiling. Just black.
“Expel?” His voice echoes into the nothingness, hollow and distant. Cold fear swoops into his stomach. He can’t feel the Force. Lance takes a cautious step forward. “Expel - who? What’s going on?”
“Lance.”
Lance looks over his shoulder. Keith’s standing there, lit from the flickering lights unique only to the back corners of the temple hangars. A ship waits behind him, loading ramp down, landing lights humming. He is between the ship and Lance.
The hilt of a lightsaber rests in Keith’s hand, his fingers curled around the metal - no. He and Lance hold it, both their hands on it, Lance’s on top and Keith’s below. The lightsaber rests in the space between their palms.
Keith’s eyes burn.
“Don’t do this,” he says.
The room shifts. Lance reels with the abrupt curl of the hangar fading away. He’s standing in a hall, now, narrow and tight. The light overhead is cold and weak.
Shiro’s seated on a bench down the way, slumped over, elbows on knees and back bowed forward. He’s cradling his right wrist in his left hand - a wrist that shines as it catches the light. His palm, fingertips, and all the way up past his elbow is made of metal, silver and grey glinting in the weak light of the hall.
“I don’t know,” Shiro whispers, tired. Deep exhaustion’s settled under his eyes, in the harsh scar etched across his nose. The tuft of his hair has gone completely white.
A chill of alarm shivers down Lance’s spine. He steps forward. “Shiro?”
Shiro shakes his head, still staring at his hand.
“I couldn’t stop it,” he says.
“No,” Keith snaps, harsh and brutal. Lance spins towards the voice, but Keith isn’t looking at him. He’s not the same Keith from earlier; his Jedi robe is gone. He’s standing alone in the middle of a wide, cavernous room. Thin blue strips illuminate the cold rock walls and the hexagonal symbols rising from the floor. His lightsaber hums to life, the purple blade highlighting his face in stark shadows.
“I won’t quit,” Keith snarls, and lunges.
“Lance!”
Lance turns in alarm. Hunk’s staring at him - no. Hunk’s staring off into the distance, the dusk of an orange sky bright in his wide-eyed horror. A figure stands by his side, small and hidden in Hunk’s shadow. “Lance, don’t!”
“Hunk!” Lance cries, and starts forward -
It’s too late. The light of the sunset fades. Lance nearly slams right into Keith one final time, standing stock-still in the middle of the way.
“Keith?” Lance says. Keith’s back is to him, illuminated only in the light from one of the long Temple windows. The sun’s setting outside, too, but it’s dim and offers no warmth. “Keith, what’s going? Where are we?”
“The Council’s given up on him,” Keith says. Lance has never heard him like this, bitter and tired like an old bell. “They say he’s gone.”
“Who?” Lance insists. “Keith, what are you talking about?”
“Shiro’s my friend,” Keith says. He’s turned, staring down the hall towards a shadow Lance can’t see. His face is twisted, hard, and closed. “I’m not letting the Dark Side take him.”
“What’s wrong?” Hunk asks, when Lance bursts out into their shared little sitting room. He’s still up, tinkering with a droid. A holopad blinks open on the coffee table; parts of the droid are scattered all over, spanning nearly every available surface. It’s one of the reasons Hunk stays up later than Lance. He sets his tools aside, concern deep in his frown. “Lance?”
“I have to talk to Shiro,” Lance blurts. He’s half-dressed already, shoving his feet into boots. He doesn’t bother with the robe.
“Sure,” Hunk starts, easily. “Is this about - Lance, wait, Lance! Do you even know what time it is?!”
Lance doesn’t hear him. He’s already out the door and moving too fast to stop.
They’ll expel you from the Jedi Order.
I couldn’t stop it.
I’m not letting the Dark Side take him.
06. Lance doesn’t get premonitions.
06. Lance doesn’t get premonitions.
Through some stroke of luck, he finds Keith and Shiro down in one of the sparring rooms. The Force leads him there, pitter-pattering ahead of his heartstrings on silent feet. Lance pauses just in line of sight, just beyond the door.
They’re using their actual lightsabers, or at least Keith is. He’s stepping carefully and deliberately across the salle’s floor, the green blade of his lightsaber quick and burning sharp as he demonstrates a move for Shiro.
Green blade. Lance lets out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he’d been holding.
Inside, Shiro reaches to correct Keith’s grip, fingers tapping lightly on Keith’s wrist. Fingers. Flesh and blood. Real.
Real.
Lance ducks out of sight. He leans his head against the wall, breathing hard.
He doesn’t get premonitions. He doesn’t get any of this. The bad feelings, the visions? The future? That’s Hunk’s job. That’s not what Lance does.
This isn’t…
I couldn’t stop it.
Don’t do this.
This can’t be.
07. There’s only one person in the entire Jedi Order Lance trusts enough to help with this.
“I knew it,” Coran exclaims, slapping the tea canister down on the counter. “I knew it! Was this your first one? You haven’t had other dreams you’ve been hiding from me, have you? Have you?”
“What?” Lance blinks, pulling back. Coran’s right up in his face, squinting at him with one eye. “Uh, no? What - ”
“Your premonitions!” Coran exclaims, gesturing broadly with both gloved hands. He wiggles his fingers. “Your awakening.” He straightens, tugging proudly at the ends of his mustache. “And to think the others doubted me. Master Kolivan owes me fifty credits. That old scoundrel!”
Lance chokes. “What?!”
“Of course, he’s not around to collect it now, so that could prove a bit of a challenge,” Coran muses in agreement. He shrugs. “Ah, well. Patience comes to the faithful!”
“Were you,” Lance starts to ask. He can’t even - what the hell. “Were you betting on me?”
Coran’s eyes are shining, twinkling with pride. “I’d wondered if this little talent might find you someday.” He sniffs, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “Oh, I’m so proud!”
Lance buries his face in his hands. “You can stop any time, old man.”
“Nope, not now, I’ve been waiting years for this,” Coran declares, gleeful and giddy. “Sometimes this particular talent can turn up late, very late in life. This is later than usual, but I had a Hunch and the old Force hasn’t led me wrong yet.”
Enough’s enough. Lance groans, letting his forehead hit the table. “Do I always have to do things late?”
There’s a reassuring pat on top of his head.
“There, there, Padawan,” Coran says. He’s sombered a little, voice gentle. It takes Lance back immediately; some of the tension drops from his shoulders. “There’s no shame - ”
“- in taking your time,” Lance mutters with him, into the wood. “‘m not your Padawan anymore, Master.”
“You’ll always be my Padawan,” Coran says, fondly. He ruffles Lance’s hair one more time before pulling away. “Tea?”
“Maybe.”
Coran hums, still quite pleased, and busies himself with the tea preparations. Lance gives himself twenty more seconds of embarrassment before he sits up, rubbing at his forehead.
“Right,” Coran says, when the tea’s steeped. “Tell me more. You’re certain the lightsaber was purple?”
Lance nods. Coran pours. The tea streams into two mugs, steaming hot and a peaceful amber. “Not like - magenta purple, but darker. Almost blue.”
He can’t shake the images from his head. Keith’s determination in that empty room of rock, hard and fiercely desperate. Shiro slumped in the hall, the strength Lance admires and respects leeched from his shoulders.
I’m not letting the Dark Side take him.
“Here.” Coran slides a mug of tea to Lance, breaking him from his reverie. The busy traffic of Coruscant sails by the windows, far away in the distance. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
“It better not be that nunvil-flavored stuff,” Lance warns, reaching for the cup.
Coran waves his hand absently. “No, no, not for this. You haven’t had this one before.”
That’s never reassuring. Coran’s infamous even among the Council for his terrible taste in tea. Lance suffered through many an awful cup in his Apprenticeship.
…well, there’s always a chance. Lance takes a skeptical sniff.
The putrid scent of dying animal and burnt grass whiffs straight into his nostrils. Lance gags. “Coran!”
Coran chuckles. “Helps clear the old noggin. Take a sip, and then finish telling me about your vision.”
Vision.
Lance stills. A spark of fear lights under his ribcage; he struggles to release it into the Force, setting his cup down slowly. “So you think it’s real.”
“I think times are changing,” Coran says, carefully.
08. Time passes. Lance doesn’t have the dream again. Maybe it was a fluke.
The call comes, blinking urgent and frantic across the dashboard of their ship.
“That’s an emergency code,” Hunk says, frowning. “The frequency - ”
“I got it,” Lance says. He taps open the channel immediately, cocking an eyebrow at the comms. “Lance and Hunk here.”
There’s no visual on the comms; nothing but static. Hunk leans forward, tweaking a dial until the static diminishes. Lance grins. “What can we do you for?”
There’s such a long pause Lance wonders briefly if the system’s broken.
“Helllllo?” he drawls. “Anyone there?”
The voice on the other end sighs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Keith groans.
It’s six hours before Lance and Hunk manage to pick up Keith and Shiro. Any thoughts Lance had of lording this over Keith dies as soon as the landing ramp hits the dirt.
“Quick,” Keith insists by way of greeting, “They’ll have seen you land, we have to get out of here. Hurry!”
Keith is a mess. He’s covered in scratches and bruises, his robe ripped and marred. He’s frantic, yelling up the ramp as Lance stares back at him, tongue-tied and paralyzed with shock.
Keith’s visibly supporting Shiro, who staggers with every step the two of them take up the ramp. Shiro’s bruised and bleeding too, from a scratch under his eye just to the left of his nose. For a second Lance is slammed with a double-vision of the Other Shiro, the one from his dream with a scar deep across his face -
No. That isn’t real. This is just a scratch; just a nick. What’s most frightening is the vacant look in Shiro’s eyes, the tiny tremors wracking his frame as Keith all but drags him onto the ship.
“Keith,” Shiro mutters, as their feet hit the metal grating of the interior. He’s swaying.
“We have to go,” Keith says, again. “Medbunk?”
“This way,” Hunk says, swooping in to sling Shiro’s other arm over his shoulder. “C’mon, big guy, we’re heading over here.”
Lance follows despite himself. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t need it,” Shiro murmurs. The way he staggers into Hunk betrays him.
“You’re sitting down until I tell you otherwise,” Keith snaps. The medbunk’s not far; between the two of them he and Hunk get Shiro there with ease. “He threw you into a wall!”
“Who?” Lance gapes, hand gripping one of the overhead rails. Shiro lets himself be pushed down without complaint. The fingers of his hand are twisted tight in Keith’s tunic; he shows no sign of letting go and Keith doesn’t move to pull away. “What happened?”
“It was a trap,” Keith says tightly. “They sabotaged our ship and then ambushed us. Why aren’t we moving? Shiro, lay down.”
“I’m fine,” Shiro protests.
“You are so not, man,” Hunk says, placing his broad hand on Shiro’s chest when the other man tries to get up.
Shiro’s terribly pale and shaking. The stark red of blood stands out against his cheek. His pupils are blown wide. “We have to - the Council has to know - ”
“It can wait, Takashi,” Keith snaps, “Lay down.”
“I can comm them,” Lance offers. He’s halfway between the medbay and the cockpit, but despite Keith’s urgency the Force isn’t screaming at Lance to get them in the air. The mystery in front of him is too unnerving. “What do they need to know? What happened?”
“Medkit?” Keith grunts.
“Right here.” Hunk also reaches up to snap on the brighter lights of the medbunk. Shiro flinches. Keith turns Shiro’s cheek towards him to carefully apply a plasti; as he does Hunk gasps, shocked. “How did - Keith, your arm!”
“What?!” Lance abandons any pretext of giving them space, crowding in over Hunk’s shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Keith says. “I got out of the way.”
The sleeve of his robe is completely and utterly singed, marred in a distinctive pattern that Lance - Lance knows. How many times has he received a similar burn on his sleeve, on hems, even on flesh when the training blades are set low enough? Next to him Hunk gapes, speechless with horror. A chill runs down Lance’s spine. The Force goes very, very still.
There’s only one type of weapon in the entire galaxy that could cause that kind of a burn.
“Who did you run into?” Lance asks. It’s as if the words come from somewhere outside of him, someplace different. Distant. Cold with fear.
Keith stiffens. Shiro blinks, sucking in a ragged breath.
“Guys?” Hunk asks, worry and concern warring in the single word.
“A Sith,” Shiro says at last, into the horrified silence. He swallows, thick and choked. “He called himself Darth Sendak.”
09. The Force works in mysterious ways.
Shiro’s sitting on a bench in the hall, slumped, hunched over. He cradles his right wrist in his other hand. The lights overhead glint off the metal of his wrist and palm.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“I won’t let them,” Keith says, fierce, stern. “Shiro’s my friend. I’m not letting the Dark Side take him.”
“They’ll expel you from the Jedi Order.”
“Lance,” Keith says. Lance whirls; Keith’s standing there between Lance and an open ship, holding out a lightsaber. Their hands meet, over and under.
“Lance,” Keith says, again. His eyes burn. “Don’t do this.”
Lance jerks awake.
It’s late. The lights of the ship are dimmed, the comms silent. His heart’s pounding. Hunk snores next to him in the co-pilot’s seat, completely out. Lance leans over him, checking the hyperspace clock. Plenty of time.
Lance pulls Hunk’s robe off the back of the seat where his friend had tossed it, draping it over Hunk’s shoulders and tucking him in instead. Hunk snuffles a bit in his sleep, but doesn’t wake. Lance shakes his head fondly and stands up.
He needs some air, or something.
He’s heading for the little galley on board when he hears the voices. They’re quiet, pitched low and murmuring in the artificial night. The ship’s not exactly small, but Lance can’t help himself. He presses against the wall and settles his breathing.
“You need to tell someone,” Keith murmurs.
“It’s really nothing,” Shiro insists. He sounds exhausted. Lance can’t exactly blame him.
A tiny huff of air. “Don’t give me that. I’ve never seen you so off your game. Sendak rattled you.”
“He’s strong,” Shiro mutters, and if he’s trying for thoughtful, the tone isn’t quite there. “Keith. Nothing’s bleeding. I’m alright.”
“Your definition of ‘alright’ has always needed help,” Keith shoots back, so fast it’s clearly an old topic between them. “You don’t have to be bleeding to be hurt. What do you want, Lance?”
Lance jumps, startled. Caught, he swings sheepishly out from around the corner.
Keith’s sitting on the metal grating by the medbunk, glaring up at him. Shiro’s still lying down, though his eyes are focused now and there’s a little more color to his cheeks.
“Just passing through to the kitchen,” Lance offers. Keith exhales another tiny huff of air. Lance refuses to back down. “You guys want anything?”
Keith’s reply is immediate and harsh. “No thank you.”
Lance’s eyes narrow. Where does Keith get the right to be like that to him? What has Lance ever done? “I’m not going to poison you or anything. I know how to make caf just fine.”
“That’d be great, actually,” Shiro says, before Keith can. Keith starts to say something; Shiro cuts him off with a pointed look. “That’d be nice, Lance. Thank you.”
Keith shuts his mouth. He doesn’t make eye contact with Lance.
There’s nothing else Lance can do, then. He nods and turns to head back down the corridor.
He’s barely made it three steps before Shiro’s voice floats quietly to him once again.
“Why are you so rude to him?”
Lance’s feet stop.
He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t -
But something in him is upset, is coiled and tight and hurt. Keith rattles him too, even if he doesn’t mean to, even if Lance can’t explain why. Guiltily, quietly, Lance pulls the Force around his presence to mask it ever-so-slightly, making himself seem out of earshot and farther away than four feet down the hall.
“He started it,” Keith mutters. He sounds angry - no. Not angry. Sullen? Lance frowns.
Shiro sighs.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Keith says.
A pause. The slight shifting of cloth, brief. “All I’m saying, Keith. Give him a chance.”
“Oh, so I’m supposed to be polite to someone who’s been nothing but rude to me?”
There’s a pointed silence. Lance frowns. I’m not always rude.
Right?
Keith sighs, that tiny little huff of air again. “He doesn’t - I don’t get him, Shiro. He’s always glaring at me, and he’s so - so loud. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I do it because it’s not hard,” Shiro says. “In addition to being talented, a good partner, and strong in the Force, Lance is also a Jedi Knight, just like you. He didn’t earn that title lightly. Ask him to spar with you, when we get back. He might surprise you.”
Keith doesn’t reply. Lance tucks the Force in closer to himself, hiding both his presence and the confusing mix of emotions the Force surges with. Pride swells in him again, but this time it’s also mingled with the hot burn of shame, pressing and tight.
Has he been mistreating Keith, too?
“I don’t understand him,” Keith says, at last.
“That might be because you haven’t tried,” Shiro suggests, slow and calm. “Lance is a good person, Keith. It doesn’t matter who ‘started’ it. One of you has to end it.”
Lance’s face heats, flushing embarrassed red in the darkness of the hall.
Jedi protect.
Jedi look out for others.
Jedi look out for their own.
How could he have forgotten so thoroughly?
Keith doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The awkward silence is enough.
Shiro chuckles, the sound tiny but true. “Besides.” Cloth rustles again, shifting for longer. “You might need him someday.”
“That the Force talking, or my laserbrained friend who shouldn’t be sitting up?”
“Can’t drink caf lying down.”
“You’re hopeless,” Keith mumbles, but it’s fond. Lance pushes himself away and heads for the kitchen.
The caf takes a bit of time to brew. Lance busies himself by grabbing the mugs (finding them, really; Hunk stores things in weird places sometimes) and giving them a good cleaning, just in case.
One for Shiro. One for him. One for Hunk, who’ll probably snore himself awake any second if he hasn’t already. Lance hums a little as he prepares the hot drink. He’s no Hunk, sure, but the motions are familiar and soothing.
Don’t do this, Keith’d said, in the dream. Lance’s hands still over the cups. Lance, don’t do this.
I don’t know, Shiro’d whispered, in the dream.
Shiro’d also said: One of you has to start.
Lance reaches for a fourth mug.
By the time he returns to the medbunk, mugs balanced carefully in his hands, it’s been long enough he’s kind of surprised to still hear voices. The conversation’s turned again. Lance slows, not willing to risk the corner so fast with four mugs.
“So we get stronger,” Keith says. “We warn the Council; we insist. For next time.”
“You think so too, then.”
“The Sith didn’t just appear,” Keith says, low. Lance pauses, nearly spilling the caf. “You know it. I know it. If they’re out, they want something. This isn’t going to be the last time we see them. This is a beginning.”
There is a terrible, heart-wrenching pause.
“Shiro?”
Lance waits. Fabric shifts; someone sucks in a breath. Lance makes himself stay put.
“Shiro,” Keith whispers, barely loud enough to be heard. His voice cracks; Lance has never heard anyone sound so concerned as Keith does in this moment. “Shiro, what’s wrong?”
Lance cannot resist any longer. He peeks around the corner.
Keith’s kneeling now, looking up at his best friend. Shiro’s sitting up, folded in on himself. The lights of the bunk reflect off a face lined in weariness.
“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs, and only Lance’s grip on the Force keeps the mugs from dropping. “But I…I have such a bad feeling about this.”
Shiro’s staring at his right hand.
10. When it happens, it’s devastating.
“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs. He’s staring at his hands, the fingers of his right whirring as the machinery inside moves. It’s a quiet noise in the silence of the hall. “I couldn’t stop it.”
“Don’t do this,” Keith insists. He’s standing between Lance and a ship, lightsaber held out, eyes hard. “I trusted you.”
“Lance,” Hunk urges, frantic, “Lance, you need to come and come now, I can’t hold them off much longer!”
“No!” cries a new voice, one he’s never heard before, the syllables stark and short. “My father - my family!”
“The Council’s given up on him,” Keith concludes. The long windows of the temple let in the light of the setting sun. It’s warm and wrong across Keith’s skin, the hard purple of his eyes. His lightsaber hangs at his waist; not purple. Unignited. Dark. “They say Shiro’s gone.”
“The Council knows what’s best,” Lance tries. It’s like he’s speaking without being aware of it, like his tongue moves without his conscious consent. The words drift to his ears from afar. “I’m sure they - ”
“I don’t care what they say,” Keith snaps, and he’s looking over Lance’s shoulder - no. He’s making direct eye contact, cold hard steel burning into Lance’s gaze. Lance can’t look away. “They don’t know Shiro like I do. Shiro’s my friend. I’m not letting the Dark Side take him.”
Lance jolts awake with a cry, breathing hard and panicked. Cold sweat dries on his skin. The Force is screaming, crying with outrage all around him. With Keith’s words ringing in his ears Lance throws the bedcovers aside, clambering for his boots. He has to find Shiro. He has to ask. This time he has to ask, don’t be a coward, Lance, if Shiro’s really in danger from the Dark Side Lance owes it to him to ask.
The Force cries, swirling around him, upset upset upset. There’s no time. Lance doesn’t have time to sit and be sick about it. The Force barks a warning just as he palms open the door to his bedroom. Hunk stands on the other side, hand raised to knock.
“Lance!”
“Hunk,” Lance gasps. “Hunk, I need to talk to Shiro. He’s - ”
Hunk’s jaw drops. “How did you know? Did the Force tell you?”
“I - what?” Lance’s thoughts grind to a stop. The Force - told him something, if that’s what the vision was, but right now it’s just screaming, crying and loud. He can barely stand. “I - no? What? Hunk, how did I know what?”
Hunk’s eyes widen. “You don’t - you don’t know, then. Oh, Lance. I’m…I’m so sorry.”
For the first time Hunk’s alarm fully reaches him. The pallor of Hunk’s skin; the way he’s worrying at his lip; the way he’s wringing his hands. The wide fear in his eyes. “Sorry? Sorry for what? Hunk, what’s wrong?”
“The call just came in,” Hunk says. Lance’s breath catches in his throat. “I was coming to wake you. Shiro was escorting some scientists over to Kamino. They were - we think they were shot down.”
The Force slams to a shuddering, desperate full-pitch halt.
“No,” Lance breathes.
“Master Coran commed,” Hunk says. Worry mingles with great sorrow in his eyes. The Force coils around the both of them, upset and distraught. “If anyone would know, it’s him. Their ship was destroyed, Lance. Shiro’s gone.”
12. Lance catches Keith in the hangar, wide-eyed and frantic.
“Keith!”
“Don’t try to stop me.” Keith’s got a bag over his shoulder, bulky and crowded. Exhaustion lines the shadows under his eyes, sits rigid in the tension of his shoulders. “He’s not gone. Get out of my way.”
“No.” Lance stands his ground. “Keith, you’re too close to this. We’re all - ”
“He’s not dead,” Keith cries, a near shout in the emptiness of the hangar at this hour of the morning. “Someone sabotaged their ship, exploded it or something just so we’d think that. Shiro isn’t gone.”
“Keith,” Lance tries, again. The Force whispers around him, keening and lost. He takes a step closer. “Keith, you have every right to be upset - ”
Keith pulls away, out of range. “Don’t touch me.”
Lance pulls back too, fingers hanging in the air. How do you comfort someone who doesn’t want to be comforted?
“Okay, I’ll play,” he says. Something beeps from the ship behind him; Keith looks up, brow tight. “Say Shiro’s not dead. Where is he?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Keith snaps. “And that’s what I’m going to find out. If he’s stranded, or someone took him, I’ll - I’ll find him. I’m not letting this happen.”
I’m not letting the Dark Side take him.
Lance stills. Keith, sensing the change, pushes past Lance’s shoulder and towards his ship.
“Wait,” Lance says, spinning round. “Keith, wait. There’s no proof someone took him.”
Keith turns, too. His eyes meet Lance’s. Lance braces for Keith’s angry hot glare -
- and is instead surprised to see frustrated, bitter sorrow.
“Shiro’s not dead, Lance,” Keith says. He swallows. “He isn’t. I would’ve…”
He stops. The Force whispers. Lance notices it almost absently: a warm press, like heat from sitting too close to a fire. Keith takes a deep breath.
“I would’ve felt it,” he says, quietly.
It’s the first piece of honesty they’ve ever shared.
Lance’s heart catches in his throat. “Are you two…?”
He doesn’t even know what question to ask.
Keith shrugs, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder. “I’ve known Shiro my whole life. I don’t care what the Council says about this; he’s still out there. I’m not wasting another second here while he’s alone and in danger.”
“He isn’t alone,” Lance says, still trying, still reeling. “What about the scientists he was with? Hutch? Holt?”
“Does it matter?” Keith asks tightly. “If I find them too, great. Shiro’s my first priority. I have his last known coordinates. Every minute I waste arguing with you about this is a minute longer he’s on his own. Now let me go.”
The Force whispers to Lance again, distraught, tired. It’s more of a whine -
No.
It’s a murmur.
It’s a murmur of a creek, small and new. It’s a murmur built into the swish of an open door; the shout of a pilot from the cockpit (everyone on?). It’s a murmur shaded in the blur of a lightsaber late at night (green, not purple). It’s a murmur founded in the answer of a frantic call (you’ve got to be kidding me). It’s a murmur crafted around the corner of a small ship, formed in the hold of a tiny kitchen, pulling down a fourth mug.
Let go.
“I’m not here to stop you,” Lance says. Keith’s head snaps up. “I’m here to help.”
Keith opens his mouth to reply; Lance holds up his hand. “I get it. I get that you don’t like me, but Shiro’s my friend, too. If I can help, I want to. I’m going to. And besides: you need a pilot.”
Keith blinks, stunned. “I need a what?”
“You need a pilot,” Lance repeats. “Or a co-pilot, whatever. That ship behind you’ll fly a lot better with two sets of hands. Or we can take Blue. She’s old but she’s fast. You and Shiro both already know her.”
“Blue?” Keith echoes, confused.
“My ship,” Lance clarifies. “I mean, not ‘mine’, of course, she belongs to the Temple just like the pod you’re borrowing there, but. She’s sturdy, and she can get us to Kamino faster than this old thing. What do you say?”
Something in Keith’s eyes shifts, a barrier not breaking, but…bending, perhaps. In the Force, a tiny ember sparks.
“I’m not asking you to come with me,” he says.
“Tough,” Lance says. “I’m offering. Yes or no?”
The silence in the hangar is thick. Any minute now the Temple’s going to wake thoroughly; any minute the hangar’s going to flood with droids, beginning their morning routine of maintenance. They’re out of time.
“What about Hunk?” Keith asks, finally.
“I left him a note,” Lance lies. Hunk will understand. “Are we doing this, or not?”
+1. Keith agrees.