Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They couldn't form Voltron. Lance wasn't Allura, and they just couldn't do it. Keith knew it was his fault.

It felt like all of their hard-won progress had been reversed, wound back to the beginning. When they were first standing under the star-map, as Allura told them about the lions and said which of them had the correct quintessence to match with which lion... When she'd gotten to the blue lion, Allura had faltered and looked around at the four young people who had come to her, who had woken her from sleep and offered themselves on the altar of intergalactic war for a chance to free their planet and their families from Galra subjugation.

No one else had missed that there were five lions and only four newcomers, either. They all stared back at her with uncertainty, waiting for her verdict. Would they have to search for the last paladin? Would the blue lion be able to tell them where to go somehow? Or would they just have to remain incomplete, crippled and broken, just like the universe?

Allura stood straighter and squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath. "I will pilot the blue lion. Fortunately, that lion is the most accommodating of new pilots, the most flexible and adaptable. I am not a perfect match, I will be straightforward about that, but it will have to do."

The others nodded, grim and determined. They would make it work. They had no choice.

And they had, eventually. But it had been hard, so hard. Nothing ever seemed mesh, nothing ever fit together quite right. Some days it felt like they were all about to break under the pressure. The first time they formed Voltron was more like a moment of relief than a moment of elation and joy, like Allura had said it would be. They were all just really glad to have that tool in their arsenal.

But of course, it wasn't enough. Things kept getting worse. Zarkon and the Galra kept finding them, no matter how they tried to hide, always seemed to know their plans, even knew how to break up specific battle formations they'd been working on. It was incredibly frustrating, and terrifying, and exhausting. Weeks and months on the run, exhausted, only escaping by the skin of their teeth. They were all worn down to ravelings, and they knew that the next battle would be the end. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Their reflexes were off, their tempers frayed and snapping, and they couldn't do it, they just couldn't do it anymore. Zarkon was going to capture them, and this entire feeble resistance would be over.

Then, suddenly, it stopped. A night passed with no alarms, no Galra ambush, and they all slept like the dead. The next morning they assembled in the control room, looking at each with astonishment and fear, unable to believe it. Coran and Pidge and Hunk kept checking the scanners, sure that something was malfunctioning. Maybe they were all dead and had somehow gone to an afterlife where they didn't have to fight Zarkon, that was Keith's thought.

But it was real. The Galra had stopped being able to track them, for some unfathomable reason. They all went to bed and slept for two days, only Allura and Coran infrequently rising to check the scans.

When they finally had some strength back in their bones, they went back to the lions to make sure they could still function as a team and as Voltron after that awful, harrowing period. And the blue lion wouldn't let Allura in.
 
It was strange. Allura had never bonded with the blue lion fully, but they'd always gotten along well enough. Allura couldn't figure out exactly what was going on, but she did get the sense that this wouldn't last forever. The blue lion would let her back in eventually. It just needed some time.
 
"It's very strange," Allura said later, when they assembled in a lounge to discuss it. "I would almost say that the blue lion is...mourning. But I have no idea why. In any case, we'll take some time and work on other training methods, perhaps formulate a plan of attack now that we have the space and time to breathe. At least we have the time. We should be grateful for that, at least."

She seemed confident, and everyone took her at her word. Sure enough, about a week after the ambushes stopped, the blue lion let Allura in. They never got a real reason for why a magical robot lion had needed a break, but they were all relieved to be able to fight again, so they didn't question it.

X

Then, the Blade of Marmora contacted them.

They had been engrossed in some Altean board game when the sound of another ship hailing them rang through the common area. The alert was almost drowned out by the sounds of Pidge laughing and Hunk dropping a game piece. Allura answered the call through the speaker.

“-good mood,” the clipped end of a soft voice said.

Allura composed herself, sitting up straighter despite the call only being audio. The previous levity of her voice was overlaid with stern regality, but a smile still hinted at her mouth, like an uncontainable laugh. “This is Princess Allura of Altea. For what purpose have you hailed our ship?”

“Greetings, Princess Allura. My name is Thace and I speak on behalf of the Blade of Marmora.” Keith dissolved into a coughing fit, and Allura shot him a muted glare. “We’d like to request a meeting with you and your paladins. We’re interested in forming an alliance against Emperor Zarkon.”

They were all so hopeful, especially Allura. Voltron may have been the universe’s most powerful weapon but they were still only six strong. Allies could turn this war in their favor, especially now that Zarkon seemed to have lost their trail. Allura had readily agreed to meet within the week.

Not until later did they consider the circumstances. Allura had never said anything about Voltron and yet, the Blade had requested a meeting with her and the paladins. They had known the channel to hail the castle from, a channel, Allura double checked the call log, that was reserved specifically for Altean allies. The Blade was clearly within hailing distance. How had they known where the castle was? Even the timing seemed unerringly perfect. It felt almost like all those times before, when Zarkon somehow knew every move they made, every word they said, everything.

But the draw of potential allies was too great to ignore, despite the plucking along the paladins’ nerves.

(Keith didn’t say anything for or against the Blade, only swallowed a little harder and fingered the hilt of his dagger. It glowed, a reaction Keith hadn’t called up in a long time, not since he-

Keith quelled the thought and the glow.)

They journeyed to the Blade’s spaceship three days later, two unarmed members greeting them in a show of peace. One of them was Thace, the blade who had hailed them. One of them was Ulaz.

The rest of the paladins were attempting to keep their composure, faced with the purple skin, the claws, the sharp teeth, but Keith forgot that he too should be horrified. No, Ulaz could never horrify him, not when he was a toddling five-year-old, and not now, when he was a paladin of Voltron.

Keith barely gave Ulaz time to whisper an awed Keith? before he threw himself into the Galra’s arms.

“My dear boy,” Ulaz murmured. “How I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too.” A relieved laugh bubbled up from Keith’s chest. “I missed you too.”

“Well, I…” Allura said from behind them uncertainly. Suddenly, her gasp echoed off the metal walls. Keith turned to see Allura’s eyes wide, a hand skimming over her temples and the other pressed against her chest. “The- the Blue Lion has shut me out. I think someone is in there with her.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Allura’s expression shut down. “Keith,” she snapped. “Come here!”

Keith scowled. “I’m not a dog at your beck and call.”

“Keith…” Shiro warned. The black paladin’s hand inched towards his bayard.

“Please, Princess Allura-” Thace began.

“Do not think, Thace of the Blade of Marmora, that because we came here on terms of peace, that we will not leave in violence if you are playing games with us.”

“Allura, stop. I’ll vouch for them. The Blade raised me; they were the ones who helped me infiltrate the Galra empire when I found Shiro.” Keith placed himself between the paladins and the Galra. He glared at Shiro until he saw those fingers move away from the trigger. “The Blade wants to take down Zarkon as much as we do. Whatever this is, I’m sure it’s not their fault.”

“Whatever this is, their fault or not, must be taken care of immediately. We can’t risk something endangering the Blue Lion or Voltron, so I’m afraid we must-”

“Let us explain.” Ulaz gently pushed Keith aside so he could address Allura. “I swear to you, your lion is not in danger. It will be easier to show you than tell you.”

“Show us what?” Allura asked harshly.

Ulaz looked desperately to Thace, but the other Galra only gritted his teeth. “We- we have the blue paladin.”

Something like rage flared in Allura’s eyes. “I am the blue paladin.”

Thace growled. “You know you are not.”

“How dare you-”

“No, how dare you! ” Thace took a step forward and the paladins tensed. “You must have known the Blue Lion was looking for him. You and your paladins should have been the ones to come for him, not us. You should have come for him years ago. Where were you, Princess Allura, leader of Voltron, all those years I watched him grow up? All those years I watched him be conditioned into an obedient Galra soldier, all those years I watched him long for his lion, all those years I watched him call out to you.”

Allura’s hands clenched into fists and uncurled as she inhaled slowly. “I’m sorry to inform you that no one has ever contacted us and claimed to be the blue paladin. Perhaps you have been misinformed.”

Ulaz’s hand shot out to grab Thace’s wrist as the other Galra began to snarl. “I know you care for him, Thace. But these are the people he belongs with. Do not ruin this for him,” he whispered. Louder, he said, “Let us prove it to you. Let us show you.”

There was a moment more of tense silence before Shiro said, “I trust Keith. They deserve to be heard out.”

Finally, Allura sighed. “Very well. Show us.”

X

Something awful and cold curled in Pidge’s gut. She looked down at the stuffed animal in her hand. It was a green lion, like her green lion, except it had her glasses and her tiny Rover bot attached to its paw and it was smaller than all the other stuffed lions, like how she was small.

A feeling of wrongness wound its way around her spine. It was the same feeling of wrongness that hunted them across the universe, that came after Thace had contacted them and knew too much, that tightened around her chest when Allura said that someone was with the Blue Lion. It was very close to fear.

This lion was her. Just like the stuffed yellow lion was Hunk and the red one was Keith and the black one was Shiro and the white one was Coran. (It didn’t escape any of them that there is no lion for Allura, no blue lion at all.)

It made her feel sick.

“What is this?” asked Allura. She tried to sound angry, but her voice was too thick and quiet.

Pidge closed her eyes. Even as Thace began to explain, Pidge already understood.

Chapter Text

When they returned to the castle, the air was stale between them. Thace had given them each their stuffed lions to return to Lance. They were such small things, with their mismatched swatches of fabric and uneven stitching and threadbare patches. Hard to believe such small things had almost killed them ten times over.

(Something? No, someone.)

Pidge was clutching the green lion too tightly, twisting its arm and letting it go. Hunk’s fingers were kneading into the yellow lion's belly while Coran was lightly tugging at his lion’s mustache. Shiro thumbed over the puncture wound in the black lion’s heart. They had asked about it when they first saw a bit of fluff spilling out of the lion’s chest, asked if this blue paladin had some sort of aggression towards the black.

Thace had told them Zarkon left that mark when Lance told him Shiro was the black paladin.

The realization still buzzed in Keith’s head. Lance must have been within reaching distance of Zarkon. So close to their enemy, so close to the one responsible for the death encroaching upon the universe.

In some ways, he understood. They had left Lance, abandoned him. Keith understood resentment.

It did not feel like resentment.

Thace had said that Lance didn’t understand right and wrong the way the rest of them did, but Keith looked down at the angry red lion in his hands and wondered how someone could pour so much into these representations of the paladins only to sell them out again and again. If Lance felt any kind of connection to them, why would he betray them like that?

He tried to swallow the feelings crawling up his throat, the anger and frustration, the confusion and unease. He glanced at the other paladins again but no one was there to meet his eyes. He couldn’t get a read on them. Not even Shiro.

X

The Blue Lion’s shields were up when they entered the hanger. Allura swallowed. “The Blue Lion is protecting him. I don’t think it trusts us.” A trace of a scowl marred her face. “How absurd. I doubt he even knows how to operate the Blue Lion, so he’s hardly safer cooped up in—”

“Allura,” Shiro chastised gently. “Remember what Thace told us.”

Pidge finished, “Wait for him to come to us.” She nodded, but Keith watched as she twisted the green lion’s arm again, hands as jerky as when she typed on her keyboard.

“So we’re just going to wait here? Hang around until he dignifies us with his presence and then what? A debriefing meeting?” Keith scoffed.

“He was a war prisoner, Keith—” Shiro began.

“And we’re all soldiers! We were putting our lives on the line while he got a bed to sleep in and food to eat, and at what price? Telling them whatever they wanted while he daydreamed the days away? Give me a break. He didn’t even— His family was safe, he got to talk to them everyday while we were being hunted across the galaxy. While he hunted us across the galaxy.”

“You don’t understand what—” growled Shiro.

“I don’t understand? I don’t understand? Where’s my dad, Shiro?” Keith knew it was too far, dug too deep. It hurt too much. But he had kept his mouth shut while Thace told them about Lance and he thought he could hold it in, but he couldn’t. He couldn't, not while they stared at the Blue Lion’s barrier put in place to protect Lance from them. Who needed to be protected from who?

Shiro blinked at him, startled. “I— I don’t know—”

“No, no, you don’t, because he’s gone!” Keith felt his composure leaving him as his tone slipped into juvenile, like just another petty whining teenager. He heard the telltale tremor in his voice. Quiznak, he knew he was losing it. “Because Zarkon knew I was the red paladin and he came for my dad. He—he had stayed on Earth so it was easier me and mom to escape. And in his last message to us, he told us the Galra were coming for him, that somehow they knew who he was. But really, they didn’t know, did they? Lance knew, and Lance told them, sent them, and Lance was probably having more sweet dreams while they dragged my dad away.” Keith was breathing hard, his whole chest tight as he stared down Shiro.

“Jesus…” Hunk whispered. His eyes were closed.

“He didn’t know,” Pidge whispered but she didn’t sound sure. “Right? If—if he had known, he wouldn’t have—”

“It doesn’t matter if he didn’t know, he still—”

“Keith.” Allura’s hands were twitching at her sides. “I need you to understand something. This is about more than just you. It’s about more than any of us. It’s about the whole universe. It doesn’t matter what Lance did or why he did it. He’s the blue paladin. The Blue Lion answers to him. We need the Blue Lion. We need Voltron. So if you have to mourn in private, that’s fine. But while we’re acting as a team, you need to forget all the pain Lance might have caused you. I don’t care how deep it hurt you, how personal it was. It doesn’t matter. Making sure we can fight Zarkon is the only thing that matters. Do you understand?”

All the other paladins stared at Allura. Hunk tried to damage control, waving his hands and asking, “Allura, that’s—that’s kind of heartless, don’t you think?” But Keith understood. He could see it in Allura’s eyes. Grow up.

So he swallowed the ache back down his throat and wiped the heartbreak from his face. “No, she’s right. I’ll handle it.”

“Good. And I expect that from all of you. Voltron comes first, your individual needs come second. Right now that means making sure Lance can fight as the blue paladin.”

Shiro’s brow furrowed, displeased with this turn of events, but he didn’t say anything to contradict Allura. They all grew quiet. Shiro’s gaze drifted away from the group, and he stepped up to the glowing barrier. Delicately, he brushed a finger over the curve of blue.

And just like that, the shield fell away.

The hatch opened, and if Keith squinted, he could make out the vague shape of someone with a hand held to their ear as if talking into a comm.

X

“You’re not here.” Lance peered out at the paladins, keeping his body shrouded in shadow. He shrunk further back into the darkness.

“No, I’m not.” Thace sounded worried. Angry? No, worried, Lance was almost certain. “I had thought you didn’t want me there when you met them for the first time. I will come—”

“No.” Lance’s eyes widened. He interrupted, he interrupted someone— No, it’s okay. Thace told him it’s okay. He just needed to finish what he wanted to say. “I—I thought it would be— I thought they would like it more if I was alone. But I think they’re angry.”’

“Did they hurt you?” Thace’s voice hardened. “Stay in your lion. I’ll come to get you.”

There was rustling in the background, buzzing static. Lance raised his voice to make sure he was heard, and he felt the scratch in his throat that never quite healed, not after the Blue Lion spoke through him, not after that month of— “You shouldn’t come. Not yet. They didn’t hurt me. I did bad things so they’re mad—”

“It wasn’t your fault, Lance,” Thace cut in, and Lance felt his knees lock against desire to kneel. Thace said he shouldn't kneel anymore, even if he knew he did something wrong. Kneeling was bad, being bad was okay.

“Sorry,” slipped out.

“Lance, nothing that happened to you was your fault. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Okay.” His voice dropped in volume again, so low that he thought the comm might not have picked up the sound. Apologizing was bad, kneeling was bad, being bad was okay.

“Do you want me to come get you?” There was a pause in Thace’s movement, silence on the other side of the speaker.

“No.” Lance tried to control the breath shaking in his lungs. His fingertips skimmed over different textures in an effort to distract himself, buttons and levers and rivets and the tiny blue lion sitting on the pilot’s chair. “This is where I’m supposed to be. That’s… That’s why all of this happened. Because I was supposed to be here.”

“You don't have to stay for them. For anyone. What do you want to do?”

Lance echoed Allura's words, feeling them bubble up his throat as he was conditioned to let them. “This is about more than just me. It’s about more than any of us. It’s about the whole universe.”

“You don't owe this universe anything.”

Lance closed his eyes, bringing the heel of his palm up to rub at his temple. “She expects that from all of us.”

“She? You mean Princess Allura?” A trace of worry infected Thace’s voice.

“I'll handle it.” The Blue Lion whined like it wanted him to stop, but Lance couldn't keep the words from crawling out of his throat. His intonation was off, repressed and angry and not his.

“Lance, are those your words?” Lance shook his head. He tried to speak, Thace liked it when he spoke, but he felt the lash of a whip between every knob of his spine and he was not allowed to speak, he was not allowed to speak. If he were allowed to make a sound, a whimper would have escaped him.

“It’s okay, Lance,” Thace soothed. “It’s alright. No one’s mad. No one’s going to hurt you. You can speak. You don’t have to do that anymore. You can use your own words.”

“...hurts to use my own words.” Lance’s teeth dug into his knuckles.

“No one will hurt you. I promise.” Something in Thace’s voice cracked. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

The Blue Lion rumbled around him. Impressions of protection and safety flitted along the borders of his mind. Outside the window, Lance saw the shield pulse.

“I…” His murmur was near silent, but it was his voice, no one else’s. “I want to meet them.”

“Okay,” Thace breathed.

Outside, the black paladin’s hand traced the shield. Lance nodded and the Blue Lion let the defense dissolve into light.

“They know about you. I told them about you on our ship.”

The Blue Lion’s hatch slid open. “I know,” Lance whispered.

X

The big things were different. The paladins were, of course, not small lions. They didn’t have paws or fur or skin in shades of red and green and blue. Their limbs weren’t sewn together; their veins weren’t filled with white fluff. They weren’t covered in Lance’s fingerprints, imbued with his ragged breaths, marked with crescent nail indents, like the stuffed lions were.

Still, Lance recognized them.

The small things were the same. The crease of an easy smile on the yellow paladin’s face. The discolored scar over the black paladin's nose. The green paladin's glasses, so much bigger than her eyes, so similar to the ones threaded into the green lion's fur. The angry downwards tilt of the red paladin’s eyebrows.

They were familiar in ways Lance didn’t want to think about. He had some of their mannerisms, habits he’d picked up and lost. Twitching fingers like the green paladin. Nervous hair-fiddling like the red paladin. The same gnaw of constant hunger as the yellow paladin. He shared scars with the black paladin, but those weren’t the remnants of channeling. Quirks that he had thought were his but were never his.

He recognized all the parts that made up their voices, intonation and tone, the deep breathes and latent pauses, words that became fragmented or got rushed. He knew their voices as well he knew his own voice. Better than he knew his own voice.

The paladins each holding their own little lion helped Lance weave all the details together. It was easy for him to associate different voices and habits to lions, and then lions to paladins. Thace had probably done that on purpose.

Seeing them face to face was harder than Lance had thought it would be. He had dreamed of them as humans, but their features had been hazy and their forms insubstantial. Their words had been garbled and soft no matter how they yelled, their eyes unfocused and distant. They had never seen him once in all those years.

They saw him now.

X

He was much smaller than Keith thought he would be. The way he stepped spoke of dance, the delicate footfalls and the silent movement of limbs. It spoke of dance or, Keith realized, it spoke of fear, like the retreating treads of prey. The boy clung to a stuffed animal. It looked childish in the jaws of that great Blue Lion, its threads a weak substitute for ropes of steel. But there was something about the eyes of this small lion and this monstrous one that were similar, a hint of mercy and kindness that his lion never had. No, it was nothing like the predatory glint in the Red Lion’s retinas, nothing like the vengeful spirit swelling in his chest.

Keith held the tiny red lion Lance had sewn so long ago. The angry tilt of the eyebrows and the faithful dagger stitched unmoving to his lion’s paw had not escaped him. He thought Lance must know precisely how he felt, even if Keith couldn't say the same about the other boy.

Lance stopped before them. There was a peculiar mournfulness behind the eyes that stared back at the paladins. It was the same kind of ache that was etched into Shiro’s face.

“Hello. I’m…Lance.” The rasp of Lance’s voice made a few of the paladins wince. Lance seemed to notice, and his gaze darted to the floor. “I wanted… I wanted to meet you. I… The Blue Lion… We have been connected. We are connected. And I… I know you from my dreams… The lions I made…” His eyes flicked up. “You… you helped me survive when I was…when I was with Zarkon. Thank you.”

In the pause of following silence, Lance bit his lip and shrunk back from them. He threw a furtive look back at the Blue Lion, who purred encouragingly.

Allura stepped forward. Lance hesitated before taking her outstretched hand. “It’s good to have you on team Voltron, Lance. We’re glad you were able to find us.” Keith held back a scoff. As if Lance hadn’t been able to find them. “I look forward to working with you as the Blue Paladin.”

Shiro approached next, a soft smile on his face. His palms were open and facing up, a gesture Keith had used himself to seem unthreatening when he was trying to soothe Shiro from a panic attack. “Thank you for coming to us,” he said. “We all want to help you heal and recover. If you ever need anything, know you can come to any of us. You’re part of the team now.”

Hunk began with a fist bump which Lance stared at for a beat too long before he gently brought up his hand to meet Hunk’s. “Welcome to the team.” Hunk smiled broadly.

Pidge raised her eyebrows at Keith before going up to Lance next, her handshake quick and firm. “You’re very brave,” was all she said.

And then it was only Keith left. He swallowed his pride, his hurt, his fear that they were letting in someone who would betray them, someone who didn’t understand that war was a killer, and what was done could not be undone. He steeled his heart and repeated, “Welcome to the team.”

(He did not shake Lance’s hand.)

Chapter Text

Now they had Lance, the true blue paladin, the one who should have been the blue paladin from the beginning, and nothing was right. Lance wasn't Allura. He was quiet and thin and big-eyed and strange. He rarely talked, and when he did his voice was so raspy that everyone had to be quiet in order to hear what he had to say. And his words were odd, too, like he didn't quite know how to fit them together.

Like he had grown up with aliens, to put it succinctly. But Keith had grown up with aliens, too, his Galra mother trusting a hidden base of desperate rebels to keep her son safe better than she trusted his planet of birth as it was ground under Zarkon's heel. Keith had grown up with aliens, too, but he wasn't socially stunted the way Lance was. It irritated him, dug under his skin, made him snap at Lance when he didn't deserve it. Everyone else made an effort to listen on those rare occasions when Lance tried to talk, even Allura, though her frosty stillness made it clear that it was more of a habit of diplomacy than true respect for Lance's thoughts. Keith, though, too often had a tendency to talk over Lance's soft, raspy voice, until the others shushed him.

Keith knew it was unfair, but every time he looked at Lance, all he felt was anger. Sometimes it was anger for what he had been forced to endure, but most of it was anger at Lance himself. He was just...so weak. He had buckled under the pressure, sold them out. Constantly. For months. How could Keith ever work with someone he couldn't trust to protect him? Lance had already proved himself to be a coward before they met.

It was Keith's fault they couldn't form Voltron. He knew that. Every time they tried, even in the mental exercises, his anger and resentment and, yes, underlying hurt rose up like a miasma and crowded everyone else out. Keith ended up isolated and alone, stewing in his own juices.

He didn't understand why the others didn't have the same problem. Okay, Shiro, yes, Shiro probably made the most sense. He had been plucked from Earth for the Galra bloodsport and had fought in the arenas for a year. He had survived, somehow, and that meant he had been forced to change himself. Forced to fight, forced to kill, forced to show a certain amount of bloodthirstiness in order to please the malicious crowds. He empathized with Lance for his years in captivity in a way the rest of them couldn't. Keith didn't blame Shiro for forgiving Lance so easily, though he wished that Shiro wasn't quite so kind sometimes. He could stand to be a little more suspicious.

Pidge and Hunk made less sense. They had grown up in relatively sheltered parts of Earth, regions that had to offer the Galra Empire resources rather than people. They had known the unrelenting oppression of living under tyrannical rule, but they had never been enslaved, nor known anyone who was enslaved.

In Pidge's case, of course, that had ended when her father and brother had pushed their scientific inquiries too far and brought down the wrath of the Empire. But that wasn't random and capricious, like it had been for Shiro. They had stuck their necks out too far and gotten themselves nabbed. And yes, it was horrible, and Keith wanted just as badly as Pidge did to rescue her family. But at least they weren't traitors. They hadn't sold out their own people in order to buy a few moments of comfort.

Really, Pidge should be just as upset as Keith was at Lance. His spying on them had delayed their fight and kept them from meeting their goals. For months. Who knew how much farther they could be along if Lance hadn't been telling the Empire their every move? They might have even rescued Sam and Matt Holt by now. Pidge ought to be angry at Lance. She should hate him.

But she didn't. Hunk was even warmer and kinder than she was to Lance, but they both had nothing but sympathy and grief for their new teammate. Keith could feel that through the bond when they tried to mentally connect, before his own issues cut him off. He could also see it in their expressions, their actions. When Lance made an effort to speak, both of them turned to him instantly and listened intently, and if Keith kept talking, Hunk was the first to clap a hand over his mouth to shut him up while Pidge gave him a baleful glare.

They were both interested in Lance. They kept trying to get to know him, offering him things. Hunk made foods to test Lance's tastes, working to figure out what he might like, which Lance seemed to know as little as anyone else. Pidge sat next to him in the common room while she worked on one of her projects and talked it through, explaining everything to Lance as if he was helping her instead of sitting and staring at her like a wide-eyed idiot. Pidge and Hunk both tried to play Earth games with Lance, card games from the simple to elaborate, board games they had put together from handmade parts, silly physical games like charades and red hands. They put so much effort into him. Keith didn't get it at all.

Really, at this point, Keith wasn't meshing with any of his teammates. Not even Shiro. It was no wonder they couldn't form Voltron.

He wasn't surprised when Shiro came to talk to him. Keith was on the training deck, so he was easy to find. He felt too unfocused and unsettled to duel the gladiator bot, so he was punching a training dummy. The Altean version was almost as satisfying as the kind he'd trained with at the Blade base, a resounding thump sounding in the air every time Keith's fist landed.

Shiro moved up on his right side, slow, careful. Shiro didn't like startling when others approached him too suddenly, so he took care not to do that himself. He didn't say anything, just stood and watched with his arms folded over his chest. Keith ignored him for as long as he could, punching faster and faster, though his face was heating up with the force of Shiro's quiet gaze.

Keith let out a yell and released one final, powerful uppercut to the dummy's chin, then turned toward Shiro, panting and shaking. "Yeah?"

It came out like a challenge, though he didn't mean it to be. Keith wasn't always the best at controlling himself.

Shiro didn't respond to his hostility, just held out a towel. Keith took it and swiped at his face, down each cheek, the back of his neck. He was sweating harder than usual after such a simple workout. Too much aggression, and he couldn't seem to bleed it out fast enough.

"We need to talk about Lance," Shiro said mildly.

Keith flinched, but he didn't disagree. This had been a long time coming. Everyone had tried to give him space to work out his issues, but enough was enough. They had to get back into the fight. They had to form Voltron, and everyone knew that Keith was the problem. Well, his problem with Lance was the problem.

Still, he couldn't help the way his lip curled when he looked back at Shiro's face. "He betrayed us." Might as well get straight to the heart of the matter. He betrayed me. Me. My family. Me.

"I know it seems that way." Shiro watched him quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. "But think about it. Can you really betray someone you don't know? As far as Lance knew, there was no 'us.' He only knew what he was told, what he was taught. And Zarkon taught him that he belonged to the Empire. Really, it's remarkable that he resisted as much as he did, even though from our perspective it doesn't seem like enough."

Keith frowned down at the towel in his hands, watched it twist in his vicious grip.

Shiro sighed and rubbed his forehead with his flesh-and-blood hand. "Go get a shower. Meet me in the lounge on Deck 14 so we can talk."

Keith was grateful for the reprieve. He nodded and went.

He cleaned up, spent the time trying to organize his head. He closed his eyes under the hot water and let it pound away some of the stress and confusion in his body, and he tried to understand himself. He knew his feelings weren't logical. He knew, as if from a list of facts he had memorized, that Lance had been a child when he was taken from his home and then conditioned over years to be a loyal subordinate to Zarkon. Thace had told them that he had been used and abused, too. Keith knew Lance had been punished every time he had dared to step out of line. He knew Lance had done what he had done in order to survive, nothing else. He knew everything Shiro said was true.

But somehow, no matter how he tried to logic his emotions into submission, they wouldn't change. He didn't know what else to do. Time to try something else. Time to talk to Shiro.

The lounge on Deck 14 was quiet and separate from the common rooms the crew usually used, which was why Shiro had picked it. It was an officer lounge from the heyday of the Alteans, stocked with big, comfortable chairs instead of the sunken couches they usually used. Shiro was waiting for him in a corner, calm and relaxed in his civilian clothes, hands resting on the armrests on each side. Keith moved to him, pulled up a chair opposite him, and sat down. He hunched forward, hands clasped into a knotted double fist over his knees, and looked Shiro in the face.

Shiro looked back at him quietly for a moment. His face was almost expressionless, but Keith thought he saw understanding there. Before Keith had helped Shiro escape from the arena prison, they had spent long nights talking, just a prisoner and an undercover guard. Keith had told him about his upbringing, though he had never mentioned the Blade. He talked about his training, the loss of his parents, the way he had always felt a longing in him for something bigger, something huge, the way he had felt a calling across the stars. Shiro had told him stories about Earth, too, told him that one day he hoped the two of them could spar together. Now they could spar anytime they wanted to. But somehow, in this moment, it felt like there were still bars between them.

Shiro was his leader, now. His superior. Keith looked up to him and trusted him, hung on his words. When his Galra heritage made him feel disconnected from the humans and Alteans aboard the castle, when something itched under his skin that even flying with Red couldn't dissipate, Keith could look at Shiro and let the calm of his presence seep into his soul. It worked now, too, even as agitated as he was. He would do his best to listen to Shiro and understand everything he said.

"I want to tell you what the arena was like for me," Shiro said.

Keith blinked. He hadn't expected this at all.

Shiro smiled, soft and small. "I know you understand, intellectually, why Lance did what he did. He was nine years old when Zarkon took him. Nine. He was isolated and punished and coerced and forced and molded against his will. I think you're smart enough to understand what happens when a child, or a sapling, or a cub, is taken when it's young and malleable and shaped by a determined force. As much as it seems like he had a choice, he really didn't. Not at all."

Keith's face burned, and he nodded and lowered his eyes. Yes, he knew. Intellectually, he knew.

Shiro leaned forward and caught his eye again, almost forcing Keith to look at him. "I know you're having a hard time making your head rule your heart. You know that Lance isn't to blame for what happened to him, but you can't believe it deep down. What happened to you, to your family… It’s just too deep. Too personal. Am I right about that?"

A nod.

The corner of Shiro's mouth turned up. "You've always been ruled by your instincts and your emotions, Keith. It was why you decided to help me escape and then ran away with me to Earth. It's not a bad thing, just something we have to work with. So I'm going to try to appeal to your emotions, okay? I want you to understand what the arena was like for me, because in a way, it's what being a captive to Zarkon was like for Lance. Except what happened to Lance was much, much worse. It lasted longer, it started when he was younger, and he was a much more important prisoner than me. They knew who he was the entire time, and they poured all of their considerable skill and resources into breaking him. I was almost broken, too, by just a year of being forced to fight against my will, and they weren't even trying to break me. Do you blame me for reacting the way I did?"

Keith shook his head. His mouth was dry. He had never blamed Shiro, not for an instant.

Shiro nodded and sat back in his chair. "That's because you know me. You spent time with me, you understood me, and you sympathized with me. You need to get to know Lance, too."

He began to talk. He talked about his first day at the arena, waiting with a group of newcomers all set to be sacrificed on the bloody altar of Galra entertainment, watching two fellow humans die in spatters on the arena floor, then several aliens he didn't know the names of. Then the young man next to him began to shake, Matt Holt. They had only met a few days ago in the prison ship that took them both away from Earth. Something had ignited in Shiro's chest. He described how he had pushed past his fear and took up a weapon and wounded Matt's leg in order to save his life. How that was the last good thing he ever did in the arena.

Shiro had wanted to die in Matt's place, but somehow he didn't. A desperate cry rose in his chest, I want to live, I want to live, and he began to see more sharply, to hear more precisely, to study and analyze and plan his moves. He fought, and he won. The Galra kept throwing him into more and more impossible fights, watching eagerly for him to die, and Shiro refused to do it. He stopped thinking about tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. He stopped wondering what had happened to Matt Holt. He stopped hoping that he might see his family again someday. He stopped everything that wasn't necessary to survival.

They made him choose. His life, or others. Shiro always chose himself. He killed. He took dozens of lives. Sometimes he hesitated, but never for long. The lowest point was when they forced him to kill another human. It hadn't been a good fight. It wasn't even interesting. The other human was an older man, limping and on his last legs, and Shiro had overwhelmed him easily. Then he had stood over him, his blade loose in his hand, and looked desperately to the stands for clemency. None was given. The entertainment of the match was watching the human Champion kill another human, that was all. That was what they wanted to see, and Shiro had to give it to them.

Shiro knew that if he refused to do what the crowd asked for, he would be killed. He had seen it happen before to other gladiators who still had a shred of compassion in their souls, something that made them stay their hands for a moment too long. Shiro wanted to live. So he snuffed the last spark of morality in his heart, the last vestige of human feeling, and he lived.

Soon after that, Keith was assigned to guard his cellblock. Without someone to talk to, even as casually and meaninglessly as they had begun, Shiro was sure he would have given up soon after. He would have despaired of himself, the lack of himself, and thrown himself into the arms of his next opponent for a merciful end.

Before the story was halfway through, Keith was crying, tears running down his face in a neverending stream. He sat limply back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, and he let Shiro's words wash over him, each seeming to pierce to his core. He had seen some of those fights, and he had seen Shiro afterward. He had seen his stoicness in the arena and his limp exhaustion afterward, the despair that weighed his shoulders and lengthened his nights. And no, he had never blamed him for wanting to live.

"Lance never attacked us directly," Shiro said softly, at the end. Keith couldn't look at him, but he had the feeling that Shiro was crying, too. "They used his dreams, his visions, against us. And against him. But he never stood over us in the arena with a blade in his hand and plunged it down. So really, which one of us is worse, him or me? I'm grateful that you don't blame me for what I did, Keith, truly I am. You saved my life in more than one way, and I can never repay you for that. But I hope you understand now why I don't blame Lance, either."

Keith nodded.

Chapter Text

The human boy, Lance, walked very quietly. Kolivan had only two examples of Lance's species to compare, and the other one had always been a very rambunctious and active child and young adult, so it was no surprise that he had been noisy. It was always a bit of a surprise to look up and realize that the boy Lance was standing somewhere he hadn't been just a few moments ago, watching everything with his solemn eyes.

Thace had described the training and conditioning Lance had been subjected to during his captivity, the way Haggar and Zarkon had personally groomed him as a soldier meant to be directly under Zarkon's control and command. It made sense that he was physically capable. Now that he was healed in body, it was evident by the way he moved and held himself, the way he watched a room, that he was capable of combat. He didn't just look like a soldier; he looked like a veteran. Someone who had already been through many battles and seen much death.

But Kolivan did not think that stealth was something that Zarkon and his military valued. No, that was something Lance had learned on his own. Perhaps being quiet and sliding into the shadows had afforded him a small amount of freedom when he was allowed some leeway. Perhaps Lance found solace in silence, after living in it for so much of his life. His voice was silent for a different reason, but his feet...those he could choose to make soft, to glide upon like a feline. Like a lion, perhaps.

The first time Kolivan learned how quiet Lance could be, he and Thace were discussing one of the members of the Blade still in deep cover. Kolivan's nostrils flared, sensing another presence, and he looked up sharply and found Lance standing at Thace's elbow. Kolivan's words cut off, and he stared at the boy for a moment, nonplussed. Lance looked up at him for a fraction of a moment, then away, shoulders hunched. It was the behavior of a submissive animal, and Kolivan frowned. Though he did not wish to discuss sensitive matters around this strange new guest of the Blade, he had not intended to intimidate the boy.

Thace, for his part, simply turned toward Lance with a slow pivot of his foot. His voice was patient, his body language open. "Yes, Lance? Is there something you need?"

Lance looked at him, then away. He didn't move. He didn't speak, either, but they were all starting to get used to that.

Kolivan expected Thace to accept that as an answer and go back to talking to him, but he did not. He stood there, still facing Lance. His arms were at his sides, and his voice was warm and soft. "It's all right, child. If you need something, I will gladly give it to you."

Lance looked up at him and met his gaze, staring steadily as if gauging his reaction. Then he took one small step closer to him. He looked away.

Thace nodded gently. "That's all right, Lance. You can stand close to me. Do you need anything else?"

Lance held still for a moment. Then he reached out, achingly slow. His fingers trembled in the air. Thace held still, letting him approach at his own speed. Kolivan found himself holding his breath, though he didn't know why.

Lance's fingers closed around Thace's wrist, then paused. He drew in a breath and looked up into Thace's face.

Thace nodded. He shuffled closer to the boy, one smooth, careful step. His voice was softer still. "That's all right, Lance. You can touch my arm."

Lance looked down at his hand holding Thace's wrist, frowning as if he was trying to puzzle out a riddle he didn't quite understand. Then he lifted Thace's wrist and carefully rested Thace's hand on his own shoulder.

"Oh." Thace's voice was almost inaudible now. And it was full of pain. "I understand what you need. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out."

He stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them, and folded Lance into a great, all-encompassing hug.

It was a mighty thing. Thace was head-and-shoulders taller than the human, and he bent over, almost hunching around the boy. He arms wrapped around Lance's body like vines, twining close and holding tight. His right hand lifted and cradled the back of Lance's head, guiding him to rest against him.

Lance pressed his face into the front of Thace's shoulder, and his arms rose and wrapped around his torso, fingers gripping knuckle-white in the back of his shirt. Kolivan saw that the boy's trembling had not stopped. It had gotten worse.

"That's all right," Thace murmured. "It's all right, Lance. I will embrace you whenever you wish. As long as you need, as long as you want. Just let me know."

Somehow, Lance's fingers held him even tighter. Thace tilted his head and looked up at Kolivan. His voice was still quiet, though aimed at Kolivan instead of Lance. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion at another time, leader."

Kolivan nodded. His voice came out more gruffly than he intended. "That would be acceptable."

He moved away, not without a few glances back. Thace and Lance were still standing there, holding each other as if they meant to do nothing else for some time. It was very strange.

It happened a few other times in Kolivan's presence, at random moments and for no reason he could detect. Everything would seem fine, perfectly ordinary, and then Lance would appear, standing silently at Thace's elbow. Thace came to notice this more and more quickly.

"Do you need me, Lance?" Thace would ask, gently, so gently, and Lance would nod. Then Thace would wrap him up, close and warm and safe, bending over him like a mother protecting a cub. No matter where, no matter when, no matter what else was going on. If Lance wanted a hug, Thace gave it to him swiftly and without question.

"Humans are a social species," Thace told Kolivan at one point, trying to explain. "The Empire has studied their planet long enough to know this, though somehow those records were never consulted when Lance's life was being controlled by Haggar and Zarkon. Humans require touch and physical affection, especially young ones. Lance was taken from his home as little more than an infant, as we would reckon it, and for years he was deprived of the physical touch he needed. From observing the single day he was allowed to interact with his family, it seems that Lance himself is a particularly affectionate human individual. And the Empire deprived him of that. The touches he received were for examination or instruction, or they were actively hurtful. I did what I could, when I could. A touch on his shoulder, a squeeze of his hand, a small gift that would be easy to hide. Once, only once, I was able to embrace him for a few moments."

Thace looked away, swallowing hard, then looked back to Kolivan's face. His voice was fierce, unyielding. "For half of his life, Lance has been longing for something essential to his well-being that was deliberately denied to him. He is starved for it. It's no less harmful than if he had been deprived of calcium, or iron, or any other basic building block of carbon-based life. I’m doing my best to supply the lack, now, but there is much to be done. So I will not turn him away when he gathers the courage to ask for an embrace, no matter what else may be happening at the time. Never. That is something I cannot do."

Kolivan could only nod. "I understand. Please continue, Thace. It is clear that Lance trusts you as he trusts no one else. If he is able to accept a necessary interaction from you, then it is in our best interest to allow you to provide it whenever the need rises."

And that ended the matter, or so Kolivan thought. It seemed to be a relatively simple thing. Lance needed to be embraced, and Thace was able to embrace him. That should have been enough. But it was not.

Lance walked quietly. He walked quietly enough to catch even a Blade of Marmora off guard, and they were all trained to walk silently and unseen, to slip into the shadows and disappear when the eyes of the Empire turned on them. Quiet steps were necessary to their very survival, and Kolivan was their leader. He knew stealth as an old friend kept close to the chest.

Yet Lance still walked quietly enough to surprise him. One day, Kolivan went to the hangar to inspect the ships. There was no real purpose to it. The hangar was well-maintained, frequently patrolled, and closely monitored. He accomplished nothing by going there, yet he went. It was good to look on the resources that belonged to his people with his own eyes, to remind himself that escape was always possible if the need arose.

There, he walked among the ships, running his hand across an armor panel here, a wing there. He rounded a corner, and there was Lance, standing in the middle of a row of sleek one-man starcrafts and staring, just staring. He was alone, which felt odd, until Kolivan realized that he truly didn't know what Lance did with himself when he wasn't hanging around Thace like a small, furless shadow. Lance spent many long hours alone, but somehow it had never occurred to Kolivan that he might come to the hangar. Kolivan was not skilled yet at reading Lance's expressions, but he thought he saw longing in his gaze.

It made his heart jump in his chest. "What are you doing here?" Kolivan barked, loud and harsh.

Lance startled so hard he almost fell, hands rising instinctively into a guard position across his torso. Then he turned and saw Kolivan standing there, and his eyes flew wide. Shock, terror. Then, burying those almost instantly, resignation and acceptance. Kolivan didn't understand.

Lance didn't say anything. He turned his back to Kolivan and knelt down on the floor. Then he stripped to the waist, peeling back the form-fitting black suit the Blade had given him to wear. He bent to the deck, hands braced in front of his knees on the floor. It all happened so quickly that Kolivan could only stand and stare as he did it, not comprehending.

He looked down at the boy kneeling on the floor, his back bared and bowed, his posture submissive and waiting. And he saw the scars. Lance's back had once been smooth and soft, a clean, warm nutty brown color. Now, it was crossed over and over, side to side and top to bottom, with the white lines of scars. Some were thick and jagged, some were thin and cruel, pain and punishment carved into his skin. Lance had been beaten. Whipped. Repeatedly. He had been forced to heal naturally, without the benefit of either magic or medicine, otherwise he would not have scarred. There were far, far too many. Kolivan had rarely seen so many scars even on a veteran of decades, never mind a child.

And now, at Kolivan's harsh voice, Lance had presented himself for punishment again. No thought, no question, no protest on his own behalf. He simply accepted that he was about to experience terrible, searing pain, and he braced himself to take it without complaint. Kolivan felt a shiver pass over his body, strong in his hands. He wasn't sure he understood his own emotions, they were so strong and sudden.

Then, he knew. He hated this. He hated it.

"Lance." His voice was soft now, almost inaudible. The boy heard him, though. He bent over farther, body tensing as he prepared for a blow. Kolivan wanted to kill Zarkon with his bare hands.

"Lance." He moved around the child, his steps quiet on the metal deck. He knelt down in front of him and laid his hands on Lance's bare shoulders, careful, slow. Lance tensed further at his touch, head bent down to his chest. He didn't look at him.

"No, Lance," Kolivan said, deep and calm and certain. "You didn't do anything wrong. I was startled at finding you, and I reacted badly. That was my fault. I should not have shouted. I should not have frightened you. I am sorry. You will not be punished. I will not lay a hand on you, and neither will anyone else on this base."

Lance's fingers curled against the deck, drawing against his palms. He was panting, low and harsh. Kolivan bent down closer to him, trying to look into his face.

"Lance," he tried again. "I will not hurt you. No one here will ever hurt you. I swear it. I am the leader of the Blade of Marmora, and my orders carry the weight of law. No one is permitted to harm you, least of all me. Please try to believe what I am saying."

Lance's head jerked up and down in something like a nod. He raised his head and looked up at Kolivan, slowly, so slowly. His mouth was trembling, though he was trying to keep it still. And yet, he didn't make a sound. Kolivan didn't doubt that if he had beaten him, Lance would not have made any kind of noise. He had learned to be quiet.

"Up with you, now." Kolivan shifted his grip on Lance's shoulders and carefully raised him up to sit on his knees. He let go of him and picked up the top of his suit, puddled in the boy's lap, and held it by the arm. "Let's get this back on you, cub."

Lance let Kolivan help him dress again. He trembled the entire time, a soft, unending shiver of fear and confusion. When the scars were covered, Kolivan couldn't bring himself to let go of the boy. He held his shoulders again, looking into his face. Then he dared to try something he had never imagined wanting to do.

He leaned forward and pulled the boy into a hug as he had seen Thace do many times. Lance stiffened at first, perhaps expecting the grip to be painful, perhaps in simple surprise. Then he went limp and soft in Kolivan's arms, as if he had been waiting for something like this. He pressed himself into Kolivan's body, still shaking lightly, and Kolivan wrapped him up and cradled his head against his shoulder with one hand.

"I'm sorry, cub," he said again, as soft and gentle as he would be with his own child. "No one will harm you. You did nothing wrong. You are allowed to visit the ships. Would you like to learn to fly one?"

Lance hesitated, then nodded against Kolivan's chest. He snuggled deeper into Kolivan's arms, his breath beginning to even out from its ragged panting. He was relaxing more and more as the embrace continued. Kolivan began to see why Thace did not mind doing this.

"Then we will teach you," Kolivan said firmly. "We will teach you anything you want to learn. This is a place of refuge for you, Lance. Everything is permitted to you from this moment on. I am the leader, and I say it is so."

Lance's breath caught, and he seemed to tense again, but in anticipation instead of fear. "I can fly?" His voice was soft, raspy. But Kolivan was used to listening for whispers, and he heard him perfectly well.

"Yes." He rubbed his hand over Lance's back, slow and strong. He imagined pouring a soothing salve over all those scars, shielding them, shielding Lance from eyes that didn't understand. Lance seemed to sense his intent, somehow. He turned sideways in Kolivan's arms, curling up in his lap, and leaned his head on his chest with an astonishing amount of trust, considering that just a few dobashes ago he'd been expecting Kolivan to beat him. He really must have been starved for touch, to accept it so easily from a person he had only ever eyed warily from a distance.

Kolivan let him do what he wished, only shifted his grip on the cub to hold him as close as before. "You can fly." He would have to ask Thace if the Empire had given Lance piloting lessons. Most likely, considering in the beginning they had thought that Lance would be the Blue Paladin under Zarkon's command. But whatever he had learned wouldn't necessarily translate to the spacecrafts the Blade used. It was a good idea to teach him, just in case.

Lance was one of them, now, in every way that mattered.

"You can fly." Kolivan ruffled his fingers through the cub's soft hair. "You can fight. We'll teach you how to maintain the equipment, too. How to man the turret guns and direct the defense drones. How to cook and clean. You already know how to sew, but we'll give you supplies to do more, if you want. We'll teach you anything you want to learn. That is my promise. Would you like to learn?"

"Yes." Still soft, but gaining confidence. Lance was gathering strength here, finding the means to be himself, to express his needs and desires. It warmed Kolivan in a way he had never expected to feel. "Everything."

"Everything it is."

To: All Blade Personnel
From: Kolivan
Subject: New Mission
Content: As you may be aware, we recently rescued the Blue Paladin of Voltron from a secure facility. Effective immediately, he is to be considered as a full member of the Blade, not merely a guest in our quarters. He is to be treated with all respect and consideration. No door is to be closed to him. It is the duty of every Blade to supply everything he might need, whether in the form of food, materials, training time, lessons on anything he might wish to learn, or physical touch and embraces. See Thace for further instruction on the last item, if needed. Because Haggar and Zarkon took personal interest in this cub and did everything in their power to mold him to suit their purposes, it is an act of resistance to do the opposite. Consider him to be under my personal protection and treat him as you would your own child. Or better. - Kolivan

Chapter Text

The conversation with Shiro helped, but it didn't fix things. At least Keith understood why he couldn't forgive Lance, while he had no problem with what Shiro had done to survive. It was because this was personal.

Lance hadn't just put the human race in jeopardy. He hadn't just given Zarkon instructions on how to fight back against the only hope the universe had for true freedom and justice. He hadn't just betrayed Earth.

He had betrayed Keith. That was how it felt. Keith, his father, his team. They had all been put in danger because of Lance. They had all almost died. Probably did die, in Keith's father's case, and that was a pain that would never, ever go away.

If Keith had watched Lance in the arena, seen him plunge his weapon down and take the life of a random stranger, even a human stranger, that would be one thing. That, Keith could justify. He'd had a lot of practice. But if it was himself under that blade, staring up at Lance as he brought his weapon down with that blank, empty look on his face, as if he was nothing but a vessel for the malice that poured through him, straight from Zarkon's fingertips...

Or if it had been Shiro under Lance's knife. Or Pidge, or Hunk. Or his father.

No.

Shiro was right, as always. Keith needed to talk to Lance. He needed to get to know him. If he could somehow manage to bring Lance into that umbrella, the tiny group of people that Keith cared about as much as he cared about himself... All of it would fade if Keith could do that. He was sure of it. But that felt utterly, utterly impossible.

He had to try. They had to form Voltron. Keith had never been able to fake anything, so he had to build some genuine feeling of teamwork and comity between he and Lance, no matter how tenuous. Or the universe didn't stand a chance.

So he went to Lance's room. It wasn't his most thought-out plan. He went to Lance's room after evening meal, after training was finished and everyone had split up to work on their separate projects. The door wasn't locked, so he stepped inside.

Lance was standing with his back to the door. He was bare to the waist, in the middle of taking off his shirt. Perhaps he had been preparing to take a shower—Lance was very fond of showers. Keith halted in the doorway, his hand frozen and clenched on the edge of the frame. His eyes widened until they hurt, and he couldn't close them. He couldn't shut out the sight before him, couldn't stop seeing it. He realized that he had stopped breathing only when he began to feel dizzy, and then he gulped in air. But still he could not close his eyes.

Lance had not turned around at the sound of the door. Perhaps he was accustomed to his privacy being invaded at all hours and for no reason. But at Keith's sharp, painful gasp, he turned to face him. His eyebrows raised in curiosity, taking in Keith still standing in the doorway. His shirt was folded in his hands, meticulously neat.

He looked back at Keith for a moment, his face solemn. He did not seem surprised or startled, but maybe he was just good at controlling his reactions. "Hello, Keith."

Lance wasn't good at talking. He had certain stock phrases that seemed to come more easily, perhaps because he practiced them more often. "Hello" was one of them. "Good-bye." "Thank you." "Sorry."

"Hello," Keith echoed, faint and weak. He gripped the doorway more tightly and pulled himself inside. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Lance. He was looking at his bare torso, now, trying to see... Yes. There were places where the scars had wrapped around, where white lines were visible at the edges of his chest and stomach, even one that curved around his hip and disappeared under the top of his jeans.

Lance frowned. "Can I...help you?" His shoulders hunched defensively at Keith's approach, his lanky form shrinking back, as Keith stalked across the room to meet him.

Keith reached out, his fingers spreading stiffly in the air, like claws. He didn't know what he was doing, but he couldn't stop. He grabbed Lance's shoulders and pushed him, not too hard, toward the bed. Past the pile of stuffed lions at the foot of the bed to the broader expanse.

Lance resisted for a moment, a massive tremor coursing through his body at the first touch, but then he went pliable under Keith's hands. He let him do what he wanted, and Keith felt sick, because what was he doing? What did he want?

Nothing, it wasn’t like that, he didn't... He just didn't know what else to do. Keith pushed Lance's shoulders until he sat down on the edge of the bed. Lance stared up at him, big-eyed, breathing hard. Keith sat beside him.

The shirt was clenched in Lance's hands, which were beginning to twist now in anxiety. Keith stared at the shirt, at the way it wrinkled and bunched in Lance's frantic grip. He looked up into Lance's face and saw the way it was wrinkled and warped, too.

Keith wanted to apologize, but what came out was, "Tell me about your scars."

Lance stared at him, and Keith thought he wasn't going to speak. Then he did, soft and tentative. The rasp in his voice ached in Keith's ears, and he clenched his teeth and bore it.

"On my back? The punishments?"

Keith nodded, harsh and jerky.

Lance sat still for a moment, considering. Then he set the shirt aside on the bed as if it was something precious. He straightened it out, smoothed a hand over it. Then he turned back to Keith and held out his hand palm up, his forearm resting on his thigh. One finger was outstretched.

"When I was late. To get up. To train. To be examined. One lash for each dobash. Partial counted as one, even a single tick." He spoke slowly but clearly, and every word seemed to cut to the bone.

Keith couldn't breathe. Lance held up two fingers.

"When I failed a task, but they knew I tried my best."

Three fingers. "If I did not finish my food, or anything else they gave me to eat or drink."

Four fingers. "When I made a sound but I was supposed to be silent. When I used my own words but I was supposed to channel."

Keith wanted to tell him to stop. He couldn't speak.

Five fingers. "Defiant tone." Now Lance had to switch to two hands.

Six fingers. Lance's voice shuddered in his throat. Those punishments must have been horrible. "Disobedience to a guard or teacher or caretaker."

No hands. No fingers. Lance's hands fell limp in his lap. "Disobedience to Zarkon. Or to Haggar. No limit."

Thace had said Lance was punished. He had not explained what that meant. Keith dropped his head into his hands, breathing harshly through his palms. He felt sick not just in his stomach but his entire body.

Lance had been with those people for more than seven years.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lance's hands move. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, then curled his hands around the insides of his knees, legs pressing together to hold them still. He was scared. He was scared, and he was shaking, and Keith had done that.

"They usually...healed them," Lance said slowly. As if he was trying to mitigate it. Trying to explain. "The cuts on my back, they usually... Sometimes they were left open for a few vargas. A few quintents. They were lessons. At the end, they...stopped healing them. The last month..."

He fell silent.

"You don't have to tell me anymore," Keith said, voice rough and broken. "You don't have to, you don't..."

You're never going back there, he almost said. I'll never let them do that to you again.

At least he understood now why Thace was so protective, so angry on Lance's behalf. Even Ulaz hadn't sided with Keith on this one, and he hadn't understood why until just now. The Blade must have seen this. They rescued Lance. They knew everything.

It must have torn them apart. Keith remembered being a child on the base, running around, laughing, getting into trouble, having mood swings and throwing tantrums. He didn't remember that far back, but Ulaz had told him that some of the members of the Blade had disliked him at first. He had been too strange, too alien, too disruptive. But they got used to him. By the time his memories started, every Galra there had doted on him like a favored pet.

Then they met Lance, and everything they thought they knew about human children suddenly didn't apply. They must have been comparing the two of them constantly in their minds, remembering happy, laughing Keith contrasted with this scarred and silent example of his species. It was a wonder they had been willing to give Lance up at all. It had been hard enough for them to let Keith go on his first mission, and he had been healthy, well-trained, and insistent that it was his choice, he had to, he had to go and do good in the universe.

One more question. Keith raised his head and looked Lance in the face, and Lance looked back at him, nervous but holding still, holding strong. "Who?" Keith asked, and his voice was almost as raspy as Lance's. "Who beat you?"

He wanted names. He wanted to know who, after Zarkon was defeated and the Empire overthrown, deserved to suffer as Lance had suffered.

Lance blinked the way he did when he didn't understand something, slow and dazed. "Who? Everyone."

Keith's heart stuttered in his chest. "Everyone? Everyone who cared for you? Everyone who had contact with you?"

Lance nodded. "Yes. Everyone."

"But not..." Keith's hand rose and pressed against his chest, trying to still the painful thud of his heart. "Not Thace. Surely."

Lance frowned. "Yes. He had to beat me when I was bad. Not to would have been...disobedient. Bad. Thace is good."

This was Lance's morality. What he had been taught. Disobedience was bad. Obedience was good. Nothing else mattered. Keith felt like the words were a hook that had caught in his heart, and now it pulled.

How had he ever managed to survive this at all? It beggared belief.

Lance's face lengthened in dismay. "That's wrong, isn't it?" Barely a whisper. "Thace told me that was wrong." He looked at his lap, at his trembling hands and shaking legs. He seemed exhausted by the effort, the struggle of trying to fit new facts into his rigid, binary worldview. "Thace tried to teach me at the Blade base. Zarkon was bad. Haggar was bad. I did nothing wrong. I'm trying, but it's hard to learn. I'm stupid."

Most of this was beyond Keith's ken. He didn't know how to teach Lance a new system of morality, how to undo all of the buttons and levers that had been pulled inside his brain over years and years of conditioning and brainwashing. He had no idea how to deal with that. But for the last statement, the response was completely instinctive.

"No."

Lance looked up at him, eyes wide.

Keith reached out and took his shoulders in his hands, looking him in the face. For a wonder, Lance didn't look away. "You are not stupid, Lance. You were taught bad things, by bad people, and that's...that's a lot. It's a lot to untangle, and it's going to take a long time. You're not stupid for having a hard time with that. It's okay. You're doing fine."

Tears filled Lance’s eyes. He lifted his hands and pressed his fingers along his cheekbones as if to catch the tears if they spilled over, but he didn't look away from Keith's face. He seemed mesmerized.

Keith wanted to shake him, to try to force this into his skull. All he could do was tighten his grip on Lance's shoulders and hope he understood. "Thace is right. Zarkon is bad. Haggar is bad. You did nothing wrong. You didn't deserve what they did to you, and you don't deserve the way things are so hard for you right now, either. But I'm gonna help you, okay? From now on. You're not with them anymore. You're with us. You're with me. You're my teammate, and I'm gonna help you figure it out."

Lance nodded. He pulled in a shuddering breath and covered his face with his hands. "...Not with them anymore," he said, so low that it was hard to hear.

Keith bent closer, and he heard him. He nodded quickly, almost frantically. "That's right. You're not with them anymore."

He let go of Lance's shoulders, but only so he could hug him instead. Lance leaned into him, loose and floppy as a puppy. Keith was a little surprised by how quickly the guy fell into the embrace, but he went with it. He rubbed his hands over Lance's bare back, gritting his teeth at the bumpy, corduroy texture of all those scars, and pressed his cheek to the side of Lance's head. Lance was warm and breathing and alive in his arms, and at this moment, that was all that mattered.

"Everything's gonna be okay, Lance. I swear it. Everything's gonna be fine."

"...Gonna be fine," Lance echoed, breathless with relief.

The next time they tried to form Voltron, it worked.

Chapter Text

Like clockwork, every few minutes, Lance’s head jerked up. Shiro doubted Lance even noticed it. It was an automatic reaction, happening when all the paladins were eating or while they conversed in the common room. Lance was always quiet, only observing the others talk or staring down as he wrung his hands together. As far as Shiro could tell, the movement wasn’t triggered by anything in the conversations but he watched time and time again as the quiet boy went quieter still, breathes running shallow and fingers pausing in their fiddling. Lance’s eyes would glance up to the corners of the room, wide and afraid. When Shiro sat close to him, he heard the bones in Lance’s neck crack with the action.

The motion felt almost frantic, like that of a caged animal. Shiro knew that look on so many other faces as they searched the arena walls desperately for an escape. As they looked desperately for a way to get away from him.

Lance was not looking for an escape. He did not look to the doors or the windows. He looked to the place where the ceiling meets the wall. He must have always found what he was looking for, because he would begin to relax a few seconds later. The panic would drain from the blue of his eyes, the sharp points of his shoulders would lower, and his head would drop down to bring his gaze back to the floor. A couple minutes would pass and the pattern would repeat.

Shiro was not the only one to have noticed. He saw Hunk scrutinizing the corners after Lance looked away and Keith raised a questioning eyebrow in Shiro’s direction the first few times it happened. He saw Pidge falter as Lance jolted besides her, her eyes scanning for a threat that only Lance seemed to perceive.

It was the most problematic during training.

There was no other way to put it. Lance was… Lance was deadly.

He was absolutely silent, untrackable on the field. His armor didn’t seem to creak the way the rest of theirs did. His trigger clicks were never heard. There was never a scream or so much as a whimper when he was hit. He followed orders like they were death sentences.

This pleased Allura, one less paladin to whip into shape, but something in Shiro felt uneasy.

It made sense when Pidge came to him late one night, shoulders hunched as she sat cross legged on his bed. She whispered about how it didn’t line up with what Thace had told them. Thace had said that Lance was manipulated far more psychologically than physically, that Lance was rarely let outside his room. He hadn’t said anything about the scars, so many scars, all over Lance’s skin, or the way Lance’s eyes shut down when he grabbed his bayard. Her nails dug deep into her skin. He told us that he had to leave before the Blade of Marmora could get Lance, she mumbled.

Shiro remembered that. He remembered the despair on Thace’s face, the wretchedness as the Galra had told them he had hurt Lance when he had no other choice and then been forced to flee when his divergent loyalties were discovered. He had been suspected by the druids ever since he grew close with Lance. Someone had seen him the night after Lance had given away the Blue Lion’s location for the first time, seen Thace as he hugged the boy to his chest and whispered something the other Galra could not hear. They had questioned Thace about it the next day where Lance could not see. They began to limit his visits after that. The next, the last, time he saw Lance was before the Blade’s rescue when he was ordered to punish him. He had been careless when he contacted the Blade, so desperate to get Lance to safety while the boy’s blood was still warm on his hands, and he hadn’t waited for a safe connection. The druids burst through his door minutes later. He had been lucky to escape with his life.

Do you know how long that was before the Blade got to Lance? she asked. He shook his head. Two months, she hissed. Two months. We don’t know what happened to him when Thace left. According to Thace, Lance should have no scars and shouldn’t even know how to pull the trigger. Even though Kolivan saw the scars, Blade never found out what happened in those two months so we don’t know either. That’s a big gap in our knowledge.

And whatever happened, she rubbed her arms while her eyes looked straight ahead, I think it changed him.

Since then, neither Shiro or Pidge had brought it up. There was no good reason to question Lance, not while his shots took down their targets and his training level rivaled Shiro’s. The only time Lance ever slipped up were those times his eyes jerked to look at the corners of the room and his steps faltered with his gaze.

Shiro waited for it to happen. The training simulation had just ended and yes, there it was. Lance’s head snapped up, his finger twitching on his bayard’s trigger. The blue paladin scanned the room’s four corners before the weapon finally lowered, the glow flickering out in the barrel like a dying firefly.

Shiro approached Lance with loud and audible footsteps. When he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he felt the muscles, only just relaxing, tense up again beneath his delicate grasp.

“Lance.” He tried to be gentle, they all tried to be gentle, but there was still a trace of fear in Lance’s eyes whenever any of them addressed him directly. “What are you looking at?”

X

Lance looked at him wide eyed before his gaze slammed back to the floor. He couldn’t look Shiro in the eyes, he shouldn’t look anyone in the eyes. He shouldn’t be looking anywhere but the floor where he was supposed to kneel. His grip slackened on his bayard automatically.

“Lance?” Shiro asked again. Lance’s fingers spasmed and the bayard fell from his hand.

They trained him to be a soldier when he was useless for anything else, but he was always, always their soldier. Zarkon’s soldier. They made sure he knew that. And they made sure he knew to disarm himself when they wanted to punish him.

He shouldn’t have looked. He wouldn’t have been able to stop them, wouldn’t have been able to impress them anyway. What good did it do to know? He shouldn’t have raised his gaze from the floor unless he was making a shot, unless he was given orders to. He shouldn’t have looked, he shouldn’t have looked-

Shiro’s hand dropped away from his shoulder. Lance froze as Shiro’s fingertips skimmed over the tapered end of scars through his bodysuit but the black paladin didn’t activate the glowing heat of his metal arm, didn’t dig into the marred skin until there was new blood covering it all. No, he only took a step back with his hands raised in a clear gesture of surrender.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. It’s fine, Lance. It’s okay.”

He shouldn’t have looked, but he hasn’t seen any. When he was on Zarkon’s ship, they were never hidden. The Galra wanted him to know they were watching and they were always watching. So maybe there were none here. Maybe there were no-

“Cameras,” Lance whispered. “...was looking for cameras. Don’t want to be bad if- if someone is watching.”

“When you check the corners, that’s what you’re looking for? Cameras?”

Lance nodded. His chest felt tight, like his sternum was caving in.

“But you-” Lance winced at the volume in Pidge’s voice. “You do that all the time, even when we’re not training.”

Lance nodded again but it must not have been enough of an answer because the green paladin took a step towards him. He didn’t dare look up at her face but he saw her foot move and flinched. “Sorry,” he rushed out too quickly, the syllables tangling in his vocal cords. “There was cameras everywhere… before.” The green paladin took another step and Lance tried not to panic as he stared at those approaching footfalls.

He didn’t say enough. That was something that always made the Galra on Zarkon’s ship the angriest, when he withheld information. They told him if he didn’t want to talk, he could scream instead. (But he had been punished for screaming too. He didn’t want to be punished again.) He just had to give the paladins what they wanted, and they wanted to know so he had to tell them.

The green paladin was drawing closer and things began to bubble out of him uncontrollably. “They- they liked to watch me all the time in case I channeled something important.” Closer. “They came into my room when I said something I shouldn’t have or if I stopped channeling or if I wasn’t using the lions properly. They w-were always listening.” Closer, why was she still coming closer? “There were cameras in my room and in training and in the shower-”

The green paladin was close enough to touch him now. Lance’s voice cut off as she reached out a hand-

Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream-

And picked his bayard off the floor. She gave it to him. Why were both their hands shaking?

“No one is watching you here.”

His grip on the bayard was tenuous. It stayed deactivated in his hands. “Someone is always watching.”

“But you don’t have to… to try and be good. You can just be. ”

“...don’t want to be punished.” He murmured past a clenched jaw.

“We’re not going to punish you, Lance.” Allura tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. (Her hands were not steady.) Her brow was furrowed. “We are not the Galra.”

“We are not Zarkon,” Keith corrected quietly.

Lance nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. He did not check for cameras when they started the next round of training.

(But he checked when he stripped out of his armor and he checked before he stepped into the shower and he checked when he went to bed and when he woke up in the middle of the night.)

He dreamed of whirring lenses and constant blink of recording footage.

That was not all he dreamed of.

(He doesn’t let himself remember that month, he doesn’t let himself remember that month but oh-

He has never been able to control his dreams.)

The stuffed blue lion was being ripped to shreds. Or was it-

Him.

He was being ripped to shreds. And his screams were no lion’s roar. And his heart was no lion’s heart.

But he was put in a cage like an animal. He was muzzled like an animal. (He dreamed remembered bars around him, above him, cold as space dust on his hip bones and wrist bones and finger joints as his hands wrapped around them. He dreamed remembered bars over his mouth and pressing into the hollows behind his jaw bone. He dreamed remembered his fingers clawing at locks, at triggers. He remembered it all being useless.

No, he had only dreamed it that way. Or else how did he get here?)

(How did he get here?)

His fingers brushed over the gnarled skin just under his ear (where his nails had dug in until his skin was red and slick with blood) and he swallowed.

If he closed his eyes, it was just a dream.

He closed his eyes.

X

“You know where the Blue Lion is. I know you do, Lance,” Zarkon crooned. “Won’t you tell me?” He gently tipped the glass against Lance’s lips and quintessence slid pure gold down Lance’s throat.

Lance shook his head. His veins were full. He couldn’t take anymore. The quintessence was in his tears. “No more. Please, no more. I can’t drink anymore,” he whimpered. Zarkon wiped away his tears. The emperor’s purple skin came away stained metallic.

“Just tell me, Lance. My blue paladin. Don’t you want to be good? Good boys get rewarded. I will give you back your little toys if you just tell me where this beautiful blue lion is.” Zarkon rose up from the bed and stepped back, grabbing the stuffed blue lion off the table where he had put it when he entered.

“Please…” Lance’s vision was blurred gold.

“I know you’re trying, Lance. That’s why I’ll let you hold this.” Zarkon dangled the stuffed animal before Lance and gestured to someone else in the room. “But you understand boys who can’t obey orders have to be punished, don’t you?”

The blue lion’s cloth was soft and forgiving against Lance’s fingers. It felt familiar and safe, like how Lance’s dreams felt when he used to dream.

“Do you understand, Lance?”

Lance clutched the blue lion to his chest and braced himself. “I understand.”

When Zarkon pried the blue lion from his hands, its coat was stained gold and red. That was far more painful than the whipping.

The quintessence sealed his wounds shut and smoothed his skin back over the scars. Just as it always had. He understood. This was generosity.

They let him wash the floor of its pools of scarlet and shimmer. This time, they even let him clean the fur of his blue lion, though they didn’t let him keep it.

He knew they gave him the quintessence out of kindness. It was the only way it didn’t hurt to speak. It twined his vocal cords back together for a short while before the gold bled from his back and the quintessence left his body.

The Galra had told him, The Blue Lion did this to you. Hurt you. Used you. They had asked him, Don’t you want revenge? He did not know this word. The Galra did not define it for him.

Zarkon let Lance hold his hand or sometimes even hug him and hide his face in his chest when he was being punished. Zarkon asked the questions softly between the deafening cracks of the lash. Sometimes Zarkon’s claws dug too tightly into Lance’s shoulder and his shirt darkened even as his skin stitched back together.

They stopped giving him quintessence when they began to realize the broken bond was permanent.

A waste, they hissed. On a useless boy.

They still punished him. Of course, they had to. He tried to be what Zarkon wanted, tried to be his beautiful blue paladin, but something in him was not the same, the way his voice was not the same, a ragged and wretched and broken imitation of its former itself.

He began to scar. It was unfamiliar to him; the way his skin was knotted and raised, sensitive and pale and weak fleshed; the way his body tried to recover on its own and layered him in scabs. He knew the scars were ugly. He had been told so. He had been told so for years.

Zarkon did not touch him often now. He didn’t soothe Lance as the whip came down. He simply entered, asked Lance questions and then gestured another Galra into the room. Lance missed his touches. The kiss of the whip was not enough to sustain him.

For the first time in many days, Zarkon brushed a claw over Lance’s cheek. It sliced a tiny cut into his flesh but still, Lance leaned into the touch desperately.

“Have you dreamed of the Blue Lion, Lance? Of Voltron?”

Lance shook his head, eyes falling closed as Zarkon’s palm caressed his jaw.

“Just reach out, paladin. You have done it before. You know how. Do it again. Reach out.” Lance flinched as Zarkon’s volume rose. The emperor’s fingers pressed behind his jaw and kept him from backing away.

“I- I don’t- I’m sorry, I don’t- I can’t-” His hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs. “I don’t know how.” His throat ached.

Zarkon’s talons dug in for a moment before they relaxed. Lance felt a gentle finger trace down the side of his temple. “My beautiful blue paladin… Do you not want to see your mother again?”

Lance’s eyes fluttered open hopefully. “I want to see Thace. Could… Could he come to see me?”

Light flashed off fangs as Zarkon bared his teeth. Lance’s breath stalled in his chest. Liquid fear slicked into his veins.

“I would like you to see Thace again. I would like to be able to reward you if you have earned it. But good boys have to earn their rewards. You know that, don’t you, Lance?” Lance nodded and looked down, ashamed. “Besides,” Zarkon’s voice went deadly soft. “It is not that I don’t wish for you to see Thace. It is that Thace doesn’t wish to see you, sweet thing. You know that too, don’t you?”

Lance choked back a sob and nodded again.

“It is why he doesn’t visit you anymore, beautiful blue paladin. Because he doesn’t think you are beautiful anymore. Not with these dreadful marks. He was the one who asked us to heal you with quintessence when you first came to my ship, so he never had to see your ugly scars. That’s why we don’t talk about punishments around Thace, right, pet? He never wanted to hear about the terrible things bad children must endure.” Tears slipped down Lance’s face and familiar shame pushed his head down as he curled into himself. Zarkon leaned closer to Lance, his voice a purr. “You saw the disgust on his face when he punished you. Imagine what he thinks of you now, with your skin so…” Zarkon’s hand brushed over Lance’s back, over his ridged and knotted skin. “Hideous. You understand Thace doesn’t want to see hideous, disobedient boys, don’t you? Don’t you, Lance?”

“I understand.” The words shuddered from Lance’s mouth.

“So why won’t you be good for me?” Zarkon tilted Lance’s chin up with two fingers.

“I want to be good.” A whine rose out of his throat. “I want to be good. I don’t want to be bad.”

Something flared in Zarkon’s eyes and his grip on Lance’s jaw tightened to a bruising force.

“Then tell me where Voltron is.”

Lance was sobbing now, heaving gasps stripping his throat raw as he shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know! The Blue Lion- I’m not connected to her anymore. She broke my- our- I can’t. ”

“Useless boy.” Lance collapsed back onto his bed as Zarkon released him and stormed from the room.

They did not come to punish him.

The next day, they took him out of his room for the first time in months, so many months, and left him somewhere much darker.

It was another month before he left that place again.

There was something awful and twisted here. It could be the chains that coiled around his wrists and slinked over the floor. It could be the bars that curved from the tips of his toes up to somewhere far above his head, a tangled mess of rust and corrosion that was covered in claw marks. It could be the shadows that lurked in the corners, that stretched for his ankles all day and all night, for there was no day or night here in the bottom of a war ship.

But he thought it was his voice, mangled and shoved down to die in the bottom of his lungs.

He was not allowed to speak anymore.

It was very different from before, when they gave him quintessence to drink so talking was easier or when he channeled for hours and hours or when they asked him questions, so many questions, and nothing he dreamed was his. They drew the words out of his throat like fish thrashing on a line, with sharp scales that cut along his vocal cords and the splash of saltwater tears on his face. (The last time he saw the ocean was when he was sixteen, that last time he went to Earth and felt the prickles of grass beneath his feet. He didn’t know how old he was now.)

Things were different.

He knew the questions. If he knew the answers, he was allowed to speak. Until then, he wore the muzzle.

Zarkon had given it to him, stroked his cheek as the clasp fastened behind his head and the edges curled beneath his jaw. The clasp was a simple thing without lock or key. Sometimes Lance's fingers would reach instinctively to undo it before he yanked them back. He was only allowed to take it off, only allowed to speak, when he knew the answers. Until then, a needle pricked in his forearm and spooled the tiniest bit of quintessence into his veins, enough to keep him from starving but not enough to keep him from feeling starved. Until then, he wore the muzzle.

(Sometimes late, late at night, when the bottom of the ship had run cool without a star warming its metal exterior, he would undo the clasp with trembling hands. But he never took off the muzzle.)

There were worse things than whippings. (And he could not scream.)

He didn’t know how long it had been but one day they dragged him out of his cell and handed him a slim piece of metal. It looked like the bayards he used to dream of. He stared at it, the wrong finger resting on the trigger and his breathes hot beneath the muzzle.

Lesson one was learning to notch the barrel under his chin and pull the trigger. He was supposed to do this if he ever left Zarkon’s ship. He pulled the trigger over and over again until the motion felt natural, even against the resistance beneath his finger.

The Galra sitting with him flicked a switch on top of the tool. He told Lance to aim for a target across the room. The metal was heavy and his arms were weak. They shook, just the tiniest bit, as he raised the silver barrel towards the target. The recoil shot up through his bones as a purple blast burst from the device. No, the weapon.

Lance opened his eyes that had been squeezed shut. A strip of wall was charred black. He had missed. He looked to the Galra for approval.

That’s alright. The Galra smiled, all fang and ferocity. Let’s practice lesson one again.

Lance slotted the still warm barrel of the gun beneath his chin and pulled the trigger. This time, the weapon clicked and the trigger gave under his finger. Heat flared against his skin but died before his flesh burned.

Good soldier. The Galra took the weapon from his hands. Next time we’ll get you a gun with more charge.

Lesson two was about safeties.

They taught him how to aim for a target. They taught him what was a target. (They tried to get him to shoot down his lions. He just… couldn’t. Those were the days the punishments were the worst.) They taught him to fight through the pain. They taught him how to stalk and smother his footsteps. They taught him to follow orders.

They taught him when to arm himself: to defend his emperor and other Galra soldiers, to place a weapon to his head if he’s ever taken away.

They taught him when to disarm himself: when he disobeyed orders and needed to be punished, when he missed an easy shot and needed to be punished, when he was to return to his cage.

It was easy to pull the trigger when the gun was notched beneath his chin. It was not easy to pull the trigger when the same gun was held to someone else’s temple.

It was not another Galra. It was a human prisoner in purple and black who sat in the middle of the room with silents tears running down their face. It should have been so easy but some bone deep instinct made his hand tremble. There was a word for this, one that small boys whispered in terrified giggles after they stayed up too late and watched movies for an audience too old.

Murder.

His finger couldn't pull the trigger. Someone walked up besides him, slid their hand over his, and did it for him.

He had seen blood before. It was a familiar friend. But as he saw someone else's spilled over the floor, he couldn't help the low moan that rose from the back of his throat. It didn't matter anyway. The muzzle swallowed the sound.

They threw him back into his cage bloodied and bruised. After an hour alone in the dark, his hands reached for the clasp behind his head and the muzzle fell from his face. He breathed clean air for only a moment before he was sick in the corner.

He left the muzzle off for the rest of the night. He did not tell his superiors.

The day the Blade came for him was a day of blood and false promises.

He was a liar, a traitor, a betrayer. He swore to wear the muzzle until he was ready to say the right thing but that day he ripped it off his face, desperate fingers forgetting about the clasp and tearing at the skin of his jaw, and his first words were a scream for help.

There was blood under the chafing chains when the Blade broke them from his wrists, all scarlet sorrow. There was blood soaking into the collar of his shirt from the torn flesh under his ear, blood rising to the surface of his skin where the muzzle had pressed indents for so long.

He swore he would find a weapon and pull the trigger when he left Zarkon’s ship, and he did find a weapon and he did pull the trigger, but it was not on himself.

He swore he would not force Thace to accept him, to see the horror spanned across his body, but his resolution broke as soon as he glimpsed his old caretaker. He flew into Thace's arms, sobbing and dripping blood. And Thace took him away.

Chapter Text

The first time Hunk hugged Lance, he felt the scars on his back through his shirt, and he knew Thace had only scratched the surface of what Lance had been through.

That first hug had been an act of impulse. Thace hung around on the ship for days, doing the diplomat-slash-ally thing with Allura and Shiro, but Hunk knew from the beginning that he was mostly there to keep an eye on Lance. Well, to keep an eye on the rest of them and make sure that they would treat Lance right. He seemed ready to drag Lance back to the Blade of Marmora with or without Lance’s consent the instant any of them showed any hint of doing Lance harm. He only barely tolerated the frosty looks from Allura and the grumpy glares from Keith, and those with gritted teeth. As long as they didn't lay a hand on Lance, Thace would endure their less-than-ideal attitudes, but that was the extent of his patience.

So Hunk wanted to show Thace that not all of them felt that way. He knew Shiro didn't, nor Pidge. But neither of them were particularly demonstrative, Shiro because of his own trauma and Pidge because she just wasn't built that way. She had surges of emotion when she wanted to hug or pat or lean up against someone, but it was a flash of the moment thing for her, not a way of life.

Touchy-feeliness was totally Hunk's way of life, though. He had been starting to wonder how he was going to survive a life in space with no one else who was as accepting and eager for physical affection as he was. His team was great, his team put up with him when he wanted to touch and hug and hold, but rarely initiated it. Except Coran, on occasion. His hugs were awesome, but he was also a very busy guy, so he wasn't always available when Hunk got a hankering for some hugging.

So Hunk had been delighted to realize that Lance was just as touchy-feely as he was, maybe even more so. It wasn't obvious when just the Voltron crew was there, because Lance didn't know how to act with them yet. He kept to himself, his arms held close to his sides, and his shoulders always had a slight hunch, his eyes darting around as if constantly taking stock of the room.

But when Thace was there, it was different. Lance always stood next to him, and his body language was much more relaxed. He leaned into Thace's side, and Thace put an arm around him or a hand on his shoulder without the slightest hesitation. One time, while they were talking about trade routes sitting around a table, Lance seemed to get bored with nothing to contribute. So he leaned his head on Thace's arm and stayed there, and after a bit Thace lifted his hand and started threading his fingers through his hair, soft and constant, almost absent-minded. It had been surreal to sit there listening to an alien commander talk about all of these very serious, adult matters while he petted a human adolescent like a toddler who needed a nap.

Thace gave amazing hugs, too. Whenever Lance seemed even slightly in want of one, Thace turned to him full-on and pulled him in with both arms. He bent over Lance and held him close like nothing else mattered, nothing, giving his whole attention to it, and Lance slumped into him and clutched back just as hard. Those hugs looked awesome, and Hunk wished he felt comfortable enough with Thace to ask for one, too. Thace was even bigger and stronger than Hunk, which was pretty rare on this ship. It would probably feel great to get wrapped up by a big fluffy purple Galra.

Eventually it occurred to Hunk that if he wanted to prove to Thace that they would take good care of Lance, they needed to show him that they could hug him right. It seemed very important to both of them. Hunk could give good hugs, too, so he could totally measure up.

All of this passed through Hunk's mind in an instant one day when he was on his way to breakfast and saw Thace and Lance hugging in the hall. He had no idea why the hug was happening. Maybe Lance was getting anxious about being around the Voltron team again, so Thace was giving him some huggy courage. It didn't matter. It looked like a great hug, and Hunk wanted in on it.

"Hey, guys," he said casually, walking up next to them but keeping a respectful distance. "Don't mind me."

He stood there, waiting, while they finished the hug. They never rushed things, not even while someone like, say, Allura, stood there and tapped a foot. Which Hunk was not doing, by the way. He was just waiting. Patiently.

Finally, there was one last clutch of strong warrior arms, and they released each other and stood back, then turned to face Hunk. Thace's expression was solemn, and Lance still carried some distress in his features. His face looked a little damp. Had he been crying?

Hunk's heart squeezed. Quiznak, he couldn't stand this. He raised his arms, keeping them wide so his intent wouldn't be mistaken, and took a careful step closer. He didn't look away from Lance's face, and he gave him a soft smile. "Can I hug you, too?"

As mentioned, it was an act of impulse. They barely knew each other, and there had been no indication that Lance was comfortable with contact from anyone besides Thace. Lance's eyebrows rose in response, but he didn't seem scared. He nodded swiftly, once, and his hands rose hesitantly to meet Hunk's approach.

Hunk folded his arms around his upper body and pulled him in. He was taller than Lance, though not by much, but he was a lot broader. It was easy to wrap him up, to bend his face over his shoulder and hunch over him much as he had seen Thace do many times. Lance was a little stiff at first, uncertain, but then he melted. Slowly at first, then all at once. His arms closed around Hunk's middle, his face buried in his shoulder, and he leaned into him like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. If he'd been a cat, Hunk was sure he would have been purring. Maybe, somewhere, Blue was purring for him.

Then Hunk felt the scars. Lance was wearing a relatively thin shirt, one that Coran had found in the stores for him when they were setting him up with his own room and clothing besides the dark, protective suits with the Blade of Marmora color scheme. It felt like Lance's entire back was just one big mass of scar tissue. Hunk flattened his hand on his back and rubbed up and down, both offering comfort and trying to understand what that shape was.

He remembered seeing Shiro's back in the showers. Just a glimpse of it. Shiro usually waited till the rest of them were done before he took his own shower after training. But a few times Hunk had gone back for some item he forgot. He was always noisy about it, knowing how Shiro didn't like to be surprised. He would talk or whistle to announce his presence, and Shiro was usually facing the door when he came in. But once, maybe Shiro was tired, or maybe Hunk wasn't loud enough, because he came in and Shiro's back was to the door, and he saw...

He didn't say anything then, and he didn't say anything to Lance now. But he understood. Shiro's back had borne long, thin scars, parallel in horizontal lines. Not many. He had been a good gladiator. He'd done what the Empire asked of him to the fullest extent of his ability, and he had succeeded beyond all expectations. But at some point, he must have been disobedient. Defiant. Too slow. He had been punished, whipped, and the scars would never disappear.

Lance had them, too. But he had far, far more than Shiro. Hunk didn't have to see Lance's back to know that. He felt a swirl of nausea in his gut, rising swiftly into his throat, and he gulped it down.

"There ya go," he said gently, pressing Lance a little closer in his arms, then finally stepped back so he could give the guy a smile. "That was really nice. Could I hug you more often?"

Lance stared at him, blinking dazedly for a moment, then nodded, sharp and frantic. "Please."

Hunk was still getting used to his voice, so rough and low and broken, but this time it didn't make him wince. He smiled harder. "Awesome! I'm gonna hug you all the time now, okay? No one else on this ship seems to understand the healing power of hugs." He twined his arm around Lance's shoulder and led him toward the dining hall. He started chattering, just to fill the air, just to pile something else into the space between them besides the horrifying realization he'd just had. "My family back on Earth hugged all the time. When we saw each other in the morning, when we went to bed, when we said good-bye or hello, when we were happy or sad, and lots of other times for no reason at all."

He kept going, detailing all of his family members' particular hugs, from his grandmother's (bony and tight) to his favorite uncle's (soft and squishy as a marshmallow). Lance didn't say much back, but he watched Hunk's face almost without blinking, his face open and hungry.

Hunk's heart ached. Lance was obviously touch-starved, after the abuse he'd suffered for half his life. Hunk was grateful that Thace was so devoted to Lance, that he'd been rescued by someone who understood what he needed. Thace's overwhelming protectiveness had seemed a little annoying and unnecessary at first, and Hunk had wondered what it would take to prove to him that Team Voltron could take care of their own. Now, he wasn't annoyed or confused anymore. Lance had needed Thace enormously, and Thace was leaving big shoes for the rest of them to fill. Hunk had better be up to the task. He would not fail Lance. No way, no how.

After that, hugs became a regular thing between Hunk and Lance. Hunk hugged him good morning, good night, and everything in between. Lance never initiated touch, still unsure that Hunk would permit it, perhaps, but he would get that hopeful look on his face, somehow wary and childlike at the same time. Hunk got very good at noticing that look as soon as it appeared. And Lance melted into his embrace every single time, as if he'd never been hugged before and he couldn't quite believe it was happening now.

Hunk's next self-assigned task was to get Pidge in on the action, too. Shiro was still too touch-shy to be a reliable source of hugs, and Keith... Well, that was another problem for another day. But Pidge was a lot easier to recruit. She didn't have either of Shiro or Keith's hang-ups. She liked Lance right away and was very interested in and sympathetic to him. The biggest problem was that she tended to view him more as a puzzle to be a solved, a flawed component to be mended, than as a person who just needed a lot of hugs. Like...a lot of hugs.

It wasn't a hard task, though. Hunk just took a moment while he and Pidge were working on an engineering project together and brought it up while they were both doing small, menial tasks that required precision, but not a lot of brainpower, so they could talk without fear of messing up what they were working on. His opening salvo was not the most elegant, granted, but Pidge did not need subtlety.

"Have you noticed Lance's scars?"

Pidge didn't look up from what she was doing. "Which ones?"

Hunk blinked. He should have figured that would be her answer. "The ones on his back."

Here Pidge did pause. She put her tool down and raised her head, staring into the distance. It was what she did when she was thinking very hard about something. Especially, yeah, a problem she wanted to solve. "I saw his shirt ride up one day when he threw Keith during sparring. About an inch of skin showed on his lower back. And yeah, it was basically covered with scars. I presume the rest of his back is in the same state?"

"Has to be, judging by how it feels when I hug him."

Pidge grunted and went back to her work. "He's not very modest about showers. We could probably get a full look without too much trouble."

Hunk couldn't help making a noise of frustration. "That's not what I'm getting at, dude. I don't need to see them. They're scars. There's nothing we can do about that now, and spying on him to get a good look at them out of morbid curiosity or whatever isn't going to do him any favors."

Pidge lifted her head again, this time to give him a narrow-eyed look. It was a peer of confusion rather than a glare of irritation, so Hunk looked back at her steadily. "I don't know why you brought them up, then. Of course we need more information about what happened to Lance so we can deal with it. Thace gave us an outline, but it's becoming increasingly clear that he left out a lot. A lot. And there's probably plenty more that he doesn't even know, judging by the evaluating looks he gives the guy sometimes. More information is better than less information."

Hunk softened. Right, of course Pidge was trying to help in her own roundabout way. It wasn't morbid curiosity with her, or maybe it was, but that was just a tiny corner of her motivation. "Sorry. No, you're right. We need to understand everything that Lance went through so we can help him heal from it. That's what I was getting at, actually. How we can help."

"Okay." Pidge turned her body to look at him more carefully, her hands folded on the table in front of her. "Lay it on me, then. What can we do to help?"

Hunk grinned. He should have known it would be this easy. "Right. Well, if you were paying close enough attention to notice Lance's shirt ride up for an instant during training, you've probably noticed that I've been hugging him a lot lately, right?"

Pidge nodded slowly. "I figured that was just...you being you. I know how much you like hugging." Guilt shone behind her glasses. "I'm sorry the rest of us aren't good at making sure you get that when you need it."

"It's not about me." Hunk waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about that. I mean, yes, I like hugging. But that's not really why I've been hugging Lance. Or it's only part of it. I don't know if you noticed, but Thace hugs Lance a lot, too."

"Yeah, I noticed. I figured... They seem really close. I think Thace became like a father figure to Lance. Pretty much the only person he could rely on during his years of captivity for emotional stability. Now that so much is changing for him, so quickly, it makes sense that he would lean on that support more heavily for a while."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's part of it. But also it seems like...Lance needs it. When I hug him, man, the way he just goes limp, except his hands clutching the back of my shirt... It's like he's afraid that I'll let go. Afraid I'll take it back. And sometimes he makes this little noise, deep in his throat... It reminds me of a cat desperate for attention."

Pidge frowned, taking in this new information. "You're talking about touch starvation."

Hunk nodded eagerly. Pidge got it. Of course she did. "It's like... He's been needing it for years. Years. And now that he's getting it, he still can't get enough."

Pidge sighed and leaned back in her chair, going boneless in resignation. "So you want me to help. You want me to hug him too."

Hunk nodded even more vigorously. "Yeah. Please."

"You know I'm not good at hugs, man."

Hunk made a pssh noise and waved a hand again. "You're fine. You give good hugs, when you're into it. It's just not part of your daily routine the way it is for me."

Pidge groaned. "You know how much I hate changing my routine, Hunk."

Hunk smiled fondly. "Like you even have a routine. I find you up at all hours working on projects, and if we left you to your own devices you'd probably only eat when you were hungry, which would be, like, three in the afternoon and just before midnight."

"That's a schedule. I'm bad at keeping a schedule. But I have a routine, sure, everyone does."

Hunk chuckled. "Yeah, I know. But would you be willing to change your routine, just a little? Just add in a couple of hugs a day. For Lance."

Pidge grumbled under her breath, but she straightened up in her chair with a dramatic flop and bent over her work again. "Fine," she muttered. "You know I will. For Lance."

"Awesome. Thank you so much." Hunk risked having his hand bitten off at the wrist by leaning over to ruffle her hair. Pidge growled, but didn't snap at him, and he leaned back. "You might find out you don't mind it so much, anyway. Hugs are nice. And Lance is a nice guy. You might like it."

"From all of your descriptions, he's gonna cling to me like an octopus. I don't know if I can take that."

"If it gets to be too much, just pull back. He won't make you stay. He's very..." Hunk frowned, staring away. He couldn't remember a single time that Lance disengaged from a hug first. It had always been Hunk first, when he started to feel a little weird with the prolonged contact. The instant Hunk shifted or showed the slightest discomfort, Lance always let go and leaned back immediately, as if afraid he'd overstayed his welcome.

Hunk shrugged. "Anyway, he'll wrap you up like an octopus, sure. His limbs are like twice the length of yours. But he's not gonna cling if you try to pull away. Don't worry about that."

"Okay." Pidge blew out a breath and squinted at the tiny components on her workbench. "I'll try it later tonight. You'll stand by, just in case?"

"Of course."

The hug went fine. Pidge and Hunk went to dinner together after making decent progress on their project, and after Hunk gave Lance his now-customary hello hug, Pidge gave him one, too. Lance went bug-eyed when she reached out for him, but reached back at once. Instead of wrapping her up like an octopus, he held her shoulders gingerly and stared at Hunk over the top of her head, as if making sure that he was doing it right. Pidge squeezed him tight around the middle for about three seconds, which was long time for her, then let go. Later, she told Hunk that Lance had been trembling.

It made her sad.

After that, Pidge was fully on board with the Hugs for Lance campaign. She and Hunk began a concerted effort to get to know Lance, to involve him in all kinds of activities on the ship and integrate him into their lives. It wasn't without its bumps and bobbles, but they both gave their all. Lance was bewildered by all of the attention and effort, but Thace relaxed more and stopped watching the two of them like a hawk when they were near Lance, so Hunk considered it a success.

He found out that Lance was a great companion in the kitchen. The first time Hunk asked him if he'd be willing to help him out making lunch for everyone, Lance's eyes lit up like a firecracker and he leaped to join him. Hunk laughed and put an arm around his shoulders to lead the way. Once in the kitchen, Hunk began setting out materials and tools and asking Lance what he could, what he wanted to do.

Apparently Lance had learned the basics of cookery with the Blades, but he had a long way to go. He could mix ingredients okay when given a spoon and bowl, but all of Hunk's measuring devices confused him, and he couldn't use a spatula to save his life. He was really good with a knife, though. He could chop up enough veggies to feed the whole ship for a meal in less time than Hunk's uncle would have taken, and he was a professional chef. Lance could also cut a filet with almost creepy finesse.

Lance was fascinated by everything Hunk did. He talked more in the kitchen than Hunk had ever heard before, always asking what this or that was for, what Hunk was doing, what the process was, how many steps until it was complete. Hunk chuckled and answered everything. Eventually Lance's voice started to give out, going whispery and soft, and he grimaced in pain and rubbed his sore throat. Hunk winced in sympathy and started narrating out loud, describing everything as they went.

"All right, so now we chop the golba fruits for the sauce..." Hunk set out a bowl of golf-ball-sized green lumps with glossy skins. Lance lifted one up in his hand and sniffed it, thumped it with one knuckle, even licked it. Hunk laughed and took that one back, then split it with a flourish of his knife and gave it back. "Here, try the inside."

Lance took the halved fruit and sniffed it again, nose wrinkling at the strong aroma. He stuck out his pink tongue, going cross-eyed as he tried to watch what he was doing, and brought the exposed golba flesh to the very tip of his tongue. Then he squeaked at the sour taste and jerked the fruit away, his hand spasming into a fist so that juice and pulp squeezed out on the counter. His eyes were squeezed shut, too, and he opened his eyes and looked at Hunk with an expression of extreme betrayal.

Hunk laughed like he would die. "Sorry, sorry! That was mean. You gotta cook it to bring out the best flavor." He took the smashed fruit from Lance's hand and dumped it in a waste receptacle, then ran a cloth over the counter and moved the bowl of golba fruits over to the cutting board and knife he had set out for Lance. "Here, just cut those into quarters, would you? Then we'll put them with water and spices in a pan to simmer until soft."

Lance obeyed easily. And, to Hunk's surprise, the golba fruit did not put him off from wanting to taste all of the other ingredients, too. No matter what Hunk brought out of the pantry or the refrigeration unit, Lance wanted to pick it up, smell it, feel it, then put some of it in his mouth. Hunk mostly grinned and indulged him, but one time Lance started to put a dark red leaf in his mouth, and Hunk yelled in terror and jumped to swipe it away.

"No, dude, not that one! That's poisonous until it's been cooked. Okay, not poisonous. It won't kill you. But it'll give you a heck of a stomachache, and you might have to go in the pods. Coran would be really upset, and Thace might literally kill me."

Lance stared at him wide-eyed, but he didn't look afraid at all. It was a look of revelation, not fear. After that, every time Lance wanted to try an ingredient, he would tug Hunk's sleeve and say, "Safe?" while holding the ingredient in his other hand. Hunk would glance at the item, then nod or shake his head, and then Lance would stick it in his mouth.

Hunk was happy that Lance seemed to be relaxed and enjoying himself. Training was always fraught with tension, and the misery was plain on Lance's face throughout even while he excelled at every task set for him. Meetings were difficult, too, where he tried to follow swift conversations using terms he didn't know, or, worse, he might be expected to speak. Even leisure time was uncomfortable for poor Lance, since Keith and Allura still made no effort to hide their distaste for his company. Hunk and Pidge were doing their best to counteract it, and Shiro was a blanket of peace over them all, but it was still hard to watch and be around. They needed to bond as a team, they really did, but did it have to be so difficult?

But in the kitchen, with Hunk, Lance was just a guy. This place was entirely unconnected to anything that had happened to Lance, anything he was expected to do or feel or be. He was learning a skill he was interested in, and he seemed to enjoy Hunk's company as much as Hunk enjoyed his. Plus, he was handy, and as the days passed he quickly learned everything Hunk taught him, so he became ever more helpful and fun to have around.

Hunk kept trying to figure out what Lance liked and didn't like, but it was hard. The guy was such an innocent, somehow. He had strong reactions to some of the ingredients he tried, but he never avoided any of the ones that made him grimace or frown or screw up his face. In fact, he seemed more strongly drawn to those in the future, not deterred. No matter what the finished dish was, he always ate it with enthusiasm and told Hunk that he loved it, and he seemed genuine. The Galra must have fed him nothing but disgusting rations or something. Hunk was happy to be able to provide a culinary experience, even if it got him no closer to understanding Lance’s tastes. It was fun to watch Lance's reactions to all of the new things in his life. It was like watching a child learning to walk and talk and play for the first time.

Of course, Hunk knew that Lance was not a child. The way his eyes hardened during training, the way he shot down every target in shooting practice with deadly precision, the way he fought in battle with a ferocity only barely rivaled by Keith's... Hunk knew Lance wasn't a kid. He hadn't been a kid for a long time.

But it was nice, for a little while. To pretend.

Pidge liked it, too. She started demanding Lance's time, dragging him off to her lab to be an extra set of hands when she had fiddly work to do. Hunk was usually her partner for this, so he trailed after the first couple of times out of some sense of duty. Pidge ignored him, though, concentrating all of her attention on Lance and whatever she was working on. Once she showed Lance how to do something, he picked it up immediately and performed the task with precision each time after that. Pidge complimented him on his steady hand and attention to detail, and Lance smiled, soft and shy. Pidge chattered, too, like Hunk did in the kitchen, explaining what they were doing as they went along. Lance nodded, taking in every word and occasionally asking a clarifying question. After a couple of sessions, he was just as relaxed with her as he was with Hunk. After that, Hunk left them to do their thing and took the time to work on his own projects or visit with Yellow.

Pidge and Hunk became almost like Lance's bodyguards when the entire group was together. It wasn't a conscious choice. They just found themselves gravitating to stand next to him, usually Hunk on the right and Pidge on the left. If he looked confused or lost, Hunk would lean over and whisper in his ear to explain, or Pidge would tug on his arm to pull him down and do the same thing, usually not in a whisper.

Pidge was rude about it, actually. She had no scruples against interrupting whoever was talking in order to explain something to Lance. She earned more than a few dirty looks from Allura for this, but Pidge was deliberately oblivious to anyone's disapproval. Lance was more important. Hunk and Pidge were in perfect agreement on this point. Coran and Shiro were more understanding about it, and in fact usually apologized to Lance for not explaining themselves better in the first place.

They flanked him during leisure time, too, always sitting next to him on the couches when they were hanging out, talking or playing games or watching movies. Since most of the games on the ship worked best with four players, it became something of a rotation. Usually Lance sat on one side of the board or playing area with Hunk and Pidge on each side, and opposite Lance would be Shiro or Coran. Once in a while Keith, almost never Allura.

Keith, at least, was trying. He understood that he needed to bond with Lance so they could form Voltron, and he took that seriously. Since Allura wasn't a paladin anymore, though, she felt no need to learn to get along with Lance for the good of the universe. So she didn't. It was a constant source of irritation for Hunk and Pidge. They knew and trusted Keith enough to believe that he would eventually find a way through his grudge, but Allura wasn't even trying, and that was a lot worse.

Movie nights were the most fun. Pidge had been on the run herself when she and Hunk ran into Shiro and Keith, then made their way into space, so she had had an inkling that she might not see her home for a long time. She had downloaded a veritable library of video and audio entertainment on the tera-drive in her backpack. It had come with them into war, and they all had occasion to be grateful for it. War was awful and draining and unrelenting, but sometimes it could also be boring. Levity and entertainment were crucial for morale, and Shiro and Allura had established regular movie nights early on.

And Lance had seen none of them. Or very few. Sure, he must have seen a few movies when he was a kid, but they were all but faded from his memory, and Hunk doubted he’d ever seen anything above PG. (Hunk was willing to bet that Lance's parents had been the protective type, verging on overprotective. Too bad it... No, he wouldn't think about that now. It wasn't their fault that their son had been abducted by an evil empire when he was nine.)

Pidge and Hunk argued about which movie to show Lance next, usually settling on the one that would provoke the most entertaining reactions. On the night, they sat on either side of Lance, ostensibly so they could share the bowl of snacks that Hunk always put in Lance's lap, but mostly so they could watch his face without seeming creepy about it. It was always delightful.

Lance wasn't used to movies, so he had no concept of multi-tasking. When the movie was on, he was focused on the story and nothing else, staring at the screen with his mouth partly open in awe. Once in a while he would put a hand in the bowl in his lap and lift something to his mouth, only to miss.

And, oh, his reactions. He jumped at anything even slightly scary, gasped at revelations, and laughed high and clear at the jokes, at least the ones he understood. He cried, too, freely and unashamedly, though sometimes it was for reasons Hunk didn't understand.

There were hidden landmines, though. Hunk and Pidge had been in agreement that Lilo & Stitch was a great choice: a cute, fun animated movie about friendship between a human and an alien, culminating in the forming of a new family, "little and broken, but still good." They were half-hoping that Keith would get the message of that one, too. Plus, island culture, but not from Lance's own home, so hopefully it would be familiar and comforting without making him sad.

And Lance did love it. Elvis was one of the few Earth musicians he remembered—apparently his mom had been a fan. While working with Pidge one day he had discovered the music on her jerry-rigged player and asked for his own copy, and now he listened to the entire collected works in his room when he had time to himself. He sang along with the movie, rough and low, but joyful and hilarious. He laughed at all of the hijinks, scoffed at the alien high council, and generally seemed to be having a rip-roaring good time.

Until Lilo was first threatened with being taken away by the government, then actually abducted by aliens. When Mr. Bubbles showed up in the film to take her, he got very, very quiet. Hunk didn't notice at first, entirely caught up in the story at that point. He was watching the screen for once instead of watching Lance. Then all of a sudden the couch jolted, and he looked over to see Pidge climbing over Lance's bowed back to get at Hunk.

She grabbed his collar and shook him, her voice tense and urgent. "Hunk, Hunk, look at Lance."

He looked. Lance had dropped the bowl on the floor and was bent over his lap with his arms wrapped around his head, staring at the screen through a gap between his forearms. His breathing was too fast, starting to get ragged, and he was shaking like a leaf. He looked two seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.

Hunk sucked in a breath and cursed internally. Allura had the controls for the video player, so he couldn't pause the movie, not without leaving Lance's side, which suddenly seemed like a very, very bad idea. Pidge climbed over to Lance's other side and pressed up against him as tight as she could, tucking herself in there like a kitten cuddling up to a German Shepherd. Hunk wrapped his arm around Lance's back and bent over to murmur in his ear.

"Lance, do you want to leave? We can go, get into the hall where you can calm down."

Lance shook his head, still staring at the screen without blinking. He was tense and shaking, but his body was locked in place. He couldn't leave. He had to know what would happen to Lilo.

Hunk glanced up at the screen. Stitch had just launched himself into the air, his cute/ugly little features hard with determination. "Look, Lance, it's gonna be okay, you see? They're not gonna take Lilo away. Stitch wouldn't let them. And even if they did, nothing bad would happen to her, I promise. Nothing bad is gonna happen to Lilo. The alien government in this movie is nothing like the Galra. They would never hurt a little human girl, never. As soon as they figured out the mistake they would have taken her right back anyway, because her planet is protected, remember? It's okay, it's gonna be okay."

Lance held very, very still. Then he nodded. Still, his tension didn't release until the credits began to roll. Hunk and Pidge remained wrapped around him until he finally started to relax. He abruptly ripped free and stood up, then turned to face them when they jumped to their feet, intent on apologizing.

"Thank you for the movie," he said roughly, as usual. He swiped at his damp face with a shaking hand. "I'd like to be alone now, please."

They nodded, speechless with grief and guilt, and he fled to his room. The next day, he didn't want to talk about it. Hunk was afraid that they had made a huge, huge mistake. But Lance recovered, slowly. By the next movie night, he was himself again, staring enthralled at the screen and clearly enjoying every moment of it. They'd chosen to go with Ratatouille, this time, and he was really into the cooking scenes.

The next night something happened. Something good. Keith had a discussion with Shiro, then went to see Lance in his room, and he had a breakthrough. He didn't discuss it with the rest of them, but Hunk saw the release on his face, the understanding in his eyes. He'd cried. So had Lance. The next time they tried to form Voltron, it worked.

Things finally seemed to be getting better.

Chapter Text

The trouble started when Hunk got hurt on a mission. Looking back, Shiro could see that, but at the time it hadn't seemed that significant. It had been terrifying, struggling to get Hunk back to the castle after he passed out from a blow to the head hard enough to crack his helmet. Everyone had fought ferociously, though Lance had perhaps been even a little more desperate than the others. But they had gotten Hunk home and into a pod, and he was going to heal just fine. Head injuries were tricky, that was all, so it was going to be slightly longer than the usual stints for broken limbs and deep lacerations.

It was always hard when one of the paladins was down for the count, even for a few days. Hunk's absence was felt particularly sharply. He just had such a way of smoothing things over for the rest of them, always lightening the atmosphere with his good cheer and honest concern for everyone's well-being. Things were better now that Keith and Lance were getting along, which was the only saving grace. If this had happened even a week ago, before Keith found some way through to reconcile his feelings about Lance, it would be a lot harder. But it was plenty hard enough as it was.

The first day, everyone was too exhausted and worn out to notice that Lance was reverting, getting skittish the way he'd been at the very beginning. It had never really gone away, that skittishness, but at least he had been starting to relax around the other paladins. Hunk and Pidge had done good work earning Lance's trust, enough that Thace had finally consented to go back to the Blade of Marmora, though always with the promise that he would come back immediately if Lance even hinted that he needed him. To that end, he had given Lance a communicator, constructed by a tech genius named Slav, that Lance could use to contact him at anytime no matter where he was.

After the breakthrough with Keith, Shiro had honestly thought that those early days were gone now, and Lance was finally learning to believe that they weren't going to hurt him, they weren't going to punish him and control him as he'd been conditioned to expect, that he was free to feel and act and be whatever he wanted.

Apparently that had been wishful thinking, or maybe it was only Hunk who had earned Lance's trust to that extent. After only two days without Hunk there to buffer the team, talking cheerfully to Lance and dragging him into group activities and just being there, always, Lance was a mess. He jumped whenever someone spoke loudly or moved quickly, eyes darting and shoulders hunching, as if he was waiting for a blow. He had been starting to contribute to discussions around the table and during leisure time, but now he clammed up again, pressing his lips together at moments when he might have otherwise spoken. Pidge tried to drag him in, asking his opinion and encouraging him to speak, and Shiro and Coran did their best to include him, and even Keith made a few awkward overtures, but nothing seemed to help.

Worst of all, Shiro realized that when Lance looked the most afraid, the most expectant of being struck or scolded or otherwise punished, he was looking at Shiro. He seemed to be expecting something from Shiro, constantly, and Shiro had no idea what to do about it. Simply not punishing Lance didn't seem to be enough. Shiro seriously considered calling Thace and asking him to come back and deal with this, because he was clearly out of his depth. He was failing Lance, somehow, and his frustration and helplessness over the situation was almost more than he could bear.

Things came to a head the third day Hunk was in the pod. Lance was jumpy during training, and for the first time it was bad enough that it was affecting his performance. Usually he was able to shut down everything and take on whatever challenge was placed in front of him with a blank expression and precise skills, but today he was off-kilter, out of balance. He missed several shots in a row for the first time Shiro could remember, ever.

Everyone was shocked by the sudden lapse, Lance most of all. He went still suddenly, in the middle of the training floor with his bayard hanging loose in his hands. Shiro turned to look at him and felt his heart lurch in his chest, thudding against his rib cage in fear and grief. Lance's face was ghostly pale, stricken with terror. He looked like he was expecting to be killed at any second, just struck down where he stood. When he saw Shiro looking at him, the bayard slipped from his hands and clattered on the floor.

"End simulation," Shiro said, suddenly firm and decisive. He didn't know what was going on here, and he didn't know why, but he could no longer wait for this situation to magically remedy itself. He looked around at the others, saw Keith and Pidge both looking at him with pleading in their eyes. They didn't know what to do, either, but they thought Shiro did.

Shiro glanced up at the control room, where he knew Coran and Allura were watching. "We're done for the day!" he called. "We'll debrief later."

Coran and Allura took that for the dismissal it was and exited the control room, and the lights went dark in the overhanging window. Shiro lowered his head and saw Keith and Pidge moving toward the exit, though Lance was still standing frozen where he stood. Shiro cleared his throat. "Lance, please stay back. We need to talk."

He somehow went even more pale, and Shiro couldn't tell from this distance, but he was pretty sure he was shaking. Keith and Pidge looked at him, then at Shiro, then slowly took their leave. Pidge lingered behind for a moment, looking back at Shiro, and mouthed something with exaggerated movements of her head. Fix this.

Shiro nodded once, sharply, and she left. Shiro looked at Lance. He was staring at Shiro, his face almost translucent under his normal brown skin tone. He was expecting Shiro to hurt him, and Shiro had no idea why.

Shiro looked at Lance, and he tried to remember. He tried to remember what it felt like to be fresh out of the arena, to be surrounded by guards who would beat him or strike him or at the very least deprive him of food if he showed even the slightest hint of defiance. He tried to remember the way that had changed him, the way he had begun to monitor himself, to control his own reactions, until the guards didn't even have to say anything, didn't have to do anything, didn't have to look at him, because he was already falling into submission and compliance on his own.

Shiro had done his best to forget all of that. Perhaps he had succeeded too well. He had only been there for a year, so it hadn't been too hard to remember what life had been like Before. And as soon as he was away from the arena, he had a new life and new responsibilities, a new life-or-death fight that he had to adapt to. That hadn't been easy, either, but he had been able to let it take him over. He had learned to comply to a new set of expectations, to submit to another purpose and another need.

For Lance, the arena had never ended. He had been taught to be a soldier and to live in service to Zarkon, and when the universe took the place of Zarkon, he continued to be a soldier. His past had been too far away to draw on, too far away and too different. He was still living by the rules he had learned despite all words to the contrary, because words meant little to someone who had been shaped as Lance had been shaped. Words were not enough. Action was needed here, but Shiro had no idea what action to take.

Shiro needed to understand. What rules was Lance living by? Keith had told him about the punishment rules, a list of infractions and consequences that had sickened him to his core, but there was obviously more to this. Slowly, Shiro approached. He stepped carefully and deliberately, and he hated the feeling that he was trying to sneak up on a wounded wild animal cowering against a wall. Lance was not an animal.

But he had been treated like one.

Lance had already dropped his bayard, something which Shiro figured he had been taught to do when he was about to be punished. Now, he started to take a half-step backward, then forced himself to stop, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He was staring at Shiro, unable to look away. He started to take off his armor.

"Lance, no." It rapped out like a command, much harsher than Shiro had intended. Lance didn't stop. He must have thought Shiro was talking about his supposed sin, the cause of his coming punishment. His hands shook. The helmet was gone, the breastplate, the gauntlets.

"Lance, no. Stop." Shiro ran the last few steps, abandoning his slow approach. He grabbed Lance's hands in both of his and held them still. Or tried to, with the way they were shaking.

Lance froze and stared down at their hands clasped in the air between them, at Shiro's fingers wrapped around his own. His shaking intensified. He flexed his fingers, straightened them out as if testing Shiro's grip, though he made not even the slightest twist to get away. He just stood there, transfixed. His confusion was thick and palpable. It made Shiro's throat seize up.

He forced himself to talk. "I'm not going to punish you. You don't need to bare your back." That, at least, he knew with certainty.

After a long moment of standing there with Shiro holding his hands, Lance looked up at him. His eyes were wide with terror, still, and his lips were trembling. "Why?" An agonized whisper.

"You don't deserve to be punished."

Lance shook his head. "Yes, I do. I failed in training. I let Hunk get hurt."

Shiro's heart thumped painfully in his chest. He caught his breath. "Hunk? This is about Hunk?"

Lance bit his lower lip, holding it clenched between his teeth, then nodded hesitantly. "At least... I thought..."

Shiro tightened his grip on his hands. "Why? You weren't anywhere near the place where Hunk got hurt. You fought as fiercely as the rest of us to get away and you were instrumental in our escape. What do you think you did that deserved punishment?"

Lance opened his mouth, then closed it. He was struggling with himself, struggling to find the words to say. But as always when someone asked him a direct question, he answered. He looked resigned as he spoke, and he unconsciously leaned away from Shiro's proximity. He was expecting to be punished for this, too. "I don't know."

Shiro fought down a snarl. They had punished him for not knowing what to say when he was questioned, too. Maybe they had classed that as disobedience, so they could give him the maximum punishment their rules allowed. Because, of course, Lance was expected to know. At all times, everything. He was Zarkon's prophet, his oracle. What use was an oracle who did not know the answer to a question? And so Lance had been taught.

Shiro fought all this down and responded in the smoothest tone he could manage. "You didn't do anything wrong when Hunk was hurt, Lance. Nothing. You did everything perfectly. Why did you...?" No, that was the wrong question. Shiro held still, then tried again. "What have we done in the past few days that made you think you deserved punishment? Or that...that you were being punished?"

This, Lance could answer. "No one touched me."

It was Shiro's turn to be shocked and confused. He cast his mind back over the last three days, trying to remember... No, it was true. After a mission, there was usually a round of congratulatory backpats and hair ruffles, but they had been too stressed by Hunk's injury, gathering in the infirmary to see him into the cryo-pod, then shuffling off to their rooms to rest. Lance had hung back from the group in the infirmary, so no one had given him a quick hug or reassuring shoulder squeeze, as Shiro had done for Pidge and Keith.

No, no one had touched Lance in the last few days. It was Hunk who set the tone for the team, in far too many badly missed ways, and one of those was the level of physical affection. He gave hugs and shoulder touches and high fives, so everyone else did too. Shiro was still wary of closeness, still carrying the coldness of the arena in his bones. Pidge was open to affection but rarely initiated it, so with Hunk absent it probably hadn’t occurred to her to offer it. And Keith's understanding of Lance was too new and tentative for such things, especially since Keith had always been slow to trust and wary of outsiders even when he didn't blame them for the death of his father.

This was Shiro's fault. He should have seen, should have noticed...

No, it was too late for that. He just had to fix it now. Had to understand it now.

Shiro drew a deep breath, shoving down his guilt and self-recrimination for later. He had time enough to wallow after he had mended things for Lance. "All right," he said calmly. "That was a mistake, and I'm very sorry. I will do everything I can to prevent that in the future. But can you explain why not being touched seemed like a punishment to you? It was not intended to be."

Lance stared at him, trying to take this in. "It wasn't?"

Oh. His voice was so small. So scared. So hopeful.

Shiro swallowed down the lump in his throat. "It was not. It was an accident."

Lance blinked rapidly, then stared away at nothing. "I thought... It was different, before."

"With the Galra? With..." Shiro hated saying this name. "Zarkon?"

Lance nodded absently. "When I was good, he caressed me. Embraced me. Even while I was being punished, sometimes. When I was bad, he didn't. No one did."

Shiro fought down a shudder at the thought of Zarkon touching and embracing anyone, let alone a confused and brainwashed child soldier he held firmly under his thumb. "He used affectionate touches to control you," he said softly. "The carrot to the stick."

Lance met his eyes again. "I don't know that idiom."

Shiro smiled, though it was painful. Pidge had taught him that, taught him to speak up when he didn't understand some figure of speech that the other paladins used. He was learning to be assertive, to ask for explanations instead of languishing in confusion. It was a very, very good sign that he was doing it now, in the middle of this awful, fraught conversation.

He softened his grip on Lance's hands, rubbing his thumbs over the backs. He wished they weren't wearing their armor gloves, so Lance could feel it more immediately and understand how genuine it was. "The carrot is reward, the stick is punishment. Zarkon and the Galra used both against you. The best manipulators always do. They manipulated you, Lance. They used you. They taught you rules designed to keep you under their control forever."

Lance nodded slowly. "Thace said something like that. Keith too."

"They were right. Again, I'm very, very sorry for the past few days. If I had known how important it was to you to be touched, I would have made sure to hug you every day. Pidge, too. Keith will also work up to it, if we ask him to. He may be awkward at first, though, so you'll need to be patient."

He tried to say it in a joking tone, trying to lighten the mood, but Lance just nodded solemnly. "But you won't when I've been bad, right?"

Shiro’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. The next words came out in an explosive rush. He really, really needed this boy to believe him. "Lance, you're never bad. Never. You never deserve to be punished. Not like Zarkon and the Galra did."

Lance's expression turned skeptical. "What if I mess up in training?"

"Doesn't deserve to be punished. If it's really, really bad, we might ask you to train more to bring up your skills, but that hasn't been an issue so far. If it did happen, we wouldn't punish you. No beatings. No withholding touch."

"What if someone gets hurts and it's my fault?"

Shiro drew a breath and settled his stance. This was going to be a long process. "If you ever allowed someone to be hurt deliberately, yes, that would be worthy of discipline. But if you did, you wouldn't be the person you are. You wouldn't be a hero, and you wouldn't be the Blue Paladin. So I'm confident that it will never happen. If someone gets hurt because of your mistake, that is very regrettable, and I'm sure you will feel very bad, but a mistake is not worthy of punishment, either. We will do everything we can to prevent similar mistakes in the future, but there will be no beating and no withholding of touch."

"What if I disobey an order?"

"That would depend on the order and the reason that you disobeyed it. You are not a machine, Lance. If you think I'm making a bad call and you see a better path in the heat of the moment, I want you to take it. We will discuss these matters when and if they occur. It may be that I will disagree with your reasons for disobeying me, but there will be no beating and no withholding of touch. Ever."

Lance opened his mouth, but Shiro kept going. "You will not be punished for speaking with a defiant tone. Nor for refusing to eat or drink something we give you. We will not punish you for using your own words, never, we want you to speak as yourself. We will not punish you for being a few ticks or doboshes late to something, though if tardiness gets to be severe and becomes a problem we may have to seek some sort of solution, like sending Coran to fetch you, perhaps. But you will not be beaten and you will not be deprived of touch. Never. No matter what."

Lance was silent, absorbing this. He stared down at their hands again, seeming fascinated by the sight. Shiro had a moment of inspiration. He let go of Lance for a moment, leaving him hanging in the air and hoping that he wouldn't misunderstand. As swiftly as he could, he took off his gloves, breaking the rubber-like seal at each wrist and baring his flesh-and-blood hand as well as his metal one. Then he reached out and stripped off Lance's gloves, as well. And he took Lance's hands in his again, feeling the press of flesh against flesh. Lance's hands were warm, callused in the pattern of someone who spent long hours working with firearms, and shivering minutely.

Lance stared down their hands. He was limp in Shiro's grip, letting him do what he wanted. Then he shifted, just a little. His fingers curled around Shiro's hands, slow and tentative. Then, he was holding Shiro in return. Shiro squeezed gently to show that it was okay.

Lance looked up into his face, eyes wide, but the fear was ebbing away. "I have to know..."

Shiro nodded. "What is it? You can ask me anything."

"You mentioned discipline. If I ever did something...wrong... What does that mean?"

Shiro closed his eyes in relief for a moment. Lance was learning. He hadn't asked what would happen when he was "bad," the language the Empire had taught him. He'd asked about the consequences of doing something "wrong," which was fair enough. Lance clearly needed to know where the boundaries were, what they were, before he could truly feel safe with Shiro.

"That would depend on the circumstance," Shiro said slowly. "If you, or any of the other paladins, did something wrong, you might be asked to do unpleasant chores, or an exhausting training regimen. You might lose privileges for a time, like eating Hunk's food or joining in a leisure activity, or perhaps certain amenities in your room might be taken away temporarily. Certainly I would be very disappointed. And Allura would probably scold you."

Lance winced at the last, and Shiro silently vowed to make sure that one never happened. Not to Lance, anyway. Allura could have a sharp tongue and unforgiving disposition, and her scolding of Lance was likely to cross into verbally abusive territory. That could not be allowed. Allura could scold Keith the next time he was reckless, or Pidge when she let her other duties lapse for some personal project. Hunk never needed scolding, and so far Lance hadn't either.

Maybe he could, though, in the future. Shiro had very little idea of what Lance's personality was truly like, it had been so hidden and buried under all of these layers of trauma and conditioning. Maybe if he'd grown up on Earth, he'd be different. Maybe he would be a troublemaker. Maybe he would be lazy, or arrogant, or a flirt. Shiro had no way of knowing.

Suddenly, Shiro was overcome with longing. He wanted to know. He wanted to know who Lance was, who he really was. He wished he could reach into Lance's psyche with his bare hands and strip away those layers that hid Lance from him. If only he could tear it all away as easily as he had removed Lance's gloves so he could hold his hands.

Shiro realized that he was staring at their hands, too. He raised his head and looked Lance in the eyes. He smiled, though he knew that it was pained. Hopefully Lance could tell how much he meant it, though. "Again, I'm very sorry that I neglected you these last few days. If I ever do that again, please let me know? You can ask me for a hug anytime you like. I promise, I won't turn you away."

Lance looked absolutely floored. His mouth opened, then closed again. Shiro was silent, letting him work out whatever he was trying to say. "I..." A strained whisper again, rasping over Lance's ravaged throat. He'd been doing a lot of talking and it was starting to tell on him. "I can ask?"

For the fiftieth time when it came to this kid, Shiro's heart broke.

"Yes, Lance, you can ask." His voice was just above a whisper. "Anytime, anywhere. Any of us. Maybe once in a while it won't be a good time, and someone will say no. Some of us might not be very good at it, and the hug might not last very long. But you can ask. I swear we will try. And the same goes for you. If you don't want a hug, you can stop, too. If something is making you uncomfortable, you can back off and make some distance. No one will force you. No one will ever force you to do anything you don't want to do."

Lance looked away again, the pain clear on his face. He didn't believe this, but he was trying to. He wanted to. Shiro ached for him so, so much.

Finally, Lance looked back to Shiro's face. He swallowed, then opened his mouth. "Could I have a hug?"

Shiro nodded. "Yes." He let go of Lance's hands and wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him in. "Yes, Lance. Yes. Of course." He held him as tight as he dared, struggling not to crush him. "Of course, of course."

It wasn't very comfortable with his armor in the way, with the way Lance was trembling. But Lance reached his hands up and held onto the back of his armor, and Shiro lowered his head and buried his face in Lance's shoulder, and somehow it was good, anyway. It was really, really good, and for the life of him, Shiro couldn't remember why he'd been afraid of this.

Shiro felt his tears running down, heard the hitch in Lance's voice that meant he was trying not to cry, and failing. Shiro's voice was rough and broken, choked out, barely audible.

"Of course. Yes. Anytime."

Chapter Text

"Keep an eye on Lance, would you?" Shiro asked. "I'm afraid he might overtrain."

Coran nodded. The last couple of missions had been rough. The Galra seemed to be targeting Lance specifically whenever they had the opportunity. It might have been Zarkon or Haggar's vindictiveness, trying to get back at the soldier who ran away. If they couldn't have him, they would destroy him so no one else could.

The team reacted in various ways. Pidge and Hunk stepped up their efforts to comfort and please Lance even more, offering him treats and affection and relaxing activities in an attempt to take his mind off it. Keith's protective instincts had him running to Lance's side in battle in increasingly risky ways. Shiro tried to take him aside in quiet corners and talk to him, to make sure he was holding up and that he knew it was not his fault that he was being targeted, that none of them blamed him for being anxious about it and they would all do whatever it took to keep him safe. Injury and death were distinct dangers in this awful war, but capture was an even worse prospect, especially for Lance. Everyone was absolutely determined to keep him out of the hands of the people who had abused and tortured and manipulated him for so many years.

Lance response was understandable, but disheartening. Whenever the Galra troops or drones or fighter ships went after him and tried to isolate him from the group so they could beat on him with impunity, he went along with it. He tried to draw them off, allowing himself to be cornered and then fighting back with everything he had. He wasn't trying to surrender and he didn't have a death wish--he just wanted to deal with these overwhelming attacks himself without troubling the others.

Outside of battles, he was quiet and withdrawn, even more so than usual. He was bearing a heavy load on his shoulders, and he seemed reluctant or unable to let the others assist him with it. And thus the fear that he would overtrain. Lance kept locking himself in the training deck during off-hours and taking on the gladiator or going through the target-shooting levels in an attempt to ready himself for the next battle. He usually allowed Coran or one of the other paladins to drag him away before it got too out of hand, but Coran didn't blame Shiro at all for being worried.

Now, Coran made his way to the observation booth over the training deck. He knew Lance was paranoid about cameras and being watched by someone unseen, so he took care to announce his presence and wave to the boy from the window so he knew he was there. Lance waved back, his face lighting up in a brief smile before he turned back to his work. Coran was grateful that Lance not only accepted him being there, but seemed to appreciate it.

As Lance went on with his target shooting, though, he seemed to forget all about Coran being there. By the time Coran had arrived, he was already on one of the higher levels, where automated targets popped out from the walls and floor at random intervals and locations. Each time, he snapped his rifle to the target and shot with unwavering precision. When that level finished, he waved a hand for the next to begin. Pidge had programmed the computer to recognize his non-verbal signals so he wouldn't have to use his voice.

The next level had moving targets that zipped about the room in straight lines. Lance dealt well with those, too, only missing the bullseye in about one in ten shots, still hitting the target each time. The next level had targets moving randomly, though, and that was where it began to fall apart.

Lance still did well, of course. He made the majority of his shots, and a large number of bullseyes, too. But every now and then, he missed by a small margin. Coran would have been pleased with this performance from any seasoned warrior, let alone a youngster who should have been a rookie years away from his first battle on the field, if only the universe had been kinder. He certainly planned to tell Lance afterward how well he had done, no matter what the lad might think of it himself.

Because unfortunately, Coran could see Lance's thought process all too clearly. As the level continued and he continued to miss shots, Lance's skills deterioriated. He missed by wider and wider margins, more and more of the targets passing by without a scratch. He was getting flustered instead of adapting to the difficulty. Eventually, Coran realized that his hands were shaking.

Lance was unable to accept anything less than perfection from himself. It wasn't just that he disliked missing or had a healthy dose of competitive spirit, including against his own scores... He was actively afraid. He was terrified of missing shots, and the more he missed, the more terrified he became.

Coran's hand reached for the audio control so he could tell the computer to the end the training session. This had reached an unhealthy level, and it would do Lance no good to continue. But when that level ended, Lance didn't make the signal for the next training sequence to begin. Instead he fell down heavily to the floor and bent over himself, shaking so hard that he couldn't hold his bayard still.

The bayard reverted in his hands, and Lance stared at it as if there was nothing else in the room, nothing else in the world. His expression was blank with terror, sweat dripping from the hair over his eyes. Fat sweatdrops landed on the bayard, on Lance's hands, on the floor, and Lance continued to stare with his hands trembling and eyes unblinking.

At this point, Coran was certain that Lance had completely forgotten that he was there, watching from above. He was deep inside some kind of flashback or mental breakdown. Forget speaking to him over the comm, as he'd been planning to do--Coran needed to get down to the training floor and reach him in person now.

Coran turned smartly on his heel to stride to the door, but paused when a flash of light caught his eye. He turned back to the observation window, gaping. Lance's bayard was changing in his hands, reforming into something. But it wasn't his weapon, his beloved and deadly long-range gun.

The paladins had all been working on getting their bayard to make different forms to fit the situation. So far, Shiro was the only one who could do it effectively, fitting for the black paladin, tightly bonded with his lion and in control of his own mind, his own desires. Pidge had once succeeded in making her bayard into something she called a Tesla gun, to many cheers and congratulations, and Hunk had formed a mighty hammer that looked as suitable for pounding meat in the kitchen as it was for striking enemies, but neither were able to call on those forms regularly. Keith, though, had been unable to call on anything besides his sword, to his great frustration. Coran had thought Lance was in the same situation, since he only frowned whenever anyone brought it up.

At first, Coran didn't know what he was looking at. The thing in Lance's hands didn't look like any sort of weapon, nor a shield or other tool, as Coran had seen paladins form in the past. Then a chill ran over his body as he recognized the design, the sharp lines, as being Galra in origin, though it was now in Lance's paladin colors of blue and white and black. Then Lance put it over his head, and Coran understood in a swooping moment of horror that seemed to steal his stomach and heart right out of his body.

It was a muzzle. A cage of metal and spikes with tight straps reaching under Lance's chin and over his head to enforce silence. As soon as he put it on, Lance's trembling began to ease. He folded himself up into a little ball, right there in the middle of the room, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. His eyes stared away at the far wall, and Coran wondered what he was seeing, because it was not this room.

Should he go to him? Coran wasn't sure now. He had never seen this before, and no one else had either, or they surely would have brought it up at some point. It was deeply disturbing to watch, but Lance found it comforting in some twisted way. His shaking had stopped now, and even his heaving breath had stilled to a slow, meditative pulse.

Coran knew about conditioning, what the humans sometimes called maladaptive behavior or just PTSD. Shiro had a few strange habits, too, and even some of the other paladins were beginning to exhibit nervous tics and quirks as the war ground down on them and they learned to cope with the constant pressure, the constant fear. While Lance was in Galra captivity, they must have used a muzzle on him, probably when he was being shut away for the night or when they weren't actively using him. He had learned to associate the muzzle with control, as he had learned to associate quiet with comfort. He had worn the muzzle when he was "good," and now he was afraid that missing so many shots meant he was "bad," so he was reminding himself of what being "good" was.

Coran felt sick to his soul. He wanted to speak to Lance immediately, but he was afraid that he would only make it worse, somehow. Lance must do this fairly frequently, considering how promptly the bayard had responded to his breakdown and how easily he had fit the muzzle over his head. But he only did it when he was alone, so he was ashamed of it, too. If he realized that Coran had seen this, how would he react? Not well, Coran feared.

It would not do to let anyone else to see this, either. Lance needed time to regroup, to calm himself. Coran sank down into a chair at the control panel, closing his eyes in pain. Then he reached out for the controls for the room. He locked all the doors so no one else would be able to get in and see this moment of weakness. And he waited for Lance to be done.

Eventually Lance calmed enough to remove the muzzle from his head. He seemed present again, no longer faded off into an invisible world. The bayard reverted, and he stowed it in his armor, then climbed shakily to his feet. Coran reached out and released the door locks just in time to watch Lance stumble out into the hall.

He opened a tracking function on the computer and watched where Lance's signal went. To the lion hangars. To the blue lion. He switched to a camera and watched Lance climb up the ramp into his lion, then Blue closed the ramp and was still. Her eyes were dim, and Coran did not doubt that she was focused within, on Lance's shivering presence within her.

This was Lance's other method of coping with difficulty. When he found no comfort in the company of others, when training became too much, when nothing else seemed to work, he went to Blue and disappeared in her presence for a while. This latest episode must have been particularly distressing, considering that Lance had gone directly to her with no deviation to the path, all in silence. Coran considered for a moment, then decided to seek him out later. Lance needed time to relax and feel like himself, and Blue's company was the best for that.

Coran left the training deck deep in thought, paying little attention to where his feet took him. He found himself up on the command deck, where Allura was going over the data from their last battle. Her shoulders were stiff, her mouth twisted in that perpetual scowl that had taken up residence on her face lately. Coran moved quietly to stand next to her, offering the solace of his presence in case it was needed.

Here was another of his charges that Coran was deeply worried about, but he knew even less how to help Allura than he knew how to help Lance. At least the other four paladins were at a relatively even keel now. Enough that he could trust them to take care of each other, at least, especially since Keith had defeated his resentment against Lance and taken up position as his fiercest defender, at least from physical threats.

But Allura... Her resentment and anger at Lance's presence had yet to fade. She had been better at hiding it than Keith, at least at first. But Keith's fire, while it had burned bright, had burned out relatively quickly. Allura seemed to nurse her bad feelings like a handful of coals, unwilling to let them cool. Now, with the paladins all getting along like loving siblings, Allura's inability to mesh with them stood out even more.

It bothered Coran that he was unable to help her, and bothered him even more than he didn't even know how to start. He had been advising the royal family for a long, long time, and he and Allura had always had a particular rapport. It was one reason Alfor had chosen him to accompany Allura on the long sleep into the future. But now, since Allura had become a temporary paladin, and even more since she had ceased being one, their relationship had changed. She no longer looked to Coran for advice and comfort as she used to.

It pained him deeply, but Coran understood the reasons. Allura had experienced things now that Coran never had and never would. She had been bonded with a lion of Voltron, however briefly and however shallowly. It was something that he would never be able to fully comprehend, no matter how he might wish to. It had been a separation between he and Alfor, too, once upon a time, though in many other ways they had been as close as brothers.

"Are you all right, Princess?" he asked.

Allura didn't look up from the battle data. If anything, her frown deepened. She was watching a view of one of the castle image recorders that had captured Lance's desperate fight with a cloud of drone fighters that had ambushed him. The footage played over and over, several ticks long repeated in a loop, as Lance spun Blue in a tight spiral and struck out with the ice cannon, catching enough drone fighters in the blast to give him an opening to escape.

"I can't help thinking..." she said, then caught herself, as if she hadn't meant to say anything. She sounded as if she'd been speaking to herself and not to Coran at all. Now, she cut a glance over to him, almost looking embarrassed. Then she tightened her mouth and looked back to the footage. "It's nothing."

Coran shook his head. He dared to reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder. "It's not nothing. Something is troubling you deeply. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

Allura blinked, then tilted her head in acknowledgement. Despite the distance between them now, this was still true. There was no one who could bear and understand Allura's deepest secrets, her deepest fears and hopes and insecurities, the way Coran could.

"I can't help thinking..." she began again. "I can't help wondering what I would have done differently if I was still piloting the blue lion."

Coran stared at the footage, considering deeply. This was not the analytical voice of a commander considering the best course to take in battle. Her voice was wistful. Longing. She wasn't merely wondering what she might have done if she had been Blue's paladin for this battle. She wished she had been.

"You miss it," Coran said, understanding dawning. Allura's resentment toward Lance was not only about his betrayal of them, the months of hardship and pain they had all suffered while the Empire chased them, led by his prophecies. That was part of it, certainly. She blamed him for delaying their fight, for causing her crew and herself a great deal of misery.

But she also blamed him for taking Blue away from her.

Allura's lips twisted, and she stared deliberately away from Coran, refusing to meet his eyes. Still, she spoke. "Would it be horrible of me to admit that that's true? That I miss it?"

Her voice was full of shame, but there was a hardness underneath, a bitter edge to the words. She knew that she was not a paladin, that she had never been meant to be one. But as hard as those months had been, constantly on the run, struggling to survive, Allura had found goodness in them. She had formed a tight bond with the humans who had come to her, working side by side with them and growing as close as family, as the paladins were meant to be. Then, with a simple call from unsought allies, all that had been ripped away from her in a moment.

Coran sighed and stepped closer to her, then put his arm around her shoulders. She was stiff against his touch, refusing to lean into it, but at least she didn't pull away. "Not horrible, no," he said gently. "Being a paladin of Voltron... You know, I always longed for it, too. Watching Alfor and the others, seeing the way they worked together, how close they were, how much they..." He paused and drew in a breath. "How much they loved each other. It was hard to be on the outside of that. No matter how Alfor listened to me and valued my advice and my friendship, there was always a part of his life that I could never touch. An experience that I had never had. Never would have. I tried not to let it trouble me. I knew my work was important, too. And yet..."

Allura's shoulders relaxed, just a touch, and she leaned into his shoulder. "And yet," she murmured.

Coran nodded into her hair, humming deep in his throat. "The paladins of Voltron, when their bond is complete and true... They become family to each other. It's been a long journey, but I can see them finally forming that with Lance. And before Lance came, they had it with you."

Allura choked on a sudden sob. Coran hadn’t realized she was so close to cracking. One hand rose and covered her face.

Coran turned his head toward her and closed his eyes, touching his nose to her temple. "I understand," he murmured. "You lost your family, and then you found a new one. Then, with Lance's arrival, you felt like you lost it again. You are not horrible for missing it. For missing any of it."

Allura was still, breathing raggedly. She nodded.

Coran thought of Lance, hiding in Blue. Holding himself apart from his family for fear... Fear of what? Of rejection, of alarming them, of causing trouble? All that and more, most likely. A frown crossed his face as he remembered that Allura had done nothing to alleviate those fears, and indeed had probably made them worse with her coldness toward the poor boy.

Allura's feelings were valid, and she had every right to grieve and miss the paladin relationship she had enjoyed for a short time. But that did not excuse her for causing more pain to a wounded child who had already been hurt far, far too much in his short life. It was time to move forward, for Allura's sake as well as Lance's.

Coran cleared his throat and stood back, then took Allura's shoulders in his hands and deliberately turned her to face him. She let herself be moved, then stood staring at him, tears shining in her eyes. "Listen to me, Princess." He shook his head, then started again. "Allura. You did not lose your family when Lance joined us. Far from it. The paladins still love you as much as they always have, despite the friction between you all since Lance came aboard. I can see their displeasure when you act coldly toward Lance, but I also see their longing. They want to feel close to you again, and with your rejection of another person they love, Lance, you are shutting them out. What you have lost, in great part, can be attributed only to yourself."

Allura met his eyes. She did not look away. The tears spilled down her cheeks.

Coran nodded firmly, unable to back down despite the pain he was causing her. "Lance wants to be close to you, too. Because you've been ignoring him so carefully, you've probably missed the way he looks at you. He will never, never approach you on his own, and he will never blame you for disrespecting him and treating him as nothing more than a tool. He expects it, rather. It was how he was taught. He was taught that he is nothing more than a soldier, a cog in a machine, and so he has accepted your way of viewing him without a fuss. But is that really what you want? Wouldn't you rather have another family member instead of a mere weapon in your arsenal?"

"I..." Allura gulped, then broke eye contact, looking toward the footage of the blue lion again. She raised her hands and wiped them over her face, but did not try to escape Coran's grip on her shoulders. "I don't know, Coran. I... I don't suppose I've thought about it that way."

Coran nodded and stepped back, releasing her. "You should," he said gently. "Think about it, all right? Let me know what you decide."

She looked back to him, her lips pressed tight together, and gave him a nod. "I will."

"Good." Coran turned toward the door, mind already buzzing toward the next thing. "I have something I must do. I'll check on you later."

Before he strode out of the room, her words reached him, soft and murmured on the air. "Thank you, Coran."

Coran moved toward the living quarters, feeling alight with the success of his conversation with Allura. Progress had been made with one hurting child, and somewhere in there he'd gotten some inspiration on how to help another one, too. He just had some materials to gather.

Not many doboshes later, Coran entered the blue lion's hangar with his arms full. The blue lion sat in repose, her head lifted high up off the floor. Coran looked up at her, his heart thumping. "Helloooo? Lance? Blue? May I come in?" He gestured with the bundle in his arms. "I've brought something for you."

He stood there patiently as Blue, and Lance within her, seemed to consider his request. Then Blue lowered her head to the floor and opened up. Coran trotted up the ramp, humming happily to himself.

He found Lance in the cockpit, as expected. He was camped out on the floor in a nest of spare blankets and pillows. Coran had noticed on his inspections of the lions that these items were finding their way into Blue's storage bins. Lance was wearing the blue pajamas and slippers that had come with his lion, too, having stowed his armor after that disastrous training session. His hair still looked fluffy and a bit damp from a quick shower.

He looked up at Coran's entrance, raising his eyebrows when he saw what he was carrying. "Why...?" Soft, wondering, but not upset at the intrusion. Coran smiled. He had hoped for a curious reception, and that was what he was getting.

Coran sat down on the floor in front of Lance and dropped his load of stuffed lions, then began to arrange them between himself and Lance, who sat cross-legged in his blanket nest. The mice had come along with Coran, hitching a ride from the sleeping quarters, and now Chulatt and Platt raced over to Lance and climbed up on his shoulders. Coran smiled. "I noticed that you seemed to be making Blue's cockpit into a spare bedroom for yourself, so I thought I would help."

Lance blinked, then slowly reached out and picked up the white lion, complete with orange mustache. He pulled it back to his lap and held it there, watching Coran silently. There was a nervous tilt to his expression, now, his shoulders shifting in discomfort. "I'm not supposed to channel anymore," he said softly.

Coran nodded. "I know. It makes the others uneasy, so you've tried to hold yourself back. Sometimes it slips out, in moments of weariness or emotion, but that's all right. You're doing your best."

He held out the green lion, small and friendly and holding a piece of fluffy tech, and gave the middle a squeeze. "I know it's hard for you to talk sometimes, Lance. Would it be easier for you to speak through your friends, here? It's all right, you know. It's only me here, and I don't mind. I love hearing your words, but if it's easier for you to express yourself with theirs, I will gladly listen. I don't mean that you have to channel. I just thought perhaps we could have a conversation through these dear little lions you've made."

Lance hesitated, staring at him with enormous eyes. His hands tightened on the white lion in his lap. Coran smiled gently and pulled the green lion back to his body. "I'll start, shall I?"

He lifted the little Pidge figure in front of his face and wagged it back and forth, heightening his voice in a ridiculous imitation. "Lance! I need you to help me with the franglehopper on the doodlemizzen! Your hands are the best hands! Come right away!"

Lance blinked, then came the dawn of a slow, brilliant smile as he understood the game. It was beautiful, overwhelming, and Coran grinned back in delight. Lance reached out and picked up the enormous yellow lion, the biggest and softest of the bunch. He set it between himself and the wall, squished there in place, and held the head to move it back and forth.

His voice changed, taking on a deep, warm tone with a jovial lilt. "Dude! Give Lance a break. He's been working hard all day." His imitation was much, much better than Coran's. More than his voice, his mannerisms changed to reflect Hunk as well, the hunch of his shoulders, the movement of his free hand.

The Pidge-lion in Coran's hands backed down at once. "Oh! Well, if Lance is tired, he should definitely take a break. We'll work on the doodlemizzen later."

He set the green lion in the yellow lion's lap, snuggling them comfortably together, then picked up the red lion with the knife and the angry eyebrows. He poured out all of the fear and rage he'd been feeling for Lance over the past few battles, his voice harsh and sharp as Keith's. "I wish the Galra would just leave Lance alone. It's not fair. I hate how worn out he's getting."

Lance hesitated, though not because he didn't want to continue. He wasn't sure what to say, how to say it. Then he lifted up the Coran lion in his lap, holding it by the paws. It was undeniably eerie to sit so close, watching as Lance took on his own mannerisms and vocal patterns, but Coran accepted it with a smile. "The Galra will do what they will do," he heard in his own voice. "And we will fight on, like the paladins of yore."

But the paladins of yore, of course, had all died. Coran did not want this new team to fight like them. He wanted them to be themselves. He set the Keith-lion with Pidge-lion and Hunk-lion, considering what to do.

He reached out, slowly to avoid alarming the boy, and took the white lion from his hands. He pulled it back to his lap, then picked up the blue lion and placed it in Lance's hands instead. Coran held up his own image in front of his chest and smiled as gently as he could. "It's true that the Galra will not stop attacking us." He spoke as himself, though he moved the plush as he did so. "We will defeat them as a team, together. You are no longer alone, my boy. I wish you did not feel alone, either."

Lance was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the little blue lion in his grip. Then he raised it to his chest, mirroring Coran. He didn't lift his head, but he spoke. With his own voice, quiet and rasping and sad. "I think I was meant to be alone."

"Oh, no." Coran's heart ached. It showed in his voice. "Oh, no, no, no, dear child. You are not meant to be alone. Never." The white lion moved forward, Coran holding it by the paws. He wrapped the white arms around the blue fluff in Lance's hands and squeezed the little dolls tight together in a plushy hug. "Never, never, never. Don't think that. It's not true."

The blue arms squeezed back. "I know lots of things that aren't true. It's hard to sort them out."

"I know. But we want to help, Lance. We all want to help." Coran let go with one hand and reached out for the yellow lion's head, deepening his voice as he bobbed it back and forth. "It's true, buddy. We really do." Then the Pidge-lion and the Keith-lion, in subsequent squeaks, high-pitched, then enthusiastic. "'We do, Lance!' 'Yes, it's true.'"

The blue lion and the white lion hugged for a bit longer. Then Coran moved the image of himself back in front of his chest and wrapped his arms around it, white plush head tucked under his chin. "You don't have to wear the muzzle anymore, dear boy."

Lance looked up at him, eyes wide. The blue lion was limp in his hands. Coran gave him a careful nod. "I know you learned that silence is good, that it's what is expected from you. But that's not true anymore. Not here, not with us. We all would much, much rather that you speak to us, even if it hurts."

Lance looked down, gaze cast aside. It fell on the black lion, lonely on the floor. Coran saw where his gaze went. He put the white lion with the yellow, green, and red, then slowly, carefully reached out for the black.

He took the plush into his lap and stroked his fingers over it, trailing over the fabric, to the hole in its chest with a dot of stuffing still sticking out. He pressed his hand over the hole, then looked up at Lance with a grieved smile. "I’ve noticed that you don't touch this one."

Lance looked at him, eyes wide and pained.

Coran rubbed his hand over the hole as if it was Lance's heart, as if he could soothe the pain away with a touch. "Does it remind you of Zarkon? Because he put this hole there? Is that why you've never repaired it?"

Surely he had had the time and the resources. Coran knew, from talking to Thace, that the Blade had offered Lance everything they had. If he had wanted to patch this hole, even make a new doll, the materials would have been available. Instead, Lance had left the black plush lion as it was, a constant reminder of Zarkon's influence. Of the wounds that had been inflicted on Lance's team and on himself.

"I know this may be asking too much..." Slowly, Coran reached into his back pocket. He pulled out the last items he had gathered before coming to Blue's hangar. He held them out for Lance to see. A packet of black thread and several small, shiny sewing needles.

"You don't have to if you're not ready. If you prefer to leave that hole as it is, that's up to you. But I thought... That is, I hoped..." Coran closed his eyes for a moment, then met Lance's eyes. "If you want to," he said gently, "I thought it might be time to mend this wound."

He set the thread and needle on top of the black lion, then held the lion out, flat in his hands. He held it midway between he and Lance, offering but not demanding. Lance stared at it for a long moment, then looked up into Coran's face, then back again. His expression was open and longing. Though he said nothing, Coran understood everything he meant.

Finally, Lance reached out. His hands were trembling, but he moved with purpose. He took the black plush lion and the sewing materials from Coran's hands with the delicacy of a bird, then brought them back and perched them in his lap. He stared at the black lion for a long moment. As Coran had done, he trailed his fingers over the soft face, the textured fabric, and then over the hole with its little overflow of stuffing. He smiled down at the lion, soft and sweet, then looked up at Coran and nodded.

"Yes."

He picked up the needle and thread and prepared them as if he'd done it a thousand times before, as perhaps he had. Skillfully, confidently, but not too fast, he began to sew together the edges of the ragged hole. He was patching up the little black lion, making it whole, just as the team was learning to patch Lance into their lives. Slowly, painstakingly, but firmly and with love.

Lance's voice came in a gentle echo of Shiro's, strong and kind, eager and encouraging. "We can do this if we work together! Form Voltron!"

Coran laughed. He might have cried a little, too.

Afterward, Lance set the black lion aside with the others. The blue lion perched in the middle of the group, exactly where it belonged. Then he held out his arms to Coran. "Could I have a hug?”

Coran gave it to him, of course. He held Lance close against his chest and reveled in the warmth of him, in the bright and steady pulse of his breath. There was still much work to be done, but they were on their way. All of them together, as they should be.

Chapter Text

“Keith.” Pidge heard that familiar tremor, that lost voice. Keith did not, so low and ruined as it still was. “Keith!” Lance tried again and the scratch in his throat was enough to make Pidge wince. Keith blinked and turned around a moment before Pidge intervened.

He trotted over from his lion, a crease in his brow as he asked, “What is it? Are you hurt? Did something happen during the training exercise?”

Keith’s voice attracted Shiro, and Pidge saw him angle himself towards the conversation, watching from the corner of his eye while taking off pieces of his armor.

“I… I saw… I thought…” Lance gripped at Keith's shoulder as if to assure himself of its actuality. Keith gently placed a hand at Lance's elbow, but Lance only continued to stare at where his hand was twisted in the black of Keith's undershirt.

“What did you see, Lance?” Keith leaned down to meet the other boy's eyes, but Lance didn't meet his gaze. Lance eyebrows scrunched together.

“You're not wearing purple,” Lance muttered.

Lance's hand rested there for a beat longer before Keith answered, “No. No, I'm not.”

Lance lifted his eyes. “I'm glad.” Keith accepted Lance's hug, but Pidge saw the unease in his expression.

X

The same unease still lingered in the dark of Keith’s eyes as they followed Lance across the room, watching as he retired early. As soon as Lance’s form disappeared down the hallway, Keith whipped around to the rest of them, his voice a desperate hiss.

“Does he know I’m Galra?” No one answered. Pidge shifted in her seat, giving a noncommittal shrug. “That’s what it must have been, right? The whole wearing purple thing? Do you think he… he found out? Channeled it, whatever he does?”

“Well, we know he still channels,” Hunk confessed.

Allura’s eyes narrowed. “He still channels?”

“I don’t think it’s on purpose,” defended Hunk. “It’s not some sort of malicious thing. It just happens sometimes when he’s trying to connect with us. We’ve all seen it, right? The way he starts to pick up our vernacular and habits when he’s trying to understand something we’re doing?”

There was a trace of tension stretching between Hunk and Allura, but Pidge was watching Keith draw his arms close to his chest and lean against Shiro, something distressed and lost in his face. From across the table, she could barely hear him murmur to Shiro, “He said he’s glad. Do you think that means that… that if he knew… he wouldn’t want to be near me anymore?” Shiro gently carded a hard through Keith’s hair, eyes soft and sad. “It’s stupid. We didn’t even get along a couple of weeks ago but I think I get it now, you know? And I don’t want him to be afraid of us.” The last part he mumbled into Shiro’s arm. “Of me.”

Keith didn’t look up from where he was nestled into Shiro’s side, but Shiro glanced up at Pidge, as if he had finally felt the weight of her prying eyes. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows.

Over the distance, Pidge said, “Lance stayed with the Blade. He grew up with Galra. He still doesn’t fear them the way we do—” Her eyes flicked to Allura, and Shiro’s expression closed, just a bit. He shook his head as Pidge’s gaze settled back on his face. “—even after everything they did to him. It’s just not something he learned.”

Shiro muttered her thoughts aloud, blinking down at the boy in his arms. “So it must be something else.”

X

Pidge didn’t hear the screams that must have ricocheted off bedroom walls, but she heard the pad of footsteps running past her door. She was only just blearily peering into the hall when she saw Keith stumble out of his room, pushing Lance away.

“Get out of my head!” Lance reached out a hand, but Keith swatted it away, rage kindling in the twist of his muscles. Lance tried to take a step towards the other boy, but Keith lashed out. The feral glint of his canines had Lance backing away, and Pidge felt that human urge too, the one that demanded retreat from beasts. “Just... Just stay away from me! Why— Why—” Keith’s voice had drawn the others out of their rooms and there was a wild look in Lance’s eyes now. It looked like fear.

“Keith, stop…” Shiro placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder, but Keith only stared at Lance.

“You already took him away from me, just let me—” Pidge noticed for the first time that Keith was crying, had been crying this whole time. “Let me hold onto this piece of him.”

“No— No, I—” Lance stuttered out, but Keith was shaking his head, a hand swiping at his eyes.

“Stop, just stop. I know— I know it’s… it’s not your fault. You… you didn’t know. But I think what you still don’t understand is that he was my dad and I just… I don’t know what family was like for you but—” Keith sucked in a breath. “I know you can’t control it, but you can’t tell me that you have nightmares about my dad when they’re my nightmares and it’s my dad. It’s not something I can share with you.”

“But I—” Lance’s fingers twisted at his sides. “I saw him. I’ve had nightmares about him that aren’t yours.”

“You saw him. You saw Keith's dad in purple.” Pidge was out of her room before she realized she took a step. “You saw prisoners. He saw the other prisoners,” Pidge stated as it all clicked.

Keith’s eyes widened, and he was suddenly gripping Lance’s hand. “You saw my dad? He’s alive? Do you know where he is?”

“He… he was alive when I saw him. Zarkon—” Lance shuddered for a moment before forcing it out. “Zarkon liked to visit him. Took him to see me train, sometimes. Or— or had him close when I was…when I…” Lance shook his head.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s fine. Just… You think he’s still alive, right? And you know what ship he’s on?”

“I… I think so. But I… It’s Zarkon’s ship. I can’t— I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Keith’s voice hardened. “You have to. You have to help us save him. You’re the reason—”

“Keith.” Shiro warned. Keith glared at him for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning back to Lance.

“I’m not saying you have to go onto the ship and face Zarkon yourself. Just tell us where they’re keeping him, and we’ll figure it out, okay?”

Lance hesitated, and Keith’s hold on Lance’s hand tightened. “Okay,” Lance murmured.

X

It was a long while before the paladins left the control room, well after Lance’s voice had gone rough with overuse and their skins had gained an awful pallor from the hologram lights.

Even as they all headed back to their rooms in exhaustion, Pidge pulled Lance aside, deciding she’d bided her time long enough. It took a moment for Lance’s eyes to focus on her in the dim light. He blinked a couple of times and rubbed at the corner of his eye, a drained look about him.

“Do you… need something?”

“Yes. Well… yes. When you were with Zarkon, did you see anyone who looked like me? My dad and my brother, they were taken by the Galra too. I thought you might have heard something about them while you were with the Galra.”

“Your dad and your…brother. I… I did not see many prisoners my first few years. I’m— I’m not sure…”

Pidge’s heart sank. “Sam and Matt Holt? Samuel and Matthew? They were scientists on Earth trying to develop tech for revolutionary groups.”

“Holt?” Lance stumbled on the word. “Holt… Tech?”

“Yes?”

“I… I’ve heard that name. Not with Zarkon, with the Blade. They, um…trade? Yes, they trade with the Blade!” Lance seemed pleased with himself as Pidge’s expression turned hopeful.

“Really?” Lance nodded. “I can’t believe it. This whole time I’ve been looking for them and they’re still trying to stop the Galra. It won’t do any good to attract attention to them now, but when this is all over…” Pidge beamed at Lance. “You’ll come with me, right? To find them?”

“...would love to,” Lance whispered.

“Okay! Okay. I guess I’ll see you in the morning for more planning, yeah?” She moved to go into her room when Lance’s quiet voice stopped her.

“Pidge?”

She looked at Lance. “Yeah?”

“You and Keith…are both trying to save your families. You would… You would go to get them, even on Zarkon’s ship? And everyone here would help you save them? From Zarkon?”

“Of course. We would never just leave— Oh.” The smile fell off her face. It felt like a punch to the stomach. She knew, before he said it, she knew exactly why Lance looked so lost.

“So why did you never come for me?”

She could only stare back at those devastated blue eyes.

She was never— She was never designed to answer such a question. She could never find the right words to explain why they left a living, breathing person to suffer for seven years.

“We— We didn’t know you were even there. That you existed. That you were… who you are.”

“But Thace—” Lance’s eyebrows furrowed. “But Thace told you! He— he tried to get your help when the Blade came for me and you said no! You said— You said you didn’t believe him and it was too dangerous and it wasn’t—it wasn’t worth—”

“Oh god.” Pidge felt sick. “How— How do you know that?”

“Because…because I was…” Lance’s hand flexed at his side like it did when he was seeking out one of his stuffed lions and of course, of course he knew, of course he heard. He might as well have been in the room with them when they decided that he wasn’t worth saving.

“We didn’t know, Lance. We would have died trying to get to you without Voltron.”

“I know,” Lance whispered. “I know. But when it was all happening, I couldn’t believe…” Lance was crying now, tears running down his face even as he gave her a small smile. “I talked to you guys all the time, did you know? Whenever I was sad or homesick or…in pain. It was all I had. And then Thace left and everything was so much…so much worse. And I thought… Well, I guess it was never really you I was talking to. Just some…just some lions. You never knew me the way I…the way I needed you to. And then Blue broke the bond and it was all…gone.”

Pidge tried to reach out to Lance, but he darted away from her arms. Before she could say anything else, he was down the hallway, his bedroom door closed behind him.

Before she could say anything else? As if she had anything she could say to that. 

X

They debriefed in the morning, and Pidge couldn’t help the looks she kept throwing at Lance. The distress must have shown on her face because Hunk pulled her aside to ask if something had happened with her and Lance. She shook her head but broke in seconds, whispering, “He knew about my brother and dad. I guess they trade tech with the Blade—”

“That’s great!”

The joy on Hunk’s face was crushed as Pidge continued, “And then he asked me why we never came for him. We left him there, did you know that, Hunk?” She hit his chest once in frustration before her fists slackened. “He remembers everything. He remembers us deciding not to go, and he’s still here, and he’s going back to that ship for us. Why? We left him there, why would he— Why would he—” Pidge leaned into Hunk’s arms as they came around her. “I wouldn’t do it, you know. If you guys had left me somewhere awful and had never come for me, I wouldn’t come back. I’d leave you and the universe alone to rot.” Hunk’s embrace tightened like he knew and he forgave her even for this. “Why couldn’t the Galra have taken someone who wasn’t so… good? Who wouldn’t make us feel so guilty?”

“Then we wouldn’t have our blue paladin. Don’t you think Lance is worth it? Worth all the guilt?”

“Yeah,” Pidge said miserably into Hunk’s chest. She straightened and wiped the bit of wetness from her face. “Sorry. It’s out of my system now. I just wasn’t ready for it last night, you know? A little too heavy for me. Guess I’m not as good a person as Lance.”

Hunk smiled. “You know you don’t have to be, right?”

Pidge laughed, watery as it was. “I know." 

X

“Keep an eye out for Lance,” Pidge had said.

“Obviously,” Keith had replied.

“No, not because he’s going to be back on that ship and it’s going to hurt him,” she had insisted. “Because he thinks we left him on that ship. And he doesn’t know we won’t do it again.”

“We’re not going to leave him behind. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

When he said it, he thought it was true.

And now?

Now Lance was reaching for his hand from the edge of the precipice of space, and his dad was being dragged into the open hatch of a spacecraft ready for flight, and Keith couldn’t—he couldn’t—

He couldn’t save them both.

It was his dad, it was his dad, and the Galra would let Lance live, they would let Lance live. Someone else would come to pull Lance up from where he dangled over space, would save him before he fell. Zarkon wouldn’t let them kill Lance, but his dad, his dad, they had no reason to keep him alive. Lance might find his way back to them like he did before, but if the Galra had his dad, if he didn’t get his dad, he would never get another chance and he was right there. And he was right there.

Lance would forgive him, wouldn’t he?

Keith looked back at Lance one last time as he raised his sword. He saw Lance mouth, I forgive you. Saw his hand fall back to his side. Saw him stop reaching for Keith. Saw his grip slacken and his fingers come off the ledge one

by

one

by

one—

Keith dropped his bayard and lunged forward, nails digging into the skin of Lance’s wrist and feet scrambling for traction against the metal floor. He threw his body weight back as he hauled Lance out of space’s gaping maw. Over Lance’s shaking, crumpled body, he watched the door of the spacecraft close over his dad’s sad smile.

He wanted to shake Lance, wanted to demand why, why, why, but they were both already shaking and he could hardly breath through the adrenaline tearing up his lungs and the sobs rising in his throat. He croaked out, “Why did you let go?”

“You were going to leave me.” Keith went to protest but Lance shook his head and interrupted him for the first time Keith could remember. “No, no, don’t lie to me. I know— I know you were going to go after your dad instead. I know, Keith.” He must have been in Keith’s head as he tried to rationalize leaving Lance for the Galra to find, rationalized leaving Lance here again. “ I told you— I told you I couldn’t go back. I would rather die than stay here, don’t you understand? I’d rather— I’d rather—” Betrayal shone in Lance’s glassy eyes and he just…broke in Keith’s arms.

Keith pulled him closer so Lance couldn’t see his tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He thought about his father in chains, bruised and struggling, and he thought of Lance and his terrible scars and the fear always lingering in his eyes.

He was not sure who his tears were for. 

X

They arrived back at the castle with an air of defeat. Neither of them said anything. Keith didn’t say a word of the utter loss that Lance could feel radiating off him. Maybe because it was not just loss. It was resentment. Keith didn’t say it out loud, but Lance could hear it as easy as all those times he had before, Keith’s bitterness that Lance was about to let go and Keith’s guilt that that was the only reason he had reached for Lance’s hand. And in return, Lance didn’t voice the ache in his scars from being heaved up by his shoulder, didn’t mention the feeling of his heart beating dead in his chest at the thought of being left alone again, again, again.

He wanted to say he understood. He was not Keith’s family, he should understand why Keith couldn’t choose him. But he had never had a family quite like Pidge’s, quite like Keith’s, so he could not understand.

(What he understood was a Galra-ruled society in space and on Earth. What he understood was the need for submission. What he understood was that when he was nine, his mother called the Galra to take him away because it was the right thing to do. For a long time, he thought it was the right thing to do. For a long time, he had understood everything. Now he understood nothing.)

They arrived in the hanger, and Lance hesitated in Blue’s cockpit. From his vantage point, he saw the Black Lion’s mouth open to reveal Shiro and behind him, though bruised and with broken manacles still on his wrists, Keith’s father. Somehow, Shiro had managed to snatch him right out of Zarkon’s hand. The look on the man’s face as Keith rushed forward was one Lance had never seen before, not on his mother on his single trip of reprieve, not on the paladins when they saw him face to face for the first time, when he had dreamed of them for years and they had never thought of him at all. He thought perhaps Thace had given him that look once, that day he came for Lance, the only one to come for Lance. But that day had stained his memories bloody and nothing remained pure from that day, not a smile, not a look of joy or tears of relief.

Thace was not here anymore. Only Lance and the Blue Lion who broke his bond, who broke his heart. Only Lance and the paladins, who had tried to help him heal but hadn’t saved him yet, didn’t save him then. (He meant it when he said he forgave Keith. He forgave all of them. He couldn’t not forgive them. The Galra never taught him how not to forgive. But he couldn’t help the way he remembered.)

Even as he saw Keith embrace his father, he couldn’t help the feeling that somehow he lost today.

Chapter Text

Lance approached Hunk while the other boy was working in the kitchen. There was the gentle sound of whisking and the low hum of another human being breathing the same air, the thrum of heartstrings. It was the kind of peaceful quiet that he remembered from his earthen childhood, lost in heated haze. He did miss it. He missed the sunlight that used to darken his skin, the warmth that his body gathered on summer days and stored away for winter nights. He missed the sky, the blue that protected him from the nothing between the stars. He missed the bustle of a small town, the way everyone was too caught up in their own lives to notice him, watch him, monitor him. He missed the way humid air stuck in his lungs and the cool wetness of grass under his feet. He missed nature’s peaceful call, the chirp of finches and the whisper of wind. He had not had anything but an engine’s whir to sing him to sleep for so long. He did miss Earth. He understood the feeling of missing something.

He did not understand the feeling of missing a family.

He had missed his family much more before the Blade, before the paladins, when he spent all those hours alone and untouched. He had always been looking for a hand to hold, a soft place to rest his head, someone to clutch when everything hurt. It was the Blade that gave him that safety first. The paladins had continued that. They always made sure he had what he needed, whether it was a bed or a meal or more recently, a hug. They tried to make him feel like he belonged and he thought he did, for a while. How could he not? He was designed to be with them by the universe because if he wasn’t then why , why did the Galra take him so many years ago, why did he have to live out his life in the cold emptiness of space, why did he have be hurt so much, if it wasn’t because he was supposed to be with the paladins? He hadn’t been allowed to be just Lance since he was nine. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be if he wasn’t the blue paladin.

It terrified him to think about because sometimes, sometimes he thought that at least with Zarkon, he had a place. What would become of him when this all ended and all the others returned to their families? Would he too go back to his family, his mother and his father, or would he go back… home? Home to… Home to…

(What if his home was with Zarkon? The one place he was wanted, where he served a purpose. Until he didn't.)

Then maybe, maybe his home was with the person who loved him like Keith loved his father, who risked everything to come for him. Maybe when this ended, he would go back to Thace.

Still, he wondered what it would be like to return to his family of blood. (He wondered if the same phone that was in the house when he was nine was still there.)

It made him tired to think about. He breathed out heavily, leaning his head down on the counter. A gentle hand stroked his hair and Lance leaned into the touch.

“How are you feeling, Lance?”

“Hunk?” Lance didn't open his eyes. “I want to see my family.”

X

Thace arrived a few days later. The paladins heard the full story of those first few years, all Lance recalled along with Thace’s supplementary details.

Lance told them about the tablet he was allowed, the one day he returned. Thace reminded them how Lance came to the Galra’s attention. It was Lance’s mother who had alerted the Galra to his existence with a phone call, a phone call that let him be taken away.

Lance knew the looks on their faces. They were appalled, sickened. Keith’s eyes kept darting to Lance like he expected him to feel so utterly horrified as well.

Keith put a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Hey, are you alright?” he asked. “Did you… Did you know that?”

“Of course I knew. I was there.” Keith’s hand slipped away. Lance reminded himself that this was the same boy who could barely forgive Lance for his own betrayal. But it had never felt like betrayal to Lance. “It wasn't like that.” Lance's voice fell to a murmur. “You don't know what it was like on Earth.”

“So what was it like?”

“The Galra aren't… bad. They're just a part of life. Their laws are there and we follow them and that’s it.” Lance’s gaze turned to where his fingers picked at a thread in his shirt. “It was much worse before the Galra came to Earth. People with guns, countries that fought each other. World wars. A peaceful world under the Galra is better than that, right?”

“That’s what they teach everyone on Earth,” Hunk explained to the rest of the paladins. “Me and Pidge too.”

“A more peaceful world,” Pidge scoffed. “That’s what they told us, sure, but who’s to say it’s even true? World wars? Come on, that’s too absurd. Why would humans fight each other like that? We’re not heathens like Zarkon and his gladiator rings.”

Lance didn’t look up from the floor. “Aren’t we fighting a war now?”

Pidge leaned back against the wall as she replied, “Yeah, but we’re on the good side.”

“I always thought I was on the good side.” Lance met Pidge’s eyes and held her gaze until she began to fidget.

“Sorry, but-” Keith growled frustratedly. “How could you have thought the Galra were even okay? They stole Shiro off Earth and thousands of others like him to fight in arenas! What is peaceful about that?”

“The Galra isolated a lot of communities on Earth,” Thace interjected. “Some places gave up resources and some gave up people. Some were left alone for the most part. They made sure no one knew too much. Where Lance came from, Zarkon’s empire never paid much notice to. Lance was the first to be taken from there.” To Lance, he said a little softer, “I doubt your mother thought we would take you away when she made that call.” Lance nodded but kept silent. Thace placed a gentle hand on his knee. “It will be different than the last time.”

X

What happened last time, that time Lance had gone back to Earth? Nothing.

Nothing bad, nothing so terrible as being dragged away, as being punished. His parents had been kind and his sibling had given him their brightest smiles.

What happened that day back on Earth? Nothing.

His family took him to the boardwalk and let him feel the sand, the waves. They let him get ice cream, made sure he had sunscreen on. In the moment, it was everything Lance had ever wanted.

But they did not take him home. He did not spent the night, for he had no place to stay, no room to return to. They did not let him talk with anyone else. They did not give him anything and he was not allowed to take anything back, not even the small seashell he had discovered in the tide.

His parents, his siblings, had all smiled at him. They waved when he arrived and when he left. But that was all.

They didn’t say they missed him. They didn’t say they wanted him back. They said they were proud of him. And that was all they said.

It made him happy he had earned this and it made him thankful that Zarkon allowed him this visit.

But he had wanted to sleep in his own bed, his real bed, one more time. He had wanted to have pancakes as a family. He wanted to remember how the floor of his home felt under his feet. He wanted to flip through the old picture books his parents used to read to him and he wanted to see the coffee stains on the walls of their car. He wanted his family to hug him one more time, kiss his cheek, tell him they loved him.

He wanted to go home.

He was given a day at the beach.

He thought it was perfect; it should have been perfect. At the time, he didn’t know why he cried when Thace smuggled him that tiny seashell.

(Still, it was better than what came after.)

X

They took a wormhole to Earth and snuck onto the planet in the moon’s shadow. From down here, the stars’ glimmer was muted and everything seemed so far away. It was hard to imagine a war going on in the sky when solid ground was beneath his feet and it was hard to remember the vacuum of space when a breeze was ruffling his hair.

A beaten dirt path stretched before him and nostalgia choked him. Distantly, he remembered which trees he had climbed and the shape of a boulder he had sat upon. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was ready for this.

He began down the path and the house, his house, came into view. There was a light still on in the kitchen, though Lance couldn’t see anyone through the window.

He knocked and watched as the doorknob unlocked with a click. The first thing he saw was those blue eyes, the ones he had inherited.

“Mama? It's me… Lance.”

She stared down at him, confusion etched into her face. Behind him, her eyes landed on Thace and stayed there. “What is this?” she whispered. “You… You told us there would be no more visits. Did… Did Emperor Zarkon send you?”

Thace shook his head. Lance tried again, “Mama? Can we… Can we come in?” She blinked and looked back at him.

“I…” She glanced back at Thace, the only visible Galra in their company. “Oh… yes, yes, of course.”

She stood aside and they filed into the small sitting room. Lance sat down on the couch and the others took his lead, save for Shiro and Thace. Thace situated himself near the door and Shiro stood across the room, hand resting on the counter next to… next to an old home phone.

Lance’s mom sat in the only available chair, her hands clasped in front of her.

“I wanted to see you again, mama.” Lance said it softly in case there were others sleeping in the house, but she startled anyway.

“You wanted to see me? And… And Emperor Zarkon let you… come here? Back… Back home? He… He didn’t let you come home last time.” She looked around nervously, gaze again drifting to Thace, and Lance felt the traitorous urge to cry.

“I know, I know, mama. But I’m not with him anymore. I’m part of Voltron now.”

“Voltron? Maybe I should…” She glanced to where Shiro stood, biting her lip. Her eyes drifted over the Alteans’ pointed ears, their alien marks. “They told me to call if you came here.” She turned to Thace. “I’m sure you’re here as a chaperone, but should I call anyway?”

Lance’s heart sunk as he stared and stared, ice making its way down his limbs and into his bones. Something in him fractured. Something in him burned with numbness. (He felt broken, yes, but not surprised.)

Allura was on her feet, the words, “You would betray us to Zarkon,” on her lips.

They all jumped as a CRACK sounded through the space. Held in Shiro’s glowing hand was shards of plastic and bits of melted wire, all that was left on the phone that been on the counter.

Keith forced Lance to look away. “We can go,” he hissed. “We can go right now and not look back.”

“The castle ship is right outside,” Allura’s gaze stayed on Lance’s mother, as if still expecting her to make that call to the Galra even with the phone destroyed. “You do not have to tolerate this treatment.”

Lance considered it. It would be easier. It would hurt less. But over Keith’s shoulder, he saw a framed picture of his smiling face, all chubby cheeked and eyes two shades brighter in eight year old glory. He looked happy behind that glass. He had been happy here once. He can be again.

He whispered, “No, I want to stay.”

Keith nodded, hesitantly releasing Lance, though not without a nervous look to Shiro. Hunk gave Lance’s hand a brief squeeze, affirming, “We’re here for you.” Pidge agreed with a weak smile. Allura took her seat once again but this time, her hand clasped Coran’s in white knuckled grip.

Lance turned back to his mother.

“Lance…” It was the first time his mother had said his name and it was said with more fear than Lance ever thought he would be addressed with. “What are you doing?”

He felt the weight of all those eyes, eyes that did not understand what his life had been like before and what it had been like after, to be raised under the Galra empire twice. The two of them might be the most similar, him and his mom, both dictated by something so integral and both faced with a world turned upside down. Of all the things Lance didn’t understand, this was one thing he did.

Ever so quietly, he asked the others to leave the room. It was a wary retreat, but soon, Lance was left alone with his mother.

He moved closer to her, gently taking her hand in his. Her hand shook. “Mama, I meant it when I said I wanted to see you. I did. I do. I know it’s hard to understand how I’m here and how I’m not with the empire anymore but… There’s so much more out there, mama! There’s so much they didn’t tell us. I’m still trying to figure it all out too, but I know now I can’t just accept what I’ve been told. I understand why you did it and why you still feel like it’s the right thing to do. I do. The empire seems like this all powerful force and they say they’re just and benevolent but… I don’t think anyone really is. Not Emperor Zarkon.” He swallowed. “Not even Voltron. You’re just trying to do what you think is right. And so am I. It’s hard to see everything differently and it’s hard to think for yourself. I know, mama.

“I don’t blame you. I never did. I… I understand why. Even back then, I just wanted to come home. I still want to come home. Maybe not now. Maybe not for a long time. I never understood what it meant to be free under the Galra empire but now that I know, it’s something I have to fight for. I’ve… I’ve fought a lot. I want to do it by my own choice now.

“They did horrible things, mama. They don’t deserve your respect. I don’t know if I do either but I’m trying to earn it. I’m still trying to make you proud, mama. Just… in a different way.”

Finally, he grasped at what he had been reaching for. “I’ve changed. But I still love you. I always wanted to come home. Do you still… I was so young, and I remember you saying it over the tablet sometimes… But the day I came back, you never said you…” It slipped between his fingers.

“I love you, Lance. I’ve always loved you.” These words came easily to her. She hesitated before saying, “I always wanted you to come home.” She brushed a hand over his cheek. She was trembling and she looked uncertain, as if she couldn’t quite believe every word. Lance knew the feeling. He had seen his own hands shake. But she was trying to understand. “I thought it was the right thing. I thought… they brought peace to Earth. I thought they might bring you peace too. And I thought I would see you again. They let you have that tablet and I thought you were being taken care of.

“The day they told us you were coming back, I thought that you were coming home. And then… and then they told us we couldn’t do anything that would make you want to stay here with us. Nothing to take back with you. No hugs, or kisses, or I love yous. No coming home. I wanted to take you home that day, Lance, but you were so happy and I thought maybe you really were happier with them. And then they took you so far away. They wouldn’t tell us anything.

“But the Galra empire, Emperor Zarkon, they are like… gods. They have seen the universe in ways none of us ever could. They know things we could never understand. And so I knew they kept you for a reason.” This Lance saw written in the lines of his mother’s face: she needed it to be for a reason. She would never forgive herself if all this suffering, all this heartbreak, hadn’t been for a reason.

Lance supposed that at its core, it had been for a reason. He did not want his mother to be unable to forgive herself. (He needed his mother to forgive herself.) He held his silence.

“The empire is so strong,” she continued. “Following their rules… it was the only way to see you again. To ever bring you home. They… They wouldn’t allow anything else.”

“But I’m here, mama. I’m here.”

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, you are. And this… this Voltron, you are happy with them? Even if you are not following the law of Emperor Zarkon? You feel that this is what you are supposed to be doing instead of…” She paused and for a second, she looked distant. “They told us you were fulfilling your destiny.”

“It was Voltron who finally brought me home, mama.” His quiet voice brought her back. He squeezed her hand in his.

There was still doubt in her eyes but with a flicker of determination. “I won’t say I understand yet but I will try. For you. For our family. So you can come home one day.”

“Thank you.” She jumped at his embrace but relaxed into it, returning his tight hold. “I love you, mama.” Her reply was quiet but her heartbeat was loud. Maybe, Lance thought, this would finally bring him peace.

X

The rest of the visit was a short affair. They spent the day with Lance’s family, catching up and filling in. There were hugs and tears. There were explanations and there was acceptance. The hole in Lance’s heart slowly began to fill.

They left as the moon rose once more but he would return one day. This he knew. For now though, there were scars to heal and there was a universe to protect.

And he was not leaving all of his family behind, not really.

Those who had accepted him and those who had given him freedom. Those who had helped him heal and those who had worked hard to understand him. Those who loved him and who he loved in return. They were all among the stars with him. They were his family now.

He would defend the universe, all the children out there and all those who had been hurt. And he would defend his family.