Chapter Text

“And here I was, thinking you were done getting yourself suspended.” Lance says, smug. He drops his gaze to the floor, then meets Keith’s eyes again. “Where’s your leg?”

Keith grabs the moulding around the doorframe tightly, his other hand holding onto the door. He keeps his arms tensed to keep himself upright; his balance is fine, usually, but it’s the ass crack of dawn. Lance is casting a shadow on Keith that cuts the sunlight but doesn’t stop the sun from blaring into Keith’s eyes over Lance’s shoulder. Speaking of which, Keith blinks, and squints out at the world behind Lance. Not the ass crack of dawn, then. Just plain ol’ daytime.

“What…” Keith wavers, looking at Lance again. “What are you doing here?”

He looks Lance over, briefly; in his clean, pressed Garrison coat. Though Keith would expect him to be sweating through the wooly material given the mid-summer morning heat, Lance doesn’t betray any signs of discomfort. His hair is neat, fringe falling very intentionally across his forehead, cropped close and clean at the back of his head. It’s different than Keith expects, and it almost always takes him off guard, but it’s a pretty standard look for Lance these days. And in his hand, a small, white cardboard box.

His eyes are familiar where they meet Keith’s, lashes long and brown, eyebrows meticulously groomed. Keith wonders for a second if he’s supposed to be doing anything to maintain his eyebrows. Is that a thing people do? Well—yes, obviously, apparently. Maybe he should look into that.

Lance smiles at Keith, earnestly but a little smug, eyes soft when he looks at Keith. “I’ve been enlisted in your rehabilitation. Move.”

“No,” Keith says, instantly, taken aback a little, ready for a fight. “I don’t need rehabilitation. And who enlisted you?”

“Keith,” Lance begins, pragmatically, smiling sweetly like he knows he’s already won, “one: you have removed a prosthetic that is not, in ordinary use, meant to be removed. Hence, rehabilitation. Two: you currently have one leg and terrible balance.”

“I have excellent balance,” Keith shoots back, immediately.

“Oh, yeah?” Lance asks, his smile losing its sincerity, Lance’s eyes glinting with a challenge. “Watch this.”

And he pushes at the crook of Keith’s left elbow, on the side closest to the door, on the side Keith’s lacking a leg, and Keith has to grab at the doorframe where his other hand is so he doesn’t topple over completely. By the time he’s hopped into place, he’s already created an opening for Lance to breeze on past and into the house.

“Did you just wake up?” Lance calls over his shoulder, as he disappears into the kitchen.

Keith bites back a growl. For one, he has about four more hours of sleep to partake in; for another, his place is an absolute mess.

He knows there are dishes piled up in the sink, there’s at least three take out boxes in his fridge that have been stewing there for a couple of weeks, and the floor is generally dirty and in need of a deep sweep and mopping. Keith shuts the front door; turns to the wall to his left, the doorway in it at the far end that leads back into the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder and hops back a little, just enough so he can sit on the back of his couch. He considers tipping back, onto the cushions, but he has a feeling doing so would only end with his head smacking either into the coffee table or the floor.

Not to mention, he’s got random clothes strewn about the place, a pair of boots in the corner of the room, for some reason he can’t quite remember, an empty bottle—fine, two empty bottles—of some cheap and shitty whiskey, one on its side on the coffee table, the other, also on its side, on the floor. A handful of empty soda cans, an ashtray with a couple of cigarette butts in it at various degrees of smoked—there were a couple he started on and just couldn’t get further on, crumpling them into the dish almost completely unburnt, and there's a couple that he finished, then set the white filter on fire. Out of curiosity.

Keith pauses, briefly panicking. Is there a smell? Have things gotten to the point where there is a smell?

“There’s a weird smell— oh, found it.”

Keith cringes.

Lance emerges from the kitchen, the box balanced on his arm, a plate, knife, and fork held between the fingers of the other hand. He hands the box to Keith, sets the plate and cutlery atop it, then rounds the sofa into the living room. He kneels and clears the table off without, surprisingly, being gingerly or nervous, using his forearm to sweep random trash and the like to one side. He lifts the empty whiskey bottle, glancing up at Keith through his lashes. This, Lance sets on the floor, upright, in front of the table. Then, he spots the ashtray, stares at it for a second, then lifts it and levels a longer look at Keith, one eyebrow raised slightly, mouth an unimpressed line. He sets it aside.

Then Lance rounds the sofa again to take the box and the plate and the cutlery from Keith, then goes back to the table to set the box down on the now mostly-clear table. When Keith doesn’t move, Lance beckons him impatiently, “come sit.”

“Why? What is it?”

Lance, still holding the plate in one hand and the silverware in the other, sets the backs of his hands on his hips and shifts his weight. He cocks his head, leveling a flat look at Keith. “Sit.”

Keith relents, but gives in, figuring it’s probably better to let whatever’s about to happen happen. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to be an adult about it; he swivels on his ass, lifting his leg over the back of the couch, then slides down the already misshapen back cushions onto the seat.

Lance sticks the plate in Keith’s hands, then opens the box up. Steam wafts up; inside, a breakfast platter. Keith stares for a second; an omelet, two nicely toasted pieces of toast, with two little plastic pots of two different jams beside it, five small but hearty pancakes, a couple of small sausages, and one considerable hash brown, shredded and cooked into a flat patty.

Keith lets go of the plate with one hand, fingers curling into a loose fist. Lance takes the opportunity to stick the silverware into Keith’s hand. “Now eat,” he demands.

“Wait— hold on,” Keith begins, finally looking up at Lance again, “what’s this?”

Lance’s brow furrows and he looks at Keith like he’s actually stupid. “It’s breakfast?”

“No, I mean…” Keith struggles, looking for the right word, the right question.

“Because breakfast,” Lance replies, “now eat.”

Lance disappears back through the front door; Keith hears a car door open, shut, then the beep of an alarm setting. Lance returns to the living room a moment later and sets a disposable coffee cup next to the box, alongside three little packets of sugar and three tiny containers of creamer.

Then Lance leaves Keith there, and a moment later, Keith hears the kitchen tap start to run. Hastily, he calls, “you don’t have to—”

And before he can finish, Lance calls back, sternly, “eat.”

So Keith does. It’s kind of nice—and though he would never admit this, not in a million years—it’s kind of nice to have someone tell him what to do. Lance says to eat, so Keith considers the box before using his utensils to lift the omelet into his plate, followed by one of the pancakes. He finds some syrup in the box, too, and pours a very reasonable amount atop the bubbled surface of the pancake. He starts with the omelet, because that feels right; he takes one bite, and a moment later, his stomach grumbles to life, and he is suddenly insatiable.

When he finally sits back, Keith has all but demolished the box’s contents. He feels a little bad, a little primitive, but simultaneously, satiated. He thinks there must be a good reason for why he usually skips breakfast; Keith wracks his mind but comes up empty.

He sits back and holds the coffee cup between his hands. He made a little bit of a mess opening one of the sugar packets, leaving little white grains all atop the nicked, dark wood of his coffee table. He frowns; Lance just helped clear that table off.

Then Keith looks around the room again, sees the boots in the corner—muddy, actually, now that he’s looking at them—and then the blanket he’d tossed unthinkingly onto the floor after sweating through it in his sleep. He’s not sure how long ago that was. Maybe a week, maybe three. He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been on break.

No, not break. Suspension.

“Oh, good,” Lance smiles, sincerely.

Keith looks up, snapped out of his reverie—or nightmare, really, because that’s what he’s apparently living in, now. He’s removed his Garrison coat, revealing a very professional powder blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Teal rubber gloves, too—where did he get those?

“Uh—” Keith starts, “thanks, it… it was really good.”

Lance’s eyes are bright when he says, “thanks! My mom made it.”

He goes to the window, beaming, drawing the curtains open just enough to let some light into the place. Keith has to shrink a little against it, squinting hard. He’d gotten used to the dark. He refuses to look around the room again. He’s sure it’s far worse with the light on it now.

Keith’s heart skips. “Your mom…?”

“Yeah, no biggie.”

“No big— it’s kind of a biggie.”

“Nah,” Lance waves his hand dismissively.

“Lance,” Keith says, as if to say, come on.

“Hey, really,” Lance says. He bends over the table, gathers up the mostly-empty box and dirtied dishes, and stands again.

Before he can move, Keith says, “you don’t have to… you can just leave it, I’ll get around to it.”

Lance’s smile fades, and he looks at Keith with concerned eyes—really, truly, concerned eyes, and Keith has to fight with everything in him not to look away. “No offense, Red,” Lance says, “but it doesn’t look like you’ve been getting around to much of anything lately.”

“I can get a maid,” Keith mumbles.

“Yeah, well, maids just aren’t as good-looking as me,” Lance says, shrugging. He pauses, then, looking around the room; he glances into the corridor that leads to the back of the house. “Where’s Kosmo?”

Keith lowers his gaze. “Back on base.”

Lance blinks, setting his gloved fists on his hips. “Why?”

“My mom… thought it was best.”

Lance hums, like weird. He turns and disappears back into the kitchen a second later, and Keith frowns. He should get up, follow, help clean, but it’s so much easier—shamefully, it’s so much easier—to let Lance do it.

When Lance returns, a moment later, he’s holding Keith’s prosthetic in his now bare hands. It’s been cleaned, Keith can see, based on the fact that there is no longer sauce or cigarette ash or blood on it. It almost seems to gleam, 

Lance rounds the coffee table, then pauses. He reaches over, pushing Keith’s duvet over, so as to expose the couch cushion. This, however, is unsuccessful; removing the duvet only reveals a random t-shirt beneath it. Lance doesn’e betray any disgust or distaste on his face, but he only pinches a corner of the fabric between forefinger and thumb before tossing it aside.

He sits, at last, the springs of the old sofa creaking and shifting with his weight. And he holds the prosthetic, bent at the knee, between them. And he looks right at Keith, right into his eyes, soft and sweet. 

Gently, he asks, “do you need help getting it on?”

Keith wavers. He decidedly shakes his head, then puts down his coffee and reaches for the prosthetic. It's a little heavy, about the same weight as his real leg was. It was silver when he first got it, but Pidge had done him a favour and gotten it painted black. Now, there are silver scratches appearing in places where Keith’s scraped it. There’s one big slash across the calve, from what felt like an ingenious move at the time: it’s actually very easy to sike out the guy swinging at you if you let him think he’s about to take off your leg, only for his sword to clang uselessly against metal.

Keith slides the leg of his boxers up, just enough to expose the stump of his leg, where it ends and the prosthetic port attaches. Really, the only time he should ever be taking the appendage off is when he’s getting it repaired or adjusted. But a few mishaps—and drinks—later, and it felt important to tell the thing to fuck off.

Carefully, Keith slots the appendage against the port. He gets the main anchor into place, and then has to fiddle with it to get it to lock, but it won't, no matter how hard he tries. His hands tremble a little; he lets go of the leg to make tight fists with his hands, and grits his teeth. 

And then Lance places his hand atop one of Keith’s; and when Keith meets his eyes, seems to ask for permission to help.

Keith hesitates, and then relents. He leans back against the sofa, letting his shoulders sink. His hands unfurl, falling limply at his sides.

“Why’d you take it off?” Lance asks, softly, rising and then kneeling on the floor between the coffee table and couch.

Keith only looks at Lance for a second, then averts his gaze. The last thing he wants is to acknowledge how low he’s making Lance stoop.

Keith starts a little when Lance’s cool fingers brush over what’s left of the skin of Keith’s leg. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“No, it’s fine,” Keith murmurs back.

It’s not, really, because Keith’s… Well, he wasn't expecting any fingers on his skin, much less upon the soft skin of his upper thigh. No one’s been in that region since he lost the leg to begin with, and then it was only ever doctors with cold latex gloves.

“I’m gonna take it out and pop it back in.”

“Just warn me before you lock it in.”

“Sure.”

Keith stares up at the ceiling; he can hear Lance shifting the prosthetic, can kind of feel the vibration of it in his stump and his pelvis when the anchor slides out and then back in. “I’m gonna lock it,” Lance murmurs.

“Okay,” Keith shuts his eyes.

It locks in on Lance’s first try, and Keith tenses up, steeling himself against that strange feeling—a sudden phantom pain mixed with real pain as the nerve receptors on the leg come on, the way cold seems to radiate off the metal because the internal heater hasn’t kicked in, the way he suddenly goes from only feeling a little bit of rough couch cushion to feeling it all the way down a leg that wasn’t there a second ago.

“Does it hurt?” Lance asks, softly, concerned.

“No,” Keith shakes his head, opening his eyes, “it’s just… it’s weird.”

He winces; a pain shoots up his leg, feeling like it’s right in the bone, right at the spot where his leg was essentially hacked off, and he reaches down to grab the port, the smooth transition from skin to metal, willing the sensation to pass.

“That looks like it hurts,” Lance says, softly.

His hand is gentle against Keith’s shoulder, thumb rubbing gently back and forth on the cotton of Keith’s t-shirt. Keith tightens his jaw, willing the pain to pass. He’s starting to remember why he’s not supposed to remove the prosthetic unless it’s necessary. “It does,” he says back, keeping his voice carefully level.

A moment later, the pain wavers off into a dull ache. Keith exhales steadily, feeling his shoulders relax. Tentatively, he wiggles his machine toes one-by-one, appreciating how it feels to have toes to stretch on that side again.

“Better?” Lance asks.

“Yeah.” Keith tugs the leg of his boxers down and sinks back against the couch again, laying his head atop the backrest so as to look up at the ceiling. “Just a phantom pain.”

“Do you get those a lot?”

“No,” Keith shuts his eyes. He tries to get used to the feeling of the metal foot, how the floor feels beneath it. “Only when I put it back on.”

“Gee,” Lance begins, sarcastic, “I wonder why it is that you’re really not supposed to take the thing off.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s state of the art, Keith, you could even go swimming with the damn thing. You might as well keep it on.”

“I know,” Keith insists, opening his eyes to look at Lance.

Lance meets Keith’s gaze full-on, his face betraying nothing, and in betraying nothing, revealing to Keith that what Lance is thinking is that he’s right. Instead of conceding this point, Keith says, “thanks for cleaning it up. And for helping.”

Lance smiles a little, then drops his gaze to Keith’s leg. When he looks up, he’s got a look on his face, like he’s about to ask something and he wants the truth—like he’s about to ask something and he’ll be able to see right through Keith if he lies. “Why’d you take it off?”

Keith frowns; looks away.

“Did the blood on it have something to do with it?”

“I had a nosebleed,” Keith says, trying his best not to sound defensive.

“So you… took your leg off?”

“It’s not my leg,” Keith bites, fingers curling around the hem of his boxers.

“Your prosthetic, then,” Lance corrects, gently.

“No, I…”

Keith can’t really find the words to explain it. He just got kind of sick of looking down and seeing metal where he was supposed to be seeing flesh. And he took it off, and he liked the stretch in his hip when he laid on his left side and put his flesh leg into the empty space where there was supposed to be a leg. But that’s not what you’re supposed to say when you get a cyborg leg free of charge, as a gift for saving the universe.

When Keith doesn’t say anything, Lance continues, “then at least tell me why it was in the sink.”

“It was dirty,” Keith answers.

“It’s not a dish.”

“Might as well be.”

Keith rolls his head on the backrest to look at Lance. Lance has one hand atop the other, there on his knee, his eyes sizing Keith up. A little, almost imperceptible divot between his eyebrows.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.” Lance smiles now, small, but his eyes and brow don’t change. “You wanna go take a shower?”

Keith tenses up, looking at Lance carefully.

“What?” Lance asks instantly.

“Are you—”

“I really hope you’re not about to say what I think you’re going to say,” Lance says, holding up one finger between them. “I meant you. Only you. I’m trying to be nice here, but judging by your hair, it’s been a minute since the last one.”

Okay, he’s got his head in the gutter. He blames it on the fact it’s been… a week? Three weeks? Jesus Christ, he really does not know what day it is. Regardless, it’s been some time since the last time he saw anyone, and maybe seeing Lance again is bringing up some old delusions.

“Unless,” Lance begins, gently, eyes sincere, “you need help.”

He says it so earnestly, so gently, that Keith can’t even feign offense. Still, he shakes his head. He’s embarrassed himself enough today. The least he can manage is a shower.

“Do you have clean clothes?”

“I think so.”

“Okay,” Lance smiles. Then, shrugging and raising his brows, “and if not, y’know, free-ball it. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Keith cracks a smile.

“There he is,” Lance abandons the comical expression in favour of looking warmly at Keith, his eyes gentle. “Now get a move on. If you need anything, let me know.”

Keith sits up, then hesitates, meeting Lance’s eyes. “Are you…” he glances away, “are you sticking around?”

Lance smiles, nods, “yeah, Keith.”

“You don’t have to,” Keith says.

“Hey, go,” Lance urges, lightly tapping his fist to Keith’s arm, “don’t worry about me.”

Keith waffles another second longer, then rises, a little unsteady on his feet. He takes a moment to situate himself, then side steps around the coffee table. He turns; hesitates, glancing over his shoulder, then proceeds through the short corridor that leads him to the back of the house, where there is an empty bedroom, a bedroom Keith hasn’t slept in for at least a week, and the bathroom.

Upon inspection, he’s relieved to find some clean clothes, chalking this stroke of luck up to the fact that he’s probably only made his way through about three t-shirts since he’s been back. He picks a shirt at random, dithers over whether he wants sweatpants or not, decides he does, and then collects a bath towel from the top rack of his closet. The one currently on the hook in the bathroom has been hanging there since he got back to Earth. And yeah, sure, he’ll admit it. He’s used it a couple of times.

When he reaches the bathroom, Keith drops the old towel to the floor, then peels his clothes off and drops them on top of it, promising himself that he’ll toss the bundle in the laundry after he showers. Immediately after, no excuses.

He showers dutifully, albeit sluggishly, taking his time getting situated under the water, then staring at the bottle of shampoo before he can find the presence of mind to emulsify and massage a dollop of it into his roots. He has an easier time getting to the conditioner, but has a moment where he almost needs to ask Lance to remind him how much to use. He figures it out eventually, gets his ends saturated, gets soap lathered onto each frankly sticky, sweaty, grimy part of himself, including his freshly cleaned prosthetic. When Keith emerges, having probably taken more time than he ought to have, knowing his skin is pink and flushed from the warm water, he’s feeling kind of okay about himself. Not quite good, but okay.

He wraps the towel around his hips and then tucks the end in place, pausing before sweeping the heel of his palm across the foggy mirror.

He meets his own eyes, same as always, there in the mirror. Touches at the scar on his cheek with his fingertips. Shoves his wet hair back and out of his face, and hesitates. Gathers his hair up in both hands and then lets it go so it falls against his back.

Keith stares at himself for a long, aching moment. Sees himself frown in the mirror, his brow knitting. He can’t remember when he decided to grow his hair out. He thinks it’s one of those things that just kind of happened, without his meaning for it to. He guesses he likes it. Or, at the very least, he’s gotten used to it. He glances down at the cracked mug on his counter top, housing his toothbrush and comb and razor and hair scissors.

He considers himself again, the strange look in his eyes, his bloodshot sclera, his nostrils dry and raw from the recent nose bleeds.

Keith pulls the mirror forward, revealing the shelves behind it, and withdraws a small tub of lotion. A recurring gift from Lance, given often enough that Keith started buying it of his own volition. He smiles a little. He guesses that was Lance’s plan all along.

He’s gentle, unsure, when he applies it over his face, shutting the door to rub the cream into his skin with the assistance of the mirror. Keith doesn’t see much of a difference, but he guesses he was probably looking pretty rough pre-shower.

Personal maintenance complete, Keith eyes himself in the mirror again. Looks at the scissors again.

About three minutes later, he’s standing there with the bulk of his hair in his hands, scissors in the other, and a mess of random little hairs all over his shoulders.

Keith rinses the scissors and puts them away, then stares at the hair in his fist. What’s he supposed to do with this? Throw it away? Is that right? What did his dad used to do with Keith’s hair after trimming it? He thinks, vaguely, that he’s supposed to burn it, maybe?

Undecided, Keith lays the hair on the counter. Gently, like he might otherwise hurt it. He wavers, a little perplexed. He looks up, meeting the eyes of his reflection again, and then stills. It takes a moment for him to recognize himself, and his neck feels suddenly cold.

But no, that’s him. It’s just him.

He looks away before he can think too hard about it. Keith reaches for his shirt; frowns when he realizes it's a gag shirt, gifted to him by Pidge, two sizes too big with three wolves howling up at the moon. And then smiles a little. Maybe Lance will get a kick out of it.

Keith makes a very particular and concerted effort to pick up his dirty clothes and the old towel and carry them back to his room, where there’s an under-used laundry hamper in his closet.

And then he returns to the living room, finding Lance with a black trashbag in his teal-rubber-gloved hand. Lance is bent over, sweeping random debris from atop the coffee table into the bag; the rest of the room has been tidied, Keith’s dirty shirts nowhere to be seen, his muddy boots removed from the room. The curtains are completely open, the window is open, and a fresh, light breeze flows into the room. Lance stands to his full height when he sees Keith; then blinks at him.

“Your hair,” he says.

“Yeah,” Keith says.

“Come here, let me see.”

So Keith ventures forth, until he’s properly in the living room, arm’s length from Lance.

“I like it,” Lance smiles, “it’ll take some getting used to, though.”

“I… do I look stupid?”

“Keith, please,” Lance levels a flat but amused look Keith’s way, “you always look a little stupid.”

Keith smiles despite himself.

“Is that the shirt Pidge got you?” Lance says next, eyes pinching with a grin.

“Yeah,” Keith says, “it was… the first thing I grabbed.”

Lance looks away from the shirt, meets Keith’s eyes with a sweet little grin. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then, “give me a spin.”

Keith turns obediently, taking small, halting steps in order to rotate in a slow circle. He’s been subject to this ritual enough times that he knows exactly how slowly Lance wants Keith to turn. When Keith is facing Lance again, Lance has a soft look in his eyes, his smile kind but a little worried. “Let me tidy it up for you?” he offers.

So Keith lets Lance follow him into the bathroom, hands him the hair scissors, and then sits on the edge of the tub with his feet upon the damp porcelain, facing the wall. And Lance is gentle, careful, running his fingers through Keith’s hair to pinch locks between his fingers, his fingertips cool and a little calloused as they brush against Keith’s nape. The scissors are crisp as they cut at Keith’s hair, making smooth noises. When Lance is satisfied, he musses Keith’s hair, fingertips moving lightly against the back of Keith's head to shake his hair into place.

“Tell me what you think,” Lance says, and judging by the way there’s no more warmth against Keith’s back, no more stray brushing of fabric against his spine, Lance has stepped away.

So Keith rises, meets his eyes in the mirror, and shrugs. “I guess it looks fine.”

“Please, that’s a primo McClain cut.” Then, softer, sincerely, “I think it looks good.”

Keith hesitates, wanting to ask if Lance is sure, but decides against it. He never cared much about his looks to begin with—there’s no use in starting to care now.

“I think you need a little trim in the front, too, though,” Lance says. Keith looks at Lance in the mirror; Lance keeps scrutinising Keith’s hair. “And then give it a week or two and it’ll grow in a little.”

So Keith sits on the edge of the tub again, facing Lance now, and Lance leans back, turning his face one way, then the other, like trying to get a better idea of what to change. Then, carefully, he reaches forward and pinches the front-most lock of Keith’s hair between his fingers, combs it out, and then makes some careful but probably skillful cuts. He does the same to the hair falling around Keith’s cheeks, standing right there before Keith.

And Keith has a full moment where he debates whether or not to place his hands on Lance’s waist, on the starched blue shirt, to pull Lance in so that Keith can press his cheek to Lance’s stomach, so that he can bring Lance in close and breathe him in. He glances away, ashamed, trying to will the sudden heat out of his cheeks.

These are basal, juvenile desires. He thought he left them behind, right alongside Voltron. Forgot them—or tried to forget them—the first time he saw Lance and Allura holding hands. Couldn’t think of them after Allura was gone.

And that was it.

But then Keith remembers the absolute disaster that is his home, the dirt, the grime, how awful he must have looked an hour ago, his sour face and sour attitude, the massacre he’s committed upon his hair, on a whim, and the simple fact that he lost control of himself like he was a teenager again, only to get himself suspended.

Lance drifts away; Keith tries to lift his gaze, but struggles to, his jaw working.

“Hey,” Lance urges, gently, fingers like upon Keith’s shoulder, “tell me if I fucked it up.”

“I don’t think it can get any worse,” Keith replies.

But he rises, stands next to Lance and looks at himself in the mirror. He really has no opinion. He guesses it looks fine. Better, for sure, than it did earlier. “I don’t know why I did that,” Keith says.

“That’s okay,” Lance assures. “What do you think?”

“It’s fine.”

“I mean, did I fuck it up?”

“No,” Keith says, definitively.

His fringe is still long, and essentially, Lance has gifted Keith with an extremely short mullet. Yeah, Keith’s mature enough now to admit it was always a mullet.

“Thank God,” Lance sighs. He looks down at the counter, the pauses, staring at the bundle of Keith’s hair still gathered up there.

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” Keith supplies, “what are you supposed to do with it?”

“Uh, well,” Lance pauses. Then, “when we were kids, Rachel cut all her hair off and donated it. I could ask her.”

“Are you supposed to… to burn it?” Keith asks, “I feel like my dad used to burn my hair.”

“I…” Lance gives Keith a funny look, “I guess I can see that being… a way of dealing with it.”

Keith stares down at the damp, inky strands. The years it took to grow it out. He thinks that, at the very ends, there are still pieces of hair that experienced what it felt like to shoot into space for the first time.

“We’ll figure something out.” Lance says. “Now, where’s your washing machine?”

“In the closet down the hall,” Keith says, finally looking away from the hair, “but really, I got it, Lance.”

“What I want you to do now,” Lance says, ignoring Keith’s protest, “is sit out on the porch. It's a nice day, and I cleaned off the rocking chair.”

“I’m not going to sit out on the porch while you clean my house,” Keith says.

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

Lance searches Keith’s eyes for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, exhaling, and relenting, Lance says, “can I trust you to do the laundry while I get the living room in shape? And then you sweep, I mop?”

“Okay,” Keith says.

He doesn’t really want to do any of that, but he’s being forced against his will, a little, what with Lance being here and all.

Keith follows Lance back into the living room to collect the laundry pile Lance has made at the doorway leading into the back of the house. Keith’s duvet, his three dirty shirts, a random sweatshirt, that sweaty blanket—all deposited there in a pile. He takes a moment to glance around the room; the coffee table is almost cleaned up, and the general disarray, trash, and other bullshit seems to have disappeared. It’s just the floor and coffee table left.

But Keith dutifully gathers the pile of laundry and takes it to the same hamper as before, then takes the hamper to the washing machine and dumps the contents into it. He’s running low on detergent.

A few hours later, he and Lance have swept and mopped the floor clean, there’s a light, fresh breeze flowing through the house, and the two of them stand in Keith’s bedroom, the bed freshly made, folding clothes. Well, Lance is standing and folding. Keith is perched on the edge of his mattress, absently and slowly folding and refolding a shirt. He’s not sure how to get the sleeves to fold evenly.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Lance asks.

“Don’t you have better things to do?” Keith asks, a little snappishly.

“No,” Lance says, with finality, finding two matching socks and folding the mouth of one over the other. “And my parents have every streaming service.”

And later, after Lance goes, Keith sleeps uneasily in his bed, between newly clean sheets, under the newly clean duvet, with the blinds open to let the light in once the sun rises. In the morning, he has a moment where he hardly recognizes his living room, his tidied kitchen. A moment where he is surprised not to find some strange scent wafting out of the fridge when he opens it.

On his way back into the living room, he pauses, seeing his boots, there in the foyer, now clean and almost gleaming, as if waiting for him to tug them on and depart.

—

“Ugh,” Lance says, “delinquent.”

“What?” Keith says, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, watching as Lance makes his way up the steps to the porch.

“When did you start smoking?”

“Depends,” Keith says, taking another pull from the cigarette.

“Now what the fuck could that possibly mean?”

“High school, or, whenever I got suspended.”

“You say that like you don’t remember when you got suspended.”

“I don’t,” Keith admits, easily.

He rocks back in the chair, gently, appreciating the nice breeze flowing across the porch.

“Two and a half weeks, baby girl.” Lance sighs.

Keith blinks at the pet name. Decides against commenting on it, and instead brings his smoke back to his lips.

“I’m here to take you grocery shopping.” Lance swings his keys around his finger.

“I don’t need—”

“Yes you do. Shut up,” Lance says, instantly. “I looked through your fridge. One thing of milk and half a dozen eggs is not enough to survive off of. And given that you’re lactose intolerant, I can’t even begin to understand why you would have dairy milk to begin with.”

Keith’s been in a little bit of denial lately. He got curious—sue him!

“I can take myself grocery shopping.”

“Again, as much as I would like to believe you, I am having a hard time doing so given the evidence to the contrary. I looked through your fridge when I was here.”

“Lance,” Keith begins, “you don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Lance says, making his way properly onto the porch. He leans against the creaky wooden railing. “I was enlisted, remember? And, also, you’re my friend.”

“Who “enlisted” you?”

“Your mom, dawg.”

“Don’t call me dawg.”

“I can’t not call you dawg.”

Keith ignores this; clarifies, “Krolia?”

“Do you have more than one mom? Yes, Krolia.”

Keith looks away, jaw working. Krolia’s the one who suspended him. He’s a little surprised to hear she’s the one enlisting Lance, but he guesses it tracks. Or, maybe it doesn't. He didn’t actually know the two of them spoke. “Why were you talking to Krolia?”

“If I referred to my mother by her first name, I’d already be digging my grave,” Lance says, levelling a hard look Keith’s way.

“She literally abandoned me as a child.”

Lance’s face doesn’t change; he looks at Keith expectantly.

“Fine, why were you talking to my mom?”

“We’re friends.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yep.” Lance says, smugly, “she’s a big fan.”

Keith looks at Lance dubiously. Honestly, as far as Keith knows? Krolia’s no fan of Lance’s at all. He takes a pull of his cigarette, eyeing Lance.

“It’s because of my outreach units,” Lance explains, “I guess Klyzarp and Geno gave Krolia good reviews.”

Keith racks his brain; yes, Lance had his outreach unit, just last year—two Blades and two rebels, the five of them venturing into risky territory to negotiate peace or scope out the situation in a particular place. Keith was often reading Lance’s reports with a little smile, seeing the small factions he was turning toward peace, the whole planets he was able to negotiate diplomacy with. Really, it was a little ridiculous, sometimes, how effective he and his unit was. And in addition to Lance’s personal work, Lance organized four other units, all almost as effective as his own.

“And she likes me.” Lance reiterates.

Keith furrows his brow a little. He guesses that’s probably just another secret Krolia has kept from him, alongside the suspension she began plotting for him months ago.

“Come on,” Lance says, “let’s go.”

Keith stares up at Lance from his seat. He’s been caught in just his boxers, again—though his shirt is clean, and he’s been pretty tidy with his place the last day and a half, if only not to ruin the hard work Lance put in when he was last here. He hasn’t been perfect—Keith’s got two or three dirty dishes already stewing in the sink. To his credit, he’s been looking into purchasing and installing a dishwasher.

“Give me a minute,” Keith says, stubbing the cigarette out in the dish on the armrest of the chair.

He hears his prosthetic whir as he rises; it’s not usually a noise that the thing makes, but given its recent re-attachment, it seems to be working double time to get back to the quiet, easy movements it was making before Keith took it off. An adjustment period. That’s always how it goes. It’s his own fault for taking the thing off.

Keith is seated in Lance’s SUV a handful of moments later, wearing jeans and his boots—the ones so recently and freshly cleaned by Lance.

The radio plays some shitty pop at a reasonable volume; Keith rolls his window down, and they’re on the highway before he knows it, venturing toward the city. Lance hums along to the radio—occasionally sings along. His voice is warm and in tune, and Keith doesn’t say that it brings him some kind of peace to see and hear Lance so relaxed. Instead, Keith rests his head against his seatbelt, and gazes out of the window as the desert belts past.

They’re in front of a small grocery store not half an hour later. Keith feels strange in his skin, then. He swung by a convenience store when he first got back to Earth, apparently two and a half weeks ago, picked up whiskey and two dozen eggs and that little jug of milk, and then holed up at home. He also made good use of the three restaurants within which he’s just in the delivery radius of. It wasn’t like he was starving, but a grocery store has never really been his place of choice.

“What do you usually like to eat?” Lance asks, as they cross the threshold into the cool, conditioned air of the supermarket.

“I don’t know,” Keith says, “whatever.”

Keith gazes upon the store; the bright, cold lights, the rows upon rows of various goods. To his left, produce and baked goods. To his right, homeware, kitchenware, and other such odds and ends.

“Okay, so, like, meat and eggs,” Lance deduces.

He pushes a cart, elbows atop the handle as he bends at the middle. He looks out before them, then decides to set a course for the very end of the store.

“I eat other stuff.”

“I know you,” Lance says, easily, “don’t worry.”

Keith doesn’t reply; just follows Lance as they make their ways past the produce, past the cereal aisle, past the baking and soda and snacks aisles, past the freezers, until they’re in the one with ice cream and milk and other dairy.

“What kind of milk?” Lance asks, “almond, soy or oat?”

Keith hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, oat,” Lance decides, “better for the environment."

“The environment,” Keith repeats.

He’d thought that was already fucked.

“Yeah, the environment," Lance says. “Do you want ice cream?”

“No.”

“Lame.”

And that’s how it goes; Lance asks what Keith wants, and Keith waffles or gives a definitive no, and Lance makes the decision for Keith.

By the end of it, they’ve got a decently full cart, with a mixed bag of frozen pre-made dinners and random odds and ends like frozen brussel sprouts—which Keith has no interest in cooking—and an in-season watermelon, which Keith has a feeling he’ll like.

Keith’s actually starting to enjoy himself by the time they get into the check-out line. And then, waiting next to Lance, he sees a magazine with his face on it, proclaiming, Black Paladin Suspended from Blades!

And a minute later, something warm trickles across Keith’s lip, and he realizes his nose is bleeding.

“Lance,” Keith says, turning to him.

Lance raises his brow in concern before producing a handkerchief—an honest-to-God handkerchief—from his pocket and holding it to Keith’s nose. “Pinch and tip back,” Lance says, using his free hand to push lightly at Keith’s forehead.

“I know,” Keith murmurs, taking the handkerchief and pinching the crooked bridge of his nose.

Lance glances over at the magazine rack, back at Keith, then back at the rack, and then reaches over and turns the volumes with Keith’s face on the cover around, so only the backsplash is visible.

It doesn’t feel like a very successful trip, and it’s not particularly pleasant, given the soft handkerchief stuffed up Keith’s nose, but once they’ve unloaded the car and brought everything into the kitchen, and Lance cracks open a brand-new cylinder of antiseptic wipes in order to wipe down Keith’s long-unused cabinets and drawers, once they’ve put everything away and Keith’s fridge is suddenly full, he feels just a little better about the whole ordeal.

“Who do you think leaked the story?” Keith asks, conversationally.

He’s only a little miffed. It’s not the first time he’s been in the tabloids, and it won’t be the last.

Lance lifts only his eyes from his mug of tea, bent at the middle with his elbows on the counter. “How’s your nose?” he asks, instead of answering.

“Fine,” Keith says.

His sense of smell is a little off, given the medicated ointment he was required to put in his nostril, but the ointment is doing its job and his nose doesn’t feel sore. “You don’t want to talk about it?” Keith asks.

“Not really,” Lance admits, rising to his full height. Then, “you need a table in here.”

“Why? No one’s ever here.”

“Because that’s what adults do. They have tables where their house has a space that is clearly designed to accommodate a table. And I’m here.”

Keith meets Lance’s eyes, those blue-blue eyes, steely and a little hurt as they dig into Keith’s eyes.

“You don’t have to be,” Keith reminds, “I don’t need your help.”

“I don’t care if you need it or not,” Lance says, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “I’m your friend.”

“Lance,” Keith says, like, come on, really? “I haven’t seen you since Christmas. Longer, before that. We barely talk.”

Lance’s brow knits, his lips curving into a hurt frown. He glances down at his mug, jaw working, and then meets Keith’s eyes again. “Are you… do you not think of us as friends?”

Keith opens his mouth, meaning to say something—to say anything, but he comes up empty. Of course they’re friends. Of course they are. But Lance has his family, has Hunk and Pidge, has his rebel and Blade friends, has his outreach group, has his teacher friends at the Garrison. Keith has Shiro, Adam, his mom, and a dog he’s not allowed to see.

Lance presses both his hands atop the counter, wrists open toward Keith. His brow furrows; he shifts on his feet, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Hey,” Lance says, “can you go grab my cane? It’s in the car.”

“Okay,” Keith says, blinking.

He didn’t know Lance used a cane. He knew it was a possibility, given the broken hip he suffered all those years ago, the damage to the same leg on a mission gone bad a couple of years ago, but he hadn’t known things had gotten to a point actually warranting the aid.

“Thanks,” Lance breathes, handing Keith his car keys, “it’s behind the driver’s seat, it’s blue.”

When Keith returns, cane in hand, he finds Lance on the couch, deflated, head atop the backrest and staring up at the ceiling.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, sitting gingerly down next to Lance.

“Yeah,” Lance sighs, accepting the cane, “thanks.”

He sets the metal cane against the couch next to him.

“When did you start needing that?” Keith asks, softly.

“About a year ago,” Lance shrugs. “Remember that time I fucked up my hip? Turns out I am not invincible and sometimes things don’t heal right.”

“But I thought it was only a maybe,” Keith says, wracking his brain.

Yes, it was a maybe—just like Keith found out about the fracture line along the back of his skull, by then healed but once could have been fatal if not for his prompt situation in a pod. Just like the numb skin on Pidge’s side and Hunk’s partial hearing loss. That’s what they found, in those first days back on Earth, when they were subjected to a litany of tests and labs and pokes and prods.

“Well, it’s not anymore. My nerves are a little fucked up,” Lance explains, “so I only need it sometimes, but eventually it’ll be all the time. I could get a replacement, but… y’know.” Seemingly to himself, Lance adds, “I should’ve grabbed it sooner, today.”

“So how were you still going on missions?”

Lance shrugs a little. “Most of the time I’m completely fine. They tell me I’ll only be truly fucked when I’m in my fifties or sixties, and by then, who cares? I’m in good shape, I do my physio. And when that doesn’t work, I have some pills. All in all, I’m cleared for missions.”

“But… but what if…”

“If we need Voltron?” Lance asks, flatly. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes lidded. “Then I tough it out. Or, worse case scenario, I can get a fancy new leg like yours, along with half a new pelvis.” Lance taps lightly on Keith’s left leg.

It doesn’t make a sound, given Keith’s jeans, but the sensation is different than if Lance had tapped on the flesh one.

Lance sighs; silence falls thickly upon them. Keith has a million questions—what about the likelihood of Lance needing a wheelchair, ambulatory at first, permanent second? What about the possibility of an amputation, just so that Voltron can get off its feet again? Is Lance in pain now? Does he need something? Would he ask if he did?

He looks down at his lap; so much has changed. He remembers the noise Lance made when his hip broke; remembers the way he’d spit up blood because of a bad blunt-force hit to the side. Remembers how Lance walked funny for a couple weeks after coming out of a healing pod. He remembers how his own fingers trembled while Lance healed up, remembers that he couldn’t eat, that every time he blinked he seemed to see Lance’s bloodied face. He remembers Lance, seventeen, not yet subjected to any substantial harm, tripping Keith in a corridor only to have his back wholeheartedly hours later, in battle.

“I know all about what happened,” Lance says, turning his head to look at Keith. “Krolia told me all of it. You can say we’re not friends, or I shouldn’t be here because it’s been hard to make time to see each other, or that you don’t need someone around, or push me away just so you can pretend none of it happened. But it did happen. And I’m here. Not because I was told to be, not because I want to make you uncomfortable, but because I want to be. And because I know what this feels like. In some small way, I know what this feels like.”

Keith remembers Lance, right After The War, inconsolable.

“And even if I didn’t, I’m happy to be here.” Lance pauses, then adds, “I’m happy to see you.”

Lance looks at Keith with earnest, sweet eyes, blue and open, like willing Keith to relent, to let Lance in. Keith has a moment where he thinks, fuck it, and another where he thinks, I can’t.

“I don’t get it,” Keith says, softly, glancing at the blue crescents on Lance’s cheeks, "I don’t get how you’re so fine.”

“It took years of work,” Lance shrugs a little.

“But you always seemed so fine.”

Lance lifts his head, searching Keith’s eyes for a moment. “I wasn’t. You just didn’t see that part.”

“And it went away because she came back,” Keith deduces.

“No,” Lance says, instantly. He furrows his brow, very clearly a little pissed off by the suggestion. “Allura wasn’t the only person I lost, Keith.”

Keith averts his gaze. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that—for it to come out at all, really. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Lance says. “This isn’t about me. This is about you.”

Keith’s skin crawls. He does not, frankly, want it to be about him in the slightest.

“I know you,” Lance says, softer. “So try and push me away all you want, be shitty to me, do whatever you want. But I know you.”

Keith meets Lance’s eyes again. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Well, it’s not supposed to be fair. At least not all the time. That’s called friendship.” Lance pauses, then, “I was really awful to a lot of people when I was in your position. I understand.”

It’s almost impossible, then, to keep meeting Lance’s eyes. Simultaneously, Keith can’t look away. He’s having a harder and harder time understanding what Lance is getting out of this, out of Keith. Even more so, Keith can’t fathom why he’s being so difficult. He’d thought he’d outgrown his habit of resisting easily proffered help. He thought he was getting better at reaching out. He thought he knew how to admit it when he might need help—when he might want it.

“And besides,” Lance says, smiling a little, “I get to lord this over your head for the rest of our lives.