Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Approximately one month ago

Blade of Marmora Headquarters, barracks: 

Keith stares at his reflection. The lights at the Marmoran Base are dimmer than humans prefer. He jumps between here and Earth frequently enough that he never really fully adjusts to either standard of luminosity. Even so he appears normal. Tired and a bit too thin but normal.

He doesn’t know what he expects to see.

The document copies he’d requested are still sitting on his bed. White pages with a maze of Galran text describing his blood profile. There is one panel highlighted in green, small and innocuous. Most life-changing things began that way. Little things that were easy to overlook. Maybe completely unnoticeable were it not for his routine quadrennial blood check at the Headquarters’ medical facility.

Pregnant. Just over one and a half months.

“Lance's”, a voice pipes in his head. Hopeful. Mocking. Disgustingly unhelpful.

The chances, statistically, were slim. half galra and non galra offspring weren't common. Genetic cohesion was so very low. 

but not zero.

The voice pipes in again. It’s not wrong. Anyone else he’d had vaginal sex with in that general time period was a Blade operative. By policy they were required to be on chemical contraceptives. There was never any telling who you'd be coerced or compelled to have sex with on a mission. No telling what type of violation your body could undergo. What could be forced upon you. And ‘siring’ type blockers were especially adhered to. children were a precious rarity to galra, and they wouldn’t want to be sowing their seed within someone who they would very possibly have to kill down the line.

The only reason he himself wasn’t on contraceptives against impregnation was that the pills gave him migraines and his ovaries weren’t estimated to be functionally viable for another 10 years. He should have taken that with a grain of salt. He’s the first known human-galra hybrid. Uncharted biological territory. ‘Estimations’ weren’t worth shit. That was obvious now.

It could be Lance's. It might not be. He's not sure which would be the more stable outcome. Regardless, here he is, staring at a father-to-be who looks uncannily like himself.

“fuck.” He says to them.

His reflection offers no insight. He runs a hand over his face, wincing as a finger brushes against the small suture on his cheek. It’s from a knife-fight he’d been in at a commuter station bathroom with some anti-galra louts that weren't too fond of his uniform. These days even down time and commuting is fraught with killing intent. One bloody mission merging into another.

He returns to his bed, swiping up the documents and placing them in his bedside drawer. He doesn’t really know why he asked for a copy. They just felt like something he should have. Maybe someday he’ll scrapbook them.

Maybe Lance will want to.

Keith is keeping this baby. He’s certain in the way he sometimes just knows things to be true. Intuition, foresight, whatever it was called. For him this was a fork in his road whose destination was chosen before it had even come into his view.

Lance? He has no fucking clue. The man is a mess- a beautiful, courageous, radiant mess. In the past couple years he’d only just started getting his life back on track and now he was going to come in from the sidelines and piledrive with this?

And if his gut feeling proved true and this was Lance’s child, the easy-out option of ‘we can just act like it never happened and go back to being friends’ was non-existent.

He will have to tell him. Eventually. The only thing more frightening than that was the alternative of running off and never seeing him again which was not going to happen. Another thing that he intuitively knew. He’d spent too much time running from things he couldn’t escape. It was tiring. Stupid.

His mother had said that was the price of wisdom. Doing stupid, painful things until you realised it wasn’t worth doing. Keith doesn’t feel wise. Just tired. Really fucking tired.

Keith lowers himself onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. He lay a hand atop his lower abdomen. Even with the dim alien lighting in the secluded room he feels like there’s a hundred eyes on him, watching for his next move.

Morosely, he realizes he can’t even drink himself to sleep.

Lance dreams of a dark room and warm sheets. Of dark hair and fair, scarred skin. Of hard muscle and soft lips. Of a world of agonizingly beautiful contradictions.

He feels himself sink into the phantom bed. It blurs and turns molten. His fingertips can’t quite find purchase in the honey-dense matrix unfurling around him.

Suddenly he’s falling. Dizzy. disintegrating.

Hurt.

“Fuck!”

Lance grits his teeth and raises a hand to the bridge of his nose. The location he’d just smacked against to table when he’d slipped from the propped-elbow rest he’d been snoozing on.

He groans. The kitchen he’s in is dim. The light dancing on the happy pastels of the windowbox snapdragons tells him it’s morning. He yawns and feels the fix of dust and grime on his face.

At least he’d managed to finish cleaning.

Predictably, he wasn’t able to get a cleaning crew in before noon, so it had landed on him to get the job done. Something he would have managed a lot sooner were it not for those neurotic Olkari. It was well into the night by the time they’d actually left the Estate, giving him ample time to be miserable about it.

Lance scrunches his nose a couple more times and heaves to his feet. He goes to the kitchen and flicks on the kettle. While it boils, he rummages around in the cupboards, retrieving the chicory-cereal mix he’d just stocked there for the new occupants. I’s not great, but It’s the closest thing to coffee you could get on Earth without selling a kidney to black-market alien researchers.

It’s enough for him. He’d never been that into coffee anyway. Forming this habit had simply been a way to replace far more insidious beverage consumption he’d previously taken part in after waking up.

He pours the fragrant powder into the cup of water and stirs it into a hot, brown soup. It contains no caffeine, but the deceptively familiar smell still perks him up a little. Cup-in-hand he strolls to the front door and steps out onto the porch.

As he looks out across the vast and modestly cultivated expanse of the agricultural complex- the effort of Earthlings and intergalactic immigrants alike- he allows a bloom of pride. He helped with this. Helped make it. Alongside his family and hundreds of volunteers he could put back pieces, however small, of the broken universe they lived in.

Already there are workers visible buzzing around the greenhouses in the distance. At this time they’ll be running soil checks and reviewing yesterday’s water dispersal. They are moving into Winter and they need data to properly prime the land. They didn’t have the facilities or resources to grow everything in those fancy climate-controlled long-houses so they made the most of the Earthen soil throughout the year.

Of course, he didn’t know the first thing about the process. The nuances or agriculture are the domain of his parents and older brothers. He’d never given it the time of day in his younger years. There’s a part of him that regrets that. Their skills in bringing and sustaining life throughout the harshest conditions are nothing short of magical. A kind magic; not the blitzing pain of whatever those druid cultists had lit him up with so many times.

It would have been a richer life, he thinks. A kinder and more fulfilling one. Without the blinding glamour and dizzying rise to-and subsequent fall from- glory. He’d have kept his feet firmly planted on Earth, sowing and reaping with the seasons. The pain of tungsten bullets and laser burns never known. No witnessing mass slaughter and planetary annihilation in the wake of his failures. His kills reserved to only poultry and sheep rather than amounting in the pile of alien corpses he so often dreams about.

He’d have lived and died surrounded by his growing family and a plethora of like-minded friends. Only ever seeing the Garrison facility through tales and rants from Veronica. Hearing about that irritating techie and Engineer duo that wouldn’t stop fucking about with their security protocols. Reading about Shiro in the newsletters she would bring home, where he’d stay a flawless hero in his eyes.

And Keith… 

Well, He’d probably had never met Keith.

He leans against the unit’s front deck railing and sips his drink. The cup he pulled from the cupboard is decorated with a bonnet-wearing duck waddling across a lawn. It’s age shines through the faint fracture lines in the ceramic. Over its rim, a few hundred meters before the unit, he sees  a shuttle stop being patronized by a small family. The children are playing some kind of alien rendition of hopscotch as some adults idle nearby. 

If he’d never met Keith, would he be married by now? Have a family? Would he have come to his personal realizations sooner, or simply railed against them the same way he had in this life? Maybe he’d have met a beautiful woman, settled down, had a family and then had his sexual awakening. that would probably be it. There’s few things in his life he didn’t fuck up magnificently. 

“Was that you banging around in there last night, Lance?”

Lance snaps out of his daze. A squat, toad-like alien is staring up at him from below the raised boards of the verandah. One of the few of the yannih species residing here. He’s lugging a sack of grain that appears comically large over his small form.

“Sorry Agyll. Still waking up. Do you want a hand with that or-”

Agyll speaks over him, ignoring the offer. “Lady friend keeping you up at night, hm? That was quite the ruckus. . Might need to ease up a bit, tiger.”

Lance held back a snort. For multiple reasons. Not least of which was the way the stilted English-mimicking locker talk sounded coming from the very non-human man. A few months ago he’d started turning off his universal translator during the day so he could ‘learn the language of this land’ properly. Bless him.

“Not quite. I was just clearing out this unit for the next tenants. They’re due today.”

“The young father and child? It is always nice having children around. They remind us why we work so hard, yes?”

Lance has given up asking residents how they knew supposedly ‘confidential’ information such as that.  “Sure do. Gotta keep the kids fed.”

Agyll grinned “Too true. Give them my regards when you give them the induction. I will give them one chicken for free!”

“thanks Agyll. I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”

The alien gave him a needle-toothed grin and waddled off. Agyll was an example of a perfect resident- tidy, cooperative and passionate for a cause - namely rearing livestock for food & tissue extraction- something his strictly carnivorous species had eons of experience in.

If only all their residents were so charming. They provided sanctuary for an extremely diverse and often deeply troubled assortment of aliens. Conflict over politics, religion, resources and relationships were common. Maintaining peace and balance was Sometimes impossible without having to evict one or multiple factions of an argument.

And when it came to the galra residents things got especially complicated. He’d had to play mediator in more than a couple instances of anti-galra violence on their soil. That in addition to playing the clean up crew for hundreds of counts of vandalism against property housing galra residents.

 With a bit of luck, this new resident won’t be another perpetuator.

Or another galra.

The thought comes unbidden  as always. Harbouring Galra refugees made literally everything about his job more difficult. But Earth remained one of the few places that would take them into it’s atmosphere at all, which made it all the more crucial that they did.

Plus, they made fine night-shift workers. Those people were luminous-eyed tanks.

Lance sighs. He’s getting ahead of himself. He had a day’s work ahead of him and he was already flirting with being behind schedule. The morning light is getting bolder and he’s beginning to feel the heat of the day pick up. He checks his communicator. It reads 7:34 AM. A late start.

The communicator at his waist chimes in. When he checks it, it’s exactly who he expects. Veronica always had a knack for sensing when he was moping.

“Heads up; the new residents are en route. The Marmorans just send us a needlessly over-encrypted notifier.”

Lance flinched at the organization’s mention. Thankfully, this call had no video feed. “Good morning to you, too. I finished prepping the unit by the way. No need to thank me.”

“For what? Doing your job?” Veronica asks. Lance loads an easy retort, but she beats him to it, her voice colder.

“We’ve got it on good authority their ferry will be met with some pretty nasty crowds.”

Lance had seen enough weeping newcomers to their Estate to know what she meant. His jaw tightened.

 “You guys really need to do something about that.” He says.

“Garrison external sites are public access. We can’t legally stop them being there, so long as they don’t physically attack people. They might be a little shaken up. Just make sure they feel welcome, because they will not feel it when they first arrive.”

“I will. So the Blades sent them directly? Do they usually do that, or-”

“God knows why the Blades do anything, Lance. They’re an ancient, magical anarchy cult. Maybe they’re just diversifying into transport.”

“I guess.”

“Alright, that’s all. Everything on your end all sorted?” Her tone is lighter now. The irresistible pull of sibling obnoxiousness has returned.

“No thanks to you. You know how hard it is to get Olkari dander out of a rug? For insect-looking aliens, they sure do shed. I don’t even know what it is they’re shedding.”

“Exoskeleton, if I had to guess.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Life is disgusting.  You’ll live.”

“As always Veronica, thank you for your wisdom.”

“As always, you are welcome. I gotta go, got a lunch date.”

“Date? Who would want to date yo-”

Veronica hangs up. Fair. He would have done the same.

Lance gulps down the rest of his drink and heads back into the kitchen. He has time for a quick shower and a snack before he heads out for his rounds. If he gets them done early he can throw together a welcoming basket by the time the new arrivals show up. An extra nice one. Locally made herbal soap, some preserves … A nice homely ‘we don’t want to stick your head on a pike” welcome.

He runs his mug under the jittery spray of the kitchen sink, washing it with soapy water and rinsing it out.

The Marmorans…

He really shouldn’t think on it.

They have a hand in a lot of things, especially when it comes to discrete refugee matters. They were, after all, Voltron’s first real martial Ally - albeit a tenuous and very independent one. Hell, they had a base facility right here on the estate attended by a handful of reclusive Marmoran communications analysts - a cluster of lanky, disquieting nerds that rarely ventured outside their hub.

It probably has nothing to do with Keith.

That barb in his chest still twinges. He wonders if it will every time he sees their emblem. Every time he sees purple flesh or black metal or the magenta lights of New Daibazaal’s post-empire tech.

He wonders when exactly Keith became so synonymous with everything alien. Distant, unintelligible. Out of reach.

Probably since he took your virginity and ditched you.

Lance slams his cleaned mug onto the drying rack. It rattles, and under the glaze of dish soap, The little duck’s eyes glisten with cruel mirth.

Daily chores. Liaise with tenants, greet new guest. He can do this. He’s done it hundreds of times before.

A good day. It’s going to be a good day.

‘Herbal remedies are traditionally utilized in situations of severe ether-matter burns and/or acute quintessence exposure. For instance, Ancient Daibazaali druids use Ramrock petals to extract damaging quanitites of ether from live tissue-”

Yorak stares at Keith as he reads, tiny face scrunched in concentration. Keith was attempting to read in his clearest enunciation of modern galra dialect-presumably the dialect the baby would have been spoken to with before being orphaned. His own grasp of the Language was pretty decent by now, but if he was going to be this child’s primary carer for the next…however many months, he figures he should really be polishing his linguistic skills.

Universal translators were all well and good for adults who had already developed their mother-tongue but they were hardly a healthy thing for infants to be synced up with. And given the most widely spoken language in the known universe was Imperial galran he figured he’d do Yorak a favour by starting them out strong.

All Keith had on hand was some tattered reference books he’d been given in a care package when he left the communications base. He loves these kinds of texts. One of his favourite things about Blade work was the pre-mission knowledge collection. Spending hours poring over historical articles and esoteric documents. Each was like a little window into another life. And the windows were as endless as the stars themselves. Snippets of knowns in the wild, chaotic universe that was the unknown.

That said, he doesn’t think it’s really prime material for infant storytime. Yorak isn’t complaining, though. They seem quite content nestled in their infant seat, staring at him.

“-Those trained in druidic techniques could apply their skills to  virtually any aspect of community. Water purification, agriculture and advanced chemical engineering and fabrication. In terms of social influence Druids were, and in some circles still are, best known for crafting and applying aphrodisiacal teas, tinctures and ingestibles intended for-”

Keith stops reading. He flips over the page to see several full colour and very explicit illustrations to support the text.

“why is everything related to galra like this?”

Yorak is patting the arms of their infant seat placidly, still staring at him. Keith sighs.

He places a hand on his abdomen. The smell of other passenger’s food mixed with the lights and motion of the ship had agitated his already-sensitive stomach. Fortunately, the morning sickness pills he’d taken seem to be kicking in and the queasiness has mercifully abated.

He’d been expecting a lot worse for their journey to Earth. The mid-size passenger carrier is comfortable and met all the basic needs of its patrons. A collection consisting mostly of low-priority relocators, by the looks of them. A few bandages and eyepatches, but not freely bleeding or catatonic bodies aboard to suggest they ’de just been snatched out of active war zones. He himself is probably the most beat-up looking one on the vessel.

It’s almost pleasant. There was a general positive vibe; palpable hope that where they were headed would be better than where they’d come from. Given his unique situation, Keith doesn’t know if he can get on board with the idea. But he had little choice but to get on board this ship. Regardless, there were far worse ships to ‘get on’, so he keeps his gripes to himself.

He feels like he’ll probably be ‘okay’ up until the point he pulls up on the McClain property. Until then he is doing his best to relax and at least try to enjoy what is now effectively his leave period.

This ferry is filled exclusively with galra and galra hybrids like himself. He’d been booked in last-minute, but most of these refugees came from a colony that was recently reclaimed by the Belel - it’s planet’s native inhabitants. They were short, fuzzy creatures with four sets of claws well suited to disembowelling.  Most of the galra civilians of that colony were swiftly and violently ousted but, Through the efforts of some BOM machinations, survivors were extracted and granted safe passage to Earth for relocation.

They were a visibly diverse lot. Some only belied their heritage in pale yellow sclera or a taller-than-average build than the standard Belel. Even so, Keith was as subtle amongst them a the 3-day-old bruises were on his pale skin.

It didn’t help that Yorak was sitting next to him, growling adorably. Galra were suckers for babies- apparently even hybrids being transported to refugee allotments from their destroyed homes. He could feel their stares drilling at him from all sides.

He’d expected this, though. That’s just what you got when you carried around a baby galra.

Biologically, galra were terrible breeders. Great copulaters - they fucked with an intensity and casual regularity that many alien species found frightening- but not the best at following through with the ‘baby making’ side of it. Naturally low fertility rates - thought to be a trade-off for their naturally stupid-long lifespans. If they bred at the rate of, say, humans, the universe would be overrun with purple.

When they see a baby, they lose their shit. It’s like seeing and albino crow or a four leafed clover. Rare and auspicious.

In times like these Keith was eternally grateful for his ‘resting psychopath face’ (Lance’s words) for deterring polite conversation. He’s too sore to deal with overly enthusiastic banter right now. And Yorak was a cranky fucker. The last thing he needs is for them to start hissing and crying. For the moment they seemed wholly unaware of the attention, content in lazing in their harnessed infant chair. He wants to keep it that way. 

Keith absently flips through the pages of the book, looking for a more appropriate subject to narrate. “Must be hard having everyone in your face all the time. You are pretty cute though. I can’t really blame them.”

Yorak is entranced by their own sock-clad feet, glaring at them as they sway them up and down

Keith wonders if his own child will be this strange. If it will feel any different. With Yorak, hell, most children, he feels completely at ease. Yet the mere thought of his impending fatherhood…

It doesn’t even seem real. Going by the med-lab textbooks he’d been consuming this past month the creature in his uterus would look like some kind of fleshy tadpole right now. It was still so outlandish that soon, far too soon, it would be an honest-to-goodness baby like the one sitting beside him. A being with fears and dreams and favourite foods and colours. With demands and expectations and so, so many needs.

That is assuming they survive to term. As much as it pains him to admit, his mother is right; he’s been playing way too recklessly with the odds. He owes his flesh-tadpole a little more grace than he's been giving.

Keith is lucky. Whether it was just luck-of-the-draw or he had some freaky gene combinations that made him hyper-fertile he is lucky. The circumstances weren’t ideal and he was entirely unprepared to bring a new life into this world but from the moment he found out he was pregnant his resolve was cemented.

He’ll take this as a sign of the universe granting him a little grace and sink his claws in. This may well be his only chance.

There’s a small thump next to him. He looks over to see Yorak has managed to pull off one of their socks and is smacking it against their chair’s armrest.

“What’s the matter?”

They look at him. The now liberated foot of the infant dangles below them; their two tiny purple toes curled in discontent. Keith takes the sock from their grasp and moves to pull it back on their foot.

“It’s cold. Keep your socks on. We’ll get up soon to make your bottle and stretch our legs, ok?”

Keith manages to ply the sock back on with his good hand and then resumes flicking through his book. He stops at a chapter entitled “The intersection of modern economics and druidic practices Within Daibazaal Proper; a brief history

“I think you’ll like this story, Yorak.”

Yorak whines. Now that they’d had some time to rest, eat and recover from their more painful bruising Keith is starting to get a read of their personality. They’re clingy. More so than the regular galra infants of their approximate 8-12 month range. They’re also verbally restrained. They scream and cry but the infants he’d handled in the past were already well into those weird clicking and peeping noises he was so accustom to in the Marmoran nurseries. In comparison Yorak was downright stoic.

Though, Keith feels like he’s not one to judge in that regard.

For the most part Yorak seems healthy and well developed. Every baby is different. Plus, he doesn’t even know what percentage galra this one is. They could be less galra than him for all he knew. He himself was evidence of just how deceiving hybrid appearances could be.

“Refreshments?”

Keith starts, looking up at the attendant next to him who has somehow wheeled up an entire canteen trolley next to his seat without him noticing. They jump a little, spooked in turn by his reaction.

“Sorry- yeah, uh…tea?”

The attendant nods, smiling “are you breastfeeding?”

Keith blinks. His brain catches up with him and he realises what she’s asking

“Oh, yeah…You have tea safe for that?”

“Peppermint. An earth recipe. Are you familiar?”

“Yeah. That would be great, thanks.”

 She nods and goes about selecting a specific hot dispenser from her array and filling a cup.

He’s still shy about verbalizing the whole ‘pregnant’ thing. He doesn’t know why exactly. It’s not like he’s ashamed (at least not about the pregnancy part- how he got there is more complicated), there’s just a strange sanctity that still lies around it. Nobody knows yet outside himself and his mother. It won’t stay that way for long, obviously, but saying it-even to complete strangers- still feels like it will shatter that peace in an instant.

Keith lowers the tray before him and the attendee places the fragrant tea down. “Anything for the little one?”

“They’re good. Thank you.”

With that she nods and carries on down the aisle. Yorak eyes her warily. Keith rolls his eyes. The fact that this behaviour is fairly standard for galra young explains a lot about his own childhood, in retrospect. Poor Shiro. He must have been fucking exhausting.

…Fuck.

He was going to be face to face with Shiro again soon, too. And Hunk and Pidge. Their families. How was he supposed to explain any of this to them? To Lance’s mother, for fuck’s sake.

“Hey Mrs McClain,Thanks for letting my assigned orphan and I stay on your property. By the way, I’m pregnant! And it may or may not be your youngest sons’ child! It’s hard to know because I fuck a lot of people as a coping mechanism. And because of my fucked-up alien biology. I honestly can’t control myself.”

Keith thumps his head back against the headrest. One step at a time. Arrive on Earth, help Yorak settle and then he can start dealing with social semantics.

He’ll just have to try really, really hard to avoid any of the McClains face-to-face. He did not inherit his mother’s skill for fast talking and quick lies and as soon as they started asking questions they wouldn’t stop. He isn’t sure how long he can keep up a charade like this. If his tongue didn’t betray his state the inevitable changes to his body would.

Keith sips his tea, savouring the sweet tang of mint. It reminds him of Earth. Of those godawful Garrison meetings he’d occasionally attend. Of Colleen refusing to serve him anything caffeinated in the break room because he ‘looked like he needed ten years of sleep’. Of his father giving him a warm drink on a cold desert night.

Yorak is calm next to him. They stare at the shuttle roof, tracing the circuit decor with their eyes. It puts Keith at ease. He’s found babies-in general- have that affect on him. ‘Home’ is a loaded word to Keith, but it’s small things like this that make him feel like he has one. Maybe not one particular place, but a feeling of belonging and quiet, at least.

Yorak chirps. A tiny, curious noise that reminds him he is sinking into his own head again.

Keith smiles at them and turns back to his open book.

“The first official monetary system used by the inhabitants of Daibazaal proper (a Zone defined by it’s capital of the same name and it’s citizen affiliates) was introduced long before the starfaring era…”

The thought of Keith, Lance ponders not for the first time, is about as easy to remove from his mind as honey is to remove from the warm toast it’s just been spread on.

That is to say, he’s being haunted. Harassed.

“Lance!”

As if he needs more of that in his life.

There’s a certain point in every shift were Lance begins to dread hearing his own name. Today, he’s reaching it earlier than usual. He blames Keith. For many things, but for his current short fuse, especially.

“Good morning, ma’am.  What can I do for you?”

The small bipedal ferret of a resident that flagged him down begins regaling him with the story of withering Daffodils (“They are perennial bulbs ma’am. They’re supposed to do that’)  and Lance Thoroughly zones out.

He wonders what Keith is doing.

He wonders why he wonders what Keith is doing.

He knows why. He pivots his thoughts to something else. Anything else.

His phone, blue-white in his room at night, illuminating Keith’s name. Blinking at him with a cursor and a blank message panel.

How are you man? Thought you might want to catch up soon

Remember how we fucked? We should probably talk about that at some point

I want to see you again. Feel you again. You are too far away.

I miss you. Do you miss me?

Lance swallows. His face must do something, because the creature before him stares

She wiggles her nose. He realizes she can probably smell his indifference to her. Or his obsession with something very much not related to her flowers. Lance feels a pang of shame. He rigs up a smile.

“There’s not much we can do for them now, but as long as you take care of them through the colder months the flowers will be back even better next year.”

She makes a despondent chirp “I liked those flowers. Reminded me of my mate in his wedding garb. He was magnificent.”

“I’m sure he was, Ma’am.”

Lance immediately feels like a piece of shit.

 She’s a widow. Just her and her with five children. All shin-height or shorter. They often snoozed together in a burrow she dug in the communal garden.

His heart, he often has to remind himself,  is hardly the most broken around here.

“How are you holding up?” Lance asks. 

She tilts her head “Fairly.  My children have taken well to this planet’s food. I was worried the atmospheric acclimatization would sour their appetite, as it did mine. They have their father’s fortitude, it appears!”

“I’d say their mother has a lot to do with that, too.”

At that, she wiggles and whistles in a distinctly flustered way. “You are too kind to me, Lance. I simply do what I can.”

“What was he like? If you don’t mind me asking…” 

Lance doesn’t know why he asks. She seems a little surprised by it as well, but it is quickly replaced with a whiskered smile.

“Handsome, strong. But often he was more anxious a parent than I. When our youngest what an infant, he would get up five times a night just to check on her.”

“That’s pretty commited father.”

 “He never failed them. Not once. And neither will I.”

The alien’s fur puffs. Resolute. Proud.

And that’s what love looks like, Lance thinks. He sees it in the way his mother sizes up the dinner table to make sure everybody is eating enough. In Sam installing custom security cameras in the botany wing for the express purpose of stopping lovesick cadets stealing Colleen’s prized alien flower specimens for their sweethearts. Feels it when he sees a glint of the metallic braided fibres of the necklace Krolia -scourge of the shattered Empire and one of the head custodians of New Daibazaal- lovingly wove by hand for her son so she could keep her word on never leaving him again.

Devotion.

He sees this creature in front of him and wonders how she does it. How she wakes up every day with an empty space next to her. How she’s not breaking down in front of him at the mere thought of what she’s lost. All the while raising a family.

But maybe that’s how. Apathy isn’t an option for her. She’s turned her burden into crystallized will. A refusal of every shitty thing the universe has ever thrown at her.

Lance swallows. There’s a burn behind his eyes that has no right to be there.

You’re weak. Always have been. Pining and crying over a pretty boy that ditched you in a hotel bed. No wonder he left you. You’re gutless.

He could do anything when he was a paladin. The very fibres of the universe seemed to fray and bow out of their way- his way. Now it was just him. No superweapon, no psycho-somatic link to a mysterious cosmic force. Just him and a farm filled with people more scarred, more vulnerable and more physically weak than he had ever been.

And they put him to shame.

Lance doesn’t want to hear about her husband anymore. Politely, he tells her that he’s needed in the green nurseries-not a lie- and that if she ever needed help with anything, him or his family were just a call away. She thanks him for his time and then leaves.

His hands are still shaking long after he reaches the greenhouses.

Keith was used to the ‘gauntlets’

There was no Blade member that wasn’t. Sometimes it was the subtle shifting of eyes and turning of shoulders. The sneers and short sentences spoken with clipped tones. Other times it was throwing whatever they had available at you. Foul words, stones, military grade weapons.

Both were pretty bad. One was markedly worse. He’d come to know either were a possibility when it came to situations like this. 

It was naive of him to expect Earth to be any better. Disappointment hits him all the same. Raw and suffocating like the Arizona heat that meets them at the arrivals bay. There’s a passage leading from the landing site to the grand port, cutting a clear line through at least a couple hundred protesters calling for their blood.

 Welcome to Earth.

The war had brought about resilience and cooperation in humanity. It had also brought out raw, unadulterated hatred. To galra, to any other number of immigrant aliens. To the humans themselves that sided with them.

Nothing here is new, but he feels like he’s had five lifetimes worth of this shit already. That immediate sense of being unwanted. The constant reminders of the inescapable fact you would never be welcomed on any planet you step foot on. Tolerated maybe, but never welcome.

Sadly, the confused looks about him on the face of his fellow travellers tells him that this will be a new experience for them.

He pulls Yorak closer, shielding their sensitive eyes from Earth’s brutal sun. Hot, bright and loud. Three of the worst things that a baby galra could be subjected to, rolled out to greet them to their new home. Fantastic.

A pretty substantial turnout. He wonders if news of these galra migrants had been leaked or if such things were legislated as public records now. Neither would surprise him.

None of his ship-mates move, confirming his suspicions of their lacking experience. Were he not holding a wary infant he’d already be halfway to the port central by now, probably covered in whatever nonsense they threw at him.

But this was different. He’s vulnerable now. He carries two lives alongside his own that need him to make the smart decision. 

So Keith waits and watches. He sees their escorts; armed Garrison soldiers making their way up to the lowering ramp. He always hated those colours. Orange and white. It’s gaudy. Clownlike.

Keith looks over the undulating crowd. He sees some Olkari. A few Balmerans. A cocktail of alien species he can’t recall the names of. The vast majority are human.

They’d even brought their own signs. Cute.

Boards painted with phrases like “Get off my planet”, “Earth doesn’t want you” and “Turn the ships around” amongst hundreds of other equally nasty sentiments. More than a few feature caricatures of a galra holding an inverted cross and branded with a pentagram on it’s forehead. It was the go-to symbol of a fun new niche of Christianity that believed galra - and many other alien species introduced via them- were literal devils.

These events are routine for him. This one is easier, actually. Humans don’t have nearly as much creativity when it comes to violent insults, being babies in that starfaring game. When you’ve had a verbal lashing from entities thousands of years old and sporting eight tongues, he average human bigot is pretty tame.

So keith does what his mother taught him throughout the countless diplomatic visits he’d made with the Blades. He holds his head high, looks straight ahead, and walks. If any of the humans recognise him-and some must- he doesn’t dignify them with acknowledgement. This planet is his home by birth, but if these are the first impressions his fellow earthlings want to give civilian newcomers then he’d rather not be affiliated with them at all.

Yorak’s face presses into his collarbone. Their ears-still notched downwards in the typical way for a galra infant- quiver at the roars around them. Keith clenches his jaw. The guards flank them-him- with cautious space. He’s gotten better at filtering his rage, but never good at it.

They are the minority, Keith tells himself. The vocal few. Extremists that shouldn’t be counted when considering decent people. But the crowds get bigger and more diverse every year and he can’t help but feel that the public opinion of galra is only regressing. Will only regress.

He belongs, in part, to the most hated race in the known universe. The only mercy granted to him was that he didn’t look it. That’s not a mercy shared by his current traveling companions. Or by the infant trembling in his arms. They would never lead peaceful lives. Their appearance had already carved out that much for them.

Here, for the first time, it occurs to him that there’s a possibility his own baby will share that same fate.

When they reach the dock station doors the outside world is swallowed by the pristine, blast-proof automatic doors an the roar of explitives turns into the hum of the monolith AC unit above.

The Garrison. His second home. His hell. His redemption. Right now he’s just glad it’s running at a crisp 21 degrees and devoid of immediate threats.

He’s been in this port hub hundreds of times in recent years. Now he traces his usual route, his faithful caddy humming alongside him. Luggage collection, security, customs, shuttle station…It’s so automated he barely registers the anxious muttering and growls of his galran shipmates.

Keith acknowledges only who he needs to, shifting Yorak from one arm to another as he flips out his ID records and martial orders. This isn’t even the first time he’s had to travel with infants in tow. Not one year ago he’d been lugging around intercepted Bytor twins that had been victims of a cross-galaxy illegal pet trading ring. Yorak, at least, was far less wiggly.

His luggage is cleared quickly. Most of his case is taken up by Yorak’s things. The young human clerk at security coos over the pastel comforter and compliments his ‘neat folding’. He smiles politely. His stomach still feels sour and his arms are getting sore. Yorak growls at her. 

Eventually they find themselves alone at a shuttle stand, Caddy on standby and Yorak resting on his hip. In his tender left hand he’s working the hand grip methodically. This is a trip he’s made several times before. Those times it had felt like a holiday.

Evidently Yorak and he are the only ones heading towards the McClain Estate today. 

In the fifteen minutes it takes the bus to arrive he talks himself out of running away four times. It’s both a relief and a condemnation plunging his foot onto the first worn step of the vehicle. The rumble of the engine is unnerving. A reassurance and a threat.

“No turning back now.”

The door hisses closed behind him. It’s the same models they used all those years ago, before Earth made cosmic contact. Laughably archaic these days. Aliens find it charming. Keith takes a seat near the back. 

As they depart the hub he sees a few of the galra he was on the shuttle with standing at different stops and fussing over their luggage. This land is wholly unlike what they are acclimated to. Completely alien.

The New Daibazaal citizen registry department was shrewd. Likelihood was these galra were ex-empire beneficiaries. Low on the waitlist to get planetary citizenship and lodgings, but not outright blacklisted as loyalists and sworn-in militia members were. They would be fed, housed and clothed on the coalition’s welfare funds and supported to work locally. They could be here matter of weeks, or a matter of years.

He hopes, against all odds, they can make it more of a home than it was to him growing up.

There were few things Keith still considered ‘incredible.

He’d seen a lot of weird shit in his life. Living planets, Exploding moons, Alien gods. His very  existence would  not be credible were it not for the fact his 7 foot purple alien mother now rested neatly within his comm contact list.

That said,  He would confidently define the McClain Estate as entirely incredible.

Learning the extent of the Earth’s catastrophic damage at the hands of the Empire had been a slow process after the war. It was not presented to them through lessons or dialogues, but a slow, continusdrip feed of passive losses.

“When the last elephant died-”

“-Before the continental purge”

“-No, that was after the Olkari Biofuel rollout.”

For the once-again Earth-bound Paladins it had been a case of re-shuffling the pieces of their planet back together. Only, the more of the puzzle they completed the clearer it became that they were on a very different planet to the one they left.

Some revelations happened quickly. For instance, it hadn’t taken Lance that long to hear about the loss of his birthplace. 

Under the three year Empire rule Cuba suffered the same fate as many of Earth’s large Islands. The swathes of pristine coast from his childhood were now dull and windswept; gargantuan desalination complexes having been in operation just long enough to completely annihilate any semblance of an ecosystem. They churned earth’s seawater to potable exports for the Empire and pumped concentrated salts back, Leaving nothing but burning salt baths behind.

From orbit, the island’s interior was a grey slab. The terraforming crews had done their work well, levelling the land into terraced, compacted surfaces to act as mega-ports for freight ships. 

The island is no longer fit for human habitation. It stands now as a skeletal colossus sunk in the Caribbean Sea. One of the many grim legacies the Empire burned onto their planet.

Revival efforts would take decades at best estimate. Advanced tech could do wonders with cloning genetic samples and reinvigorating decrepit soils, but it would be slow. The damage was intense and it would take more than some advanced med tech or light alien wizardry to replace even a fraction of what was lost.

The Earth, like humanity, had been broken. It would heal-they would make sure of it- but it would never be like it once was.

Lance’s family had done what humans had been doing for thousands of years. They relocated, adapted and moved on, making the most of what they had. In their case that was their (specifically, his parents’) knowledge of small-scale renewable farming. A niche environmentalist interest pre-invasion now turned absolute necessity for a post-Galra empire Earth.

The Garrison’s horticultural research department and the general wizardry of  Alien bioengineering practices had provided a means to stabilise food production, but it was the McClain family method of grass-roots agricultural advocacy that had applied their research.

What this family - formerly a hybrid of farmers market hobbyists and military school high achievers- had achieved with this 750 square metres of sand-blasted, post invasion dirt was unprecedented. Keith had seen his share of multi-species, post-war communities, but the pure functionality the McClain’s had fostered? This anchor of kind -albeit firm- civility in the face a ruthless universe? It was borderline miraculous.


Even Keith, who knew nothing of agriculture or animal husbandry of soil science could see as much. The McClain estate was a anomaly of the best kind. And now, standing here at it’s precipice, infant in tow,  he feels as though he’s about the unleash unto it a plague. 

The meandering entryway is as he remembers it. Above him arches a large plate inscribed with the eponymous family’s name. In the afternoon glare the inset of the words is a deep black against the grey-blue of the surface. It’s made from a repurposed rear drift-guard fin from a 300-series galra micro cruiser. The Empire’s go-to vehicle for ration-hauling. Earth was littered with thousands of them. 

Most of this estate was hewn from debris. This planet -his planet- had been picked clean of it’s most common building resources. Hardwood trees, metallic ores, clay mines. Robbed of raw matter humans didn’t even consider valuable purely because they didn’t have the same material scope as their invaders. 

Earth’s approach to architecture was similar to most ‘recently liberated planet’ scenarios he’d seen during his Blade humanitarian work. The approach of ‘If it can be anchored into the ground and insulated, it can be a house’. And humans had always been a resourceful bunch. It was one of the few things aliens generally respected about them as a species. For such small, primitive and squishy creatures, they could shrug off a hell of a lot of abuse.

Underfoot is the meandering path that leads the residential area. He will walk about three hundred metres to reach a fork. To his left will be the path to his unit. Should he take the right path it would take him directly to the McClain Household.

He can see their roof from here, gleaming silver in the afternoon sun. A sight he’d so often been elated to see after a month-long mission. Tired reunions. McClain family barbecues. Snoozing on the porch, cold bottle in hand, watching Lance talk with his brothers across the yard.

Comforting memories that were always frosted with the knowledge he’d have to leave again soon. The sting of the goodbyes only dulled by the hope he’d see that shining roof again in the near future.

This time you won’t be leaving for a while. Lucky you.

A trail is a mottled path of mineral aggregate. Shards of matter both Terrestrial and extra-so sunk into a dark binding matrix. Keith feels heat wafting from it. Summer is not leaving gracefully. He’d ditched his jacket half way through the short bus ride. The ache of The desert heat came swift after the ever-present chill of Daibazaal.

He checked his comm device. It read 27 degrees celsius. By human standards, a pleasant temperature. For Yorak, not so much.

The infant has taken to making low, outraged growls that sounded a lot like a small motorbike engine revving. The flat bridge of their nose is scrunched. Keith knows words will not soothe them now. What they both need is a room with temperature control and a long rest.

Keith adjusted them in his right arm. His left was still too tender to take the weight, but healed enough he could fuss with the collar of their onesie. This one had a bib attached, which was already  wet with drool. “We’re almost there, Yorak. You’re going to love it. You’ll have a crib and a real changing table and bath and everything.”

Yorak burbles.  They’ve been squinting since exiting the ship. He can’t blame them. Every time he returns he’s reminded just how bright Earth is. Even now, under the filter of dusk, the light makes his eyes sting.

The residential area appears just as he remembered it from his last visit now only more browned by Summer’s onslaught. Rows of cobbled together and distinctly robust homes giving life-saving shelter to people who would otherwise be freezing out in intergalactic wastes.

A resident tending to their raised vegetable patch unsubtly darts their gaze to him before shuffling along to another task. Two Olkari children hover by their front door, pretending not to stare.

They aren't looking at him. Humans are a regular sight for them.

Keith curls Yorak closer to himself.

Not many galra live here. And the ones that do keep to themselves. Already he can see why. Regardless, there was no use hiding what Yorak was. If they didn’t know already, they all would within a week. He knows how quickly gossip travels in small communities like this.

A blue skinned boulder of an alien stares pointedly as Keith passes him. Keith meets their eyes, unimpressed. He will not feel intimidated here. Not on his planet, and not by these strangers that had nor more or less right to be here than the tiny person he’s accompanying.

No matter. Let them say what they will. Cruel words and social shunning were a reality Yorak was going to have to learn to live with. But if anyone made a move to harm them? They’de be scrambling for their intestines before they could lay a mean hand on the baby.

His baby.

Hi mind injects the idea into the ether. Uncalled for, as most are. Keith blames the hormones. His mother warned him he might start getting clingy.

Be professional. Keep your distance.

(He’s fooling no one. These mantras were about as effective as an umbrella against a tsunami, but he has to at least pretend he's a competent operative.)

Out of this brightness, eventually, melts into view a row of near-identical units. Each spaced a few metres apart and with a cute mailbox standing sentinel out front, painted with their house number.

“25, 28, 30…”

Unit 32 looks back at him, compact and a dreamy pthalo blue against sun-drenched desert.

“32. This is it Yorak. What do you think?” He looks down at the infant. They are looking directly back at him, as if awaiting his assessment.”

“How about we have a look inside? Get you some ice to chew?”

They squint and croak. Keith smiles and brushes the wayward crest of fluff back from their forehead before  walking onward.

The McClains' standards of hospitality were immaculate. Even in a post-alien apocalypse Environment with severely limited manufacturing and sourcing, the humble allotment that Keith entered that afternoon was the most inviting sight he’d seen in months.

Yorak Was visibly overtired upon arrival. They were squirming and growling; their cries morphing into yawns as they slumped against him. Keith could have wept himself with relief seeing that there was already a fully furnished cot set up in the second bedroom space.

A nursery, he realises. His nursery.

With protests every step of the way, Keith changes Yorak and plies them into a sleeping bag. Whoever packed their supplies clearly had a sense of humour, as they provided one that was an uncannily similar shade of purple to the infant themself. The result, when Yorak was all zipped up, was a large cloth grub fidgeting in it’s crib.

Once Keith provided a bottle they calmed and downed it greedily. Not half-way through the bottle their eyes were already beginning to flutter. As soon as Keith pulls it from their grasp they roll on their side and fall asleep.

With the practiced ease of someone that had done this countless times during their shifts on the BOM Nursery wing, Keith stealthily exits the room, slowly clicking the door shut after him.

 And then It’s quiet. 

Keith stands alone outside the nursery. His legs ache. His injured arm even more so. He realises it’s been over six hours since his last pain med dosage. He flexes his fingers and the pain dances across his forearm.

Tiredness hits him like a gravity pulse.

He braces against the wall. His legs won’t respond to his command to walk, so he instead inches himself to the ground. He can rest here. Just for a bit, then he’ll go to bed properly. He’s slept in worse conditions than a carpeted hall.

He flits between sleep and wakefulness. His consciousness a buoy tossed on turgid water. The cropped fuzz of the carpet beneath his palms and the rigid cool of the wall against his back tether him. 

It’s peaceful here. He’s safe. They are safe.

It is not Yorak’s cries that pull Keith awake, but the persistent vibration of his communicator. He’d set it to silent before putting Yorak down.

He blinks. The light has changed. It’s more golden from where is slips in beneath the drawn curtains. Late afternoon. He can’t have been out for more than an hour.

Still on the floor, he peeks back into the nursery. In the dim room he sees Yorak’s sleeping silhouette. Chest gently rising and falling. He closes the door.

Keith looks at the comm screen and sees a familiar title. One he’s been expecting. He sighs.

“Hello Kolivan. Is there any possibility you can call me back in like…two hours?”

“No.”

Worth a shot. Keith grunts as he hauls himself up against the door frame. His legs are still weak, and his head swims. The exhaustion would have alarmed him just a couple months ago. It’s to be expected now.

“I assume you know that I’ve been temporarily dismissed.”

“I am aware. I am calling to clarify some matters before you proceed with this leave.”

Keith approached the kitchen counter and put his comm in speaker mode before laying it upon the worn granite surface. There was a kettle and a jar of faux coffee placed invitingly in the kitchen nook. He may as well make himself a drink.

“Ok. What do you want to know?” 

“What is the state of your injuries?”

Keith opened the jar of heady-smelling powder, basking in it for a moment. He scooped a few spoonfuls into a mug. “Fine. Bruising is going down. My left arm still has limited movement but it should be usable again in a few days at this rate.”

Kolivan grunted an affirmative “What is your current location?”

“The exact place you and Krolia sent me. Earth. The McClain Estate.”

“And your charge?”

“Asleep in the other room.”

“What of their injuries?”

“Superficial and quickly healing. And They’re eating and sleeping surprisingly well, everything considered.”

“Good.”

There were very few things he evaluated as being ‘good’. Even Kolivan was a sucker for babies. The Blade leader continued asking seemingly mundane questions and he kept rattling off answers as he nursed his hot drink. 

As he continued on about shipment routes and rescheduling diplomacy reviews Keith was alarmed at how little he actually absorbed. Maybe some part of him has simply resigned to his ‘sabbatical’, but things he usually scribed into his brain word by word were freely slipping from his mind.

-“And Acxa?”

The name bought Keith’s full attention back to the conversation “What about her?”

“We’re received no mission reports or equipment requests in nearly three movements. You are her direct superior. Is there something I should know?”

“I respectfully decline to comment.”

“Marshal duty denies that. Speak truthfully.”

Keith works his jaw a few times before answering.

“Acxa decided to look for somebody else’s ass to kiss. More power to her. I’m sure there’s plenty of people at base who’d love the privilege.”

Their relationship had become troubled. There was no use lying to Kolivan about it.

Keith didn’t hold it against her initially. Her strange infatuation with him after the war was flattering for a while. Then it was eerie. Then it was annoying. It culminated one evening after a mission. She got too close. He told her to back off and spat some choice words about her dubious alliance history. She looked like she’d been punched. Then she actually punched him. He might have imagined the tears in her eyes as she’d left. He certainly didn’t imagine the wicked satisfaction they had brought him, regardless.

That was nearly four months ago. He hadn’t seen her since - on missions or elsewhere. He honestly didn’t know if she’d still be at the base when he returned. No matter. She was a long way away. Probably on the lookout for some Lotor lookalike to worship. 

God, when did you get so catty?

“That’s not how I expect a Blade leader to talk about their charges.”

“I didn’t choose to work with her.”

“I thought you’d appreciate being put with someone who shared your plight.”

“Being a hybrid? Most Blade operatives are hybrids. Did you consider that we just don’t have anything in common?”

There was a pause. His question hung unanswered, as though Kolivan was allowing Keith to stew in his own petulance.

“Krolia has informed me of your condition.”

There it was.

Of course she’d told Kolivan. She was his closest co-leader. His confidante. His health was vital information. It would be completely unreasonable and unfair of him to expect her to keep this silly little secret. He mentally curses her all the same.

“Krolia told me nothing beyond your health report but I am not a fool, Keith. It is not the child nor impending fatherhood that is agitating you. Take your rest and heal. Do what you need to do. But the Blade of Marmora is not a game of hierarchy and intrigue. If you cannot be professional when you return there is no place for you here.”

There never was.

The thought drifts careless as a cloud across his mind. He’s so fucking tired.

Keith doesn’t provide further comment. He imagines how Kolivan’s eternal frown would be deepening at the discourtesy. He always gets away with shit other Blade members wouldn’t dare pull. Krolia had been a pain in the arse in her day too, he’d heard. For millenia. From him it was probably expected.

“That is all I have to say on the matter. Take your leave. Come back better, or do not come back at all. It is your choice.”

Keith ends the feed before him. Petty, but satisfying.

In the other room Yorak is sleeping soundly with a belly full of synthetic milk. The kitchen is stocked and tidied. His sparse wardrobe hangs in his bedroom, still smelling faintly of the recycled port air.

He’s back in the waiting room on Daibazaal as the doctor collates his blood samples. He’s 12,  back in the publicly-funded dentists’ foyer, waiting to get his fillings.

Now, on the other side of the door, is Earth. Lance.

He should sleep. He tries to.

Instead, he lay on his side on his new bed, breathing in the familiar smells of earth and staring at the back of his eyelids.

He lay like that until Yorak rouses one more, screaming for people who are long dead, and for the stranger they’ve been forced to put all their faith in.

Welcome to Earth, Yorak. Welcome home.

Approximately 1 month ago

New Daibazaal, Krolia’s residence.

Keith tightened his arms across his torso. “You’re not saying much.”

His mother was staring at him, nothing but a quiet “hm” and a tilt of her head to respond to the bombshell he just dropped.

“This worries you?”

Keith blinks. She sounds genuinely curious. Amused, even. “Yes, this worries me! I’m…I thought I was too young to have kids.  Isn't the reproductive age for galra like…80 or something?!”

She has the audacity to shrug. “You are a galra hybrid. There can be discrepancies. As I understand, at your age a human conception would be quite normal. But I am getting the impression that is not what is upsetting you?”

‘Upsetting’ him? He’d found out yesterday that he was pregnant. And today he turned to his alien mother for help- because who the fuck else could he turn to for something like this?- and she’s reacting like he’s just told her one of the sprinklers in his yard was playing up.

“This-I don’t know how to….How do I tell him??”

“Tell who?”

“Lance!”

“What business is it of his?”

“He’s the father!”

She tilts her head the other way. “Really? I didn’t think he was capable.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I assumed he’d entered into a life of celibacy. He wouldn’t be the first to do so in the name of Altean royalty.”

Keith ignores her tone. She’d never been a fan of Allura. Or Alteans in general. Or monarchy as a concept. Blades as old as her were witness to an unabridged history that was both complicated and taboo to even speak of in modern times.

Also, Lance pissed her off. She knew how much the man meant to her son and it irritated her.

“No, but…Shit, he’s going to…I have no idea but he can’t deal with something like this. Not from me.”

His mother is listening intently, but it’s obvious she can’t see what the fuss is about. “Are you even sure it’s his?”

“It has to be.”

She snorts. She’s not an idiot. He was just as eager to partake in ‘recreational play’ as any other Blade. 

“It probably is. He’s not a Blade. It’s not like he was on- You know what? I don’t want to have this discussion with my mother. Just….I-It’s different with humans, mom. These things matter to them.”

“Them?”

“Us. Lance. You know what I mean!”

“So it would matter if he wasn’t the sire?”

“Yes! I mean no, but it would be a different thing and…” Keith trails off. He realises this is likely another one of those cultural walls he still often hits when talking to galra. Even his mother.

Sires were negligible in most galran cultures. The empire dipped their toes in the whole ‘kingly bloodline’ thing, but historically that was just a pale mockery of Altean royal lineages. The Empire derived a lot from their patriarchal models, despite how poorly they fitted a hermaphroditic species. In truth, few actually cared about sires. Bearers - the ones who carried and birthed new life- were of central concern. 

Of course, Krolia didn’t give a shit about who knocked him up. It didn’t mean that he didn’t. That Lance wont.

“What do you want to do about the child?”

“I’m going to keep them.”

Krolia nods. “Then nothing else matters, does it?”

Keith opens his mouth to argue otherwise. 

-But then…

They don’t matter. Not really. All going well, He’s going to have a baby. He’s going to be a dad. By some weird, fucked up flip of fate or whatever the hell was controlling his life, he was going to be a father.

He felt something shift in him. Tracks switching. A fathomless weight falling off his back, immediately replaced with another, softer burden.

Keith closes his mouth and says nothing. He looks at his mother expectantly. Pleadingly.

“congratulations’, Keith.”

She’s smiling at him. Warm and tired. She opens her arms in invitation. He accepts without pause.

“No matter what happens, you won’t be alone in this. With or without him, you and this child will always have a home surrounded by love. You have my word.” There’s a tightness in her embrace that says a little more than Keith thinks she’s willing to divulge. 

Keith shuts his eyes and leans into her. She’s still so much bigger than him. Probably always will be. He knows how vulnerable he must look to her, especially now. The thought would normally irritate him.

But he allows himself to feel small, just for this moment.

Lance curses as the bow slips again from the arrangement. It wasn’t his finest work, but in his defence it was usually his mother who spearheaded the whole ‘welcome pack’ scheme. No matter. This welcome pack had honey. He’d not come across an alien species yet that didn't crave the stuff. A wonky bow would be overlooked.

Most guests were beyond pleased just to have somewhere warm, dry and quiet to sleep. The hamper was just a nice gesture to smooth over the transit.

“Welcome to Earth! My name is Lance. It’s great to meet you.”

The unit looked the same as he had left it this morning, only now bathed in afternoon light. The front entrance was shadowed by the hood of the verandah. The blinds that he’d left open this morning had been drawn, and the old condenser unit jutting from the building is whirring dutifully. The new tenants were checked in and apparently they didn’t like it bright. Or hot.

Galra. A liability. A headache.

He corrects his biases.

They are guests. Refugees. Be kind. Big smile, sincere words.

“We are dedicated to making our visitors comfortable and supported.”

This unit is the closest to the Main McClain property, anyway. If they are galra, it’s probably the best place to be. Vandals or rioters would have to be pretty stupid to show their ass that close to their benefactors’ front door. ‘Biting the hand that feeds you’, and all that.

It could be Balmeran visitors. They didn’t like bright lights either. And Earth UV made their skin crack. Though, they tended to enjoy the heat. Probably because it was more like the balmy ‘living tunnels’ of their Balmera hosts. Also, Lance is pretty sure they’re like…Born fully formed & functional. They didn’t have ‘babies’ as much as they had mini, non-verbal adults. It was actually kind of freaky.

Whereas galra…

Huh. 

He’s actually never seen a galra baby, now that he thinks about it. Odd, given how prominent the species has been in his life. They make up a good 40% of all aliens he’s known, at least. 

Actually, that’s really strange. He makes a mental note to ask Keith about it when he next meets him. He then immediately erases that mental note, and makes a hard turn back to his objective.

“We understand how difficult it must be for you at this time. It’s normal to feel apprehensive or anxious. Rest assured, The McClains pride themselves on providing the best hospitality humanity has to offer.”


The paper lining to gift basket rustles as he shifts it’s weight to his left arm.  With his other he knocks against the worn wood of the door. It’s an old, solid piece of furnishing. Probably accented dozens of houses in it’s lifespan.

There’s no response. He moves closer to the door, straining to hear any movement. Nothing. He counts to thirty in his head and knocks again.

Lance waits. He traces the lines of the door’s surface. Hardwood, he thinks. Maybe Oak. There’s not a lot of those left on this planet. Decorative wood was always a solid export opportunity for aliens, apparently. It wasn’t even the galra. Some other species he couldn’t remember the name of swooped in an felled most of the world’s top hardwood species within a week. Remarkable what kind of piracy could be achieved with alien tech.

There’s a shuffle somewhere beyond the wood, followed by a strange, high-pitched bleating. A voice follows it, deep and gentle.

He never knows anything about tenants before he meets them in person. Standard security policy. He takes it for granted he won’t know them.

So It doesn’t register, in that moment, that he knows that voice.

The thump of footsteps draws closer and Lance fixes his smile. The brass knob rattles, a deadbolt clicks and the door swings open.

“Look, I don't want to be rude, but- “

Lance and Keith’s eyes meet like a synapse firing.

Lavender-blue. Such a curious colour. Unforgettable. Mercurial.

Cold.

Keith stands before him, a tiny purple infant across his right forearm. He’s dressed in a singlet and track pants. The entire image is inexplicable. The type of thing spat out by a shallow-sleep dream. All untied plot threads and time-lapsed concepts.

And despite the months of aching, the time spent pining and the sleep lost over fantasising, Lance can think of nothing to say.

No matter. Keith speaks first.

“Lance.”

Lance flinches. The word -his name- trickles down his spine. Said so easily. Not even a hitch. Not a tremble of emotion. Delivered like a casual acknowledgement.

Cold. Cruel.

Something coils in him. Something that had been sleeping beneath the drowsy longing, sighs and patience. It raises its head now, alert and well-rested. Ready.

Keith’s name fidgets in his throat. Crawls up his throat, scratching his tongue.

And It tastes like bile.

Approximately 2 and a half months ago

Invihra  Inter-planetary grand estate- hotel wing

Lance wakes in a too big bed, by himself. His head screams, and his body is cold. 

Keith is gone.

He wonders why it’s the first thought to surface in his head. His stomach rolls and his joints ache. The light that filters through the sheer curtains may as well be headlights directed at his retinas.

Keith is gone. He’s alone.

The memories flood back. The drinks, the smiles, the tears and ruffled hair. His dark skin against Keith’s milky-pale.

The expanse of the bed yawns beside him. The sheets are mussed, and there’s visibly damp patches beside his waist. Within them are what looks like a few specks of blood. Across the room the chair Keith had strewn his ceremonial Marmoran robes across is bare.

A horrible feeling rises in his chest alongside the swimming nausea. He sits up and reaches for his coat pocket beside the night stand. His phone gives him nothing beyond the localized time. There are no messages, no calls.

Lance’s eyes sting.

“You make me so happy”

He remembered saying that. He remembered the blank way Keith looked at him. The way he avoided his eyes.

God, he was so stupid. 

Something washes over his skin like a fever. He doesn’t know if it feels more like betrayal or shame.

Lance turns his face into his pillow and sobs.