Chapter Text
Keith is far from the most experienced person in the sabotage and reconnaissance game, but he’s been in it long enough to know there’s one phrase that, when uttered, pretty much guarantees a mission is going to be a shitshow.
“Hello?”
His voice hangs in the air with not so much as a slight breeze to jostle it. He was expecting at least a little movement upon his arrival. Some erratic gunfire, scuttling civilians. Maybe even a burning effigy or two. Instead he was given only this eerie quiet.
Not for the first time since landing his hand trails to the comfort of his blade; subconsciously seeking its presence. He’s been walking through the -apparantly abandoned- encampment for nearly an hour- having scouted the entire perimeter, and not a soul besides himself and his mission partner had made itself known.
It appears everyone is dead.
It was Hunk that once suggested that maybe he’d become a little cold about death since he started with the Blades. That his easy dismissal of the various corpses- galra and other species alike- that lay scattered about the ramshhackle housing and tent clusters was a sign of prolonged trauma aching to be addressed.
(In response Keith had asked if Hunk would like take over refugee relocation circuits while he took a holiday; a suggestion which was met with timid silence)
Trevlai hops atop a pile of what used to be a house, gazing out at the horizon. The sinking sun backlights the fine hairs on his ears. It would be dark soon.
“I’m ‘gonna say this one’s a bust, boss.”
‘Boss’. Keith still cringes at the term. Trevlai is far better in combat than him and probably has a few hundred years more experience in it to boot. But he is new to the Blades; an ex-mercenary and data salvager working against the empire for profit. Pretty standard for a post-war recruit.
He suspects his mother had something to do with his being assigned to him. She always set him with at least one recruit who was far more capable than himself.- a habit that had increased ten-fold since their little talk a movement ago.
Trevlai shifts his weight easily above, teetering on a broken spire with an effortless balance Keith envies.
“You see anything worth salvaging?”
“That’s a negative. Looks like the looters got in early on this one.”
Keith grunts. He was hoping there’d at least be some mechanical salvage. Hell, he’d been sure they’d be coming back with some live Empire dregs for questioning, if not a few ships’ worth of refugees. But Trevlai’s assessment isn’t wrong; there’s nothing for them here.
“How about one more scope and then we call it? There were a few-”
There’s a sickening crack, followed by a thump and by the time Keith whips his head around, his partner is lying crumpled at the base of the pile he was atop, red pooling beneath the deep purple of his head.
Two short clicks sound through the rubble. He recognises it from countless walks past the shooting range at the Marmoran Headquarters. A High-pressure type cassette reload.
A sniper.
Keith barely passes another glance over his fallen comrade before his senses hoist him from the clearing and he takes shelter behind a hill of crumbled mortar.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
He battles to calm the thumping in his chest as a coldness seeps over him. Another Blade down under his guidance. He surveys his surroundings from where he’s crouched; large open spaces crowned with sharp peaks of rubble. Clear skies and stark evening lighting. Of course there was going to be snipers. It was practically prime conditions for it. Trevlai may have been a talented brawler, but he wasn’t exactly used to field reconnaissance. It was a preventable death. So easily preventable.
A burn singes at Keith’s lungs. An itch and prickle behind his eyes.
You got someone killed again
He chokes down the venom. He can deal with that later. He needs to focus.
He shuts his eyes and listens. It’s not long before he heard something over his still-hammering heart. Talking. No, laughing? Maybe under a hundred meters. The echo was carrying through the still air boldly.
They sound cheerful. Confident. Good, that means they are in no rush to find him. Probably just scavengers or thrill-seeking roustabouts. If he’s lucky the latter. He can do without a stripped escape vessel and the inevitable several-day long campout that would follow before he could get a lift back to base. That’s assuming he isn’t found and gutted by looters first.
He sees them when they enter the clearing he had just vacated. Three rag-clad aliens lugging mid-range rifles. The tallest amongst them carries the clear pride of their arsenal strapped to his back; a gleaming sniper rifle with a matching tripod folded and latched to his belt. He can’t call their species on sight through their tight-binding clothes, but they are relatively short and broad. They don’t move with the fluidity of a galra, and their casualness with this city’s fate makes it unlikely they are natives.
Keith scowls. Their type is common; thugs and pirates who listen in for distress calls and civil unrest across frequencies and then swoop in to see what they can gain. For money, materials, slave trades, or just for fun.
They chatter and swagger and, as they came to a stop at the place where his comrade lay, roar with laughter. One slaps the sniper on the back appreciatively as another shifts Trevlai’s body supine and starts patting him down; checking his pockets and tugging at his boots, probably gauging a resale price. Keith is struck with a moment of bitter relief when he realises Trevlai hadn’t even been with them long enough to have a luxite blade for them to steal.
Keith makes an executive decision to stay still until they left and then get the fuck off this planet and back to Base. The mission is over. He has no way of gauging how much of a threat these three would present in direct combat, even if they weren't heavily armed.
“Don’t fight for the dead Keith. They don’t need you. If the only life left on the field to save is yourself, then save that. Honour and revenge are not worth dying for. Come home alive.”
He remembers the way his mother had said that; exasperated and scared after he’d returned to base with his arm one ligament away from being severed, bleeding freely on the pristine Base’s floor. In his years as a paladin he’d have thrown himself at this scenario without question. He’s different now. There are people who need him to stay alive. People waiting for him. Shiro, his mother, the Blade. Lance.
Oh, Christ, Lance. He couldn’t let their last parting be the last time they spoke. He won't.
More laughter. Keith peers over to see the thugs taking selfies with the corpse. His teeth clench and he forces the fire in his lungs to simmer to a familiar numb burn.
If you didn’t want it to happen you should have been a better leader, shithead. You have no right to be offended. You did this.
Keith waits it out, taking meditative breaths as the trio move further through the clearing. They probably assume their target had a partner. If they know anything of the Blades they would be aware they, like most clandestine operations, work in pairs.
And then something happens, and Keith’s ‘executive decision’ immediately crumbles.
Someone starts crying. Sharp, shrill and unabashedly loud. Splitting the quiet in an almost surreal way.
A baby. A very alive baby.
The trio falls silent and Keith’s stomach drops. He peers at the group and watches as their half-masked faces flash in the evening sun; triangulating the source of the noise and shuffling to a small pile of cloth scraps beneath a fallen door arch.
Keith’s hand moves to his blade. This could go one of two ways. He waits, eyes piercing, breathe hitched. The crying rings like a raid alarm.
The sniper makes a sound; something like a grunt and a scoff in one, and gestures. The one to his right leans forward into the rubble and shifts some fabric sheets and the crying becomes clear as a bell.
Keith doesn’t see what is revealed. He doesn’t hear what they said nor see the looks they share when they look upon the source of the noise.
-But he does see the left-hand thug pick up his rifle and bring it level with the infant, and that is enough.
A throwing knife is torn from its sheath before he can think better of it; spinning across the distance and implanting itself into the skull of the rifle-wielder. Their weapon slips onto the ground without fanfare and by the time the other two have taken stock of their friend’s condition Keith is already halfway to them, Marmoran Blade flashing lividly in the dying light.
He’s gotten so good at it. Killing.
The dark blade sweeps cleanly through the flesh and cartilage of the second rifle-wielder’s throat. Their rifle hadn’t even been pointed halfway toward Keith by the time their body was booted into the dirt. They definitely aren’t galra. He’s never met one by half with such slow reaction time.
Keith rounds to the last standing of the trio. They’re wavering dumbly; completely impotent with their beautiful, immense, long range weapon and two dead lackeys at their side. Their face is struck still in fear. He’s not familiar with whatever species this thug is and he doesn’t care. All he sees is the curl of their green-tinged lips as they ’de laughed over his partner’s corpse.
A swift knee to their gut followed by an elbow thrust down on the base of their neck sends them to their knees. Keith readies his knife, moving to grab the downed alien’s collar and find better access to the flesh of their neck. Clearly, none of the trio expected a fight today. Weapons aside, nothing about their clothing suggested battle-readiness.
It surprises Keith, then, when the stunned creature seizes his encroaching left arm in a perfect lock and snaps it.
A scream tears out of him and clawed hands dig into his shoulders, thrusting him backwards. He stumbles, righting himself as his arm throbs, an awful pain lancing through his forearm to his fingertips with every shift.
His opponent is still scrambling. Not impotent, then. Just slow to act. Keith takes the opportunity to end it; adrenaline and fury swallowing the pain. He passes his blade to his non-damaged hand and lunges forward- aiming to bury the metal in their throat.
-but his dead-weight arm throws him off balance and he stumbles- the alien crying out as it instead buries into the muscle of their shoulder. Keith roars in a mix of frustration and fresh agony as his injured arm jolts. He glances back at his opponent just in time to see their right fist collide with his face.
There’s a ferocious sting. Rubble, sound and colour spin around him black, red and ringing. His right arm shifts beneath him, scrambling to pull himself away from the alien, only to come into contact with a fist-sized, hard object..
On instinct he grabs it, heaves himself upwards, seeks the aliens eyes and swings.
A wet crack sounds above the ringing in his ears and his assailant stops moving. His eyes move from the space they were crouching to the object in his hand. A piece of iron shrapnel, warped with heat and now laced with blood where it hit its mark. He lets it roll from his hand and it lands with a thud in the dirt.
Heartbeat still roaring in his ears Keith Pulls his Blade out of The alien thug’s shoulder and wipes off the bulk of the dark blood on their clothes. His right hand shakes around the handle. His left lays seized and aching at his side.
That immaculate rifle now sits and an awkward angle, its length holding its owners body in some parody of a scarecrow. Keith unloops the weapons strap from him and kicks the body over with more force than necessary as he liberates the rifle for himself.
Because fuck him. Fuck this mission. At least this might get a resale price that would cover the resources it took to get here in the first place.
With that last bitter thought he realizes the crying that lured him in the first place has grown weak.
His gaze flicks upwards to the small indentation in the rubble that it is emanating from and he stumbles towards it, kicking one of the rifle lackey’s out the way to make a path. Despite his training and field work and every horror that he’s processed over the last couple years his heart still aches at the sight that meets him.
Curled in on itself in the fetal position, cot splintered about it and burgundy bruises mottling it’s lavender skin. A galra infant lay in the rubble, letting out pitiful, wheezing cries. It’s little indigo tongue flashes in a toothless mouth. It’s face is matte with dust, tear tracks and nose crusted with silt. It’s naked but for some filthy rags fashioned into a makeshift diaper.
Keith spits out the pool of blood that’s welled up in his mouth as he sheathes his blade. He shuffles forward and kneels down, hovering over the baby.
“Hey there. I’m sorry you had to see that. My name’s Keith. I’m here to help.”
The infant continues to cry, of course, but it’s gummy, squinted eyes flick to him and stay there. A good sign. It was still cognizant enough to register him. He could rule out severe blunt force head trauma, and the shifting of it’s feet and legs told him it’s spine was intact, too.
Keith takes a deep breathe in through his nose, holds it, then exhales. He needs to get them back to the ship. Now. He needs help, supplies and to get the fuck off this planet.
He leans forward and scoops the baby up with his good arm. It didn't protest and, as he pulls it closer to his chest, it curls into him, muffling its weak cries even further. He’d been around enough galra infants in the Marmoran orphan nursery annexes to know that this was not a healthy response. Ordinarily even mixed infants were extremely wary of strangers. The terror it must be feeling for him to be a good option at this moment made his heart clench.
He heaves to his feet, trying to ignore the way his head spins with the motion. He could deal with a concussion after he gets this child out of an active war zone. As gently as he can manage, he paced out of the rubble piles and back through the clearing.
Trevlai’s eyes gaze at the darkening sky, still open in a look of mild surprise. Nothing more than the image of someone who just remembered they’d left their bath running or forgot to turn off their stove before leaving for work. Keith avoids stepping in the viscous halo of blood and tissue as he approaches.
He sets the infant down gently on its back- unsure if it could sit unsupported- at an angle where it couldn’t witness the scene. Likely, they’ve already seen worse, but things like this just seemed like a rule he was unwilling to break. They wail in protest at the loss of contact.
“s’okay. I’ll be right back.” He winces at the slur in his voice. Definitely concussed.
Trevlai’s limbs move easily as Keith shifts them crossed atop his torso. He isn’t a particularly bulky alien. Limber and taut. He’d be lying if he said he hadn't found him a little attractive. He had a freeness and irreverence that reminded him of-
-Keith banished the thought. His hand trails up to trevlai’s face and he gently closes his eyes for the last time; the yellow crowned ruby disappearing behind pale eyelids.
“It was an honour to fight at your side, Trevlai. You will be remembered by those who remain. May you awake in a world better than this one, or rest in peace never offered in life. Goodbye.”
Keith reaches for the Blades shoulder guard, pulling the small metallic ID badge from an indentation at its base. He remembers Kolivan’s distaste when he’d casually called them ‘dog tags’, but at times like this the name felt more apt than a ‘badge’.
As a final customary act he pulls taut a lock of his partner’s hair’-a light peony shade- and severs it with his blade; tying it with some twine from his utility belt and pocketing alongside the badge.
The whimpering behind him gives way to a wheeze, bringing him out of the daze. He pulls a locator chip from his belt and places it behind Trevlai’s ear before activating it. Body recovery was hardly a priority for the Blades of Marmora, but the beacon was a promise; ‘we’ll do what we can’’’
With a final deep breath Keith stands and goes to retrieve his new charge. They start wriggling and mewling urgently as he enters their vision and he feels a familiar pull in his chest- the one that made him gravitate towards the nursery wing even when he technically wasn’t on his rostered duty there.
Kolivan had even called him out on it in the same grim way he went about most things. His mother had laughed when she’d pried that information from him.
“You have the heart of a nurturer, Keith. Even if it resides in the body of a fighter. There’s no shame in that.”
He picks them up and they once again curl into him. He holds them as close as he dare, mindful that they are, proportionately, as bruised and battered as he is.
“It’s ok. I’ve got you.”
He starts the trek towards his Blade-issued ship, one life down and one gained, and doesn’t look back.
______________________________________________
2: 45 AM,
McClain residence, greater Garrison agriculture district
Arizon, USA, Earth
Lance lay on his bed, chest heaving and vision coming back into focus as he comes down from his climax.
No sooner than the warmth of orgasm leaches from his veins it is replaced by familiar disgust
Two months. It’s been two months and he’s still seeing it every night. Still being stirred and haunted and consumed by it. He’d denied it at first. Named it as a long-delayed facet of developing sexuality that got muddled somewhere during the space war.
The feel of Keith’s hands on him, his body around him, boiled something inside him like he’d never known. And his own touch did nothing to relieve it. It only seemed to be driving him deeper into whatever psycho-sexul despair he’d tipped off a cliff face into.
Keith, in typical Keith fashion, had rocked him to his foundations and then fucked off into the great unknown, leaving him dizzy in the aftermath.
“Fuck me.” Lance said. The breeze pulling through his cracked-open window chilled the wet mess he’d made on his belly and he felt unbearably disgusting.
He wrenched himself from bed to run a shower, ever thankful for his family farm’s expansion allowing him basically to live in his own apartment on their estate. Close to home, but not so close he had to be, well, home all the time. The last thing his family needed was his confused, depressed ass sitting at the dinner table with them every other night.
The embrace of the hot water on his chest was a small comfort. Recently it had become very difficult to not feel an emptiness when waking up alone. Something he simply never felt before that night taught him what it was like to hold someone else as you slept.
God, he’s pathetic. At 25 years old he finally gets laid and now he can’t stop freaking out about it.
But It’s not the ‘getting laid’ part you’re freaking out about, is it?
His bitter internal dialogue is perhaps a little spot on and he resents it for that. Sexuality was a complicated thing. and so was Keith. And when the two combined how the fuck was he even supposed to stand a chance?
That night at the Gala.That fucking night.
The way he’d waltzed into the hall, Marmoran uniform pristine; ceremonial sword tassel and all. Hair braided immaculately, but his characteristic wildness retained in those defiant bangs. The grins he kept shooting him every time a pretty alien lady would turn him down. The way his sharp little snaggletooth would catch on his lower ip for a moment every time he did.
-The way that- several drinks after the main ceremony- - he’d convinced him there was a 200 GAC coin (something he now knew didn’t exist) in the courtyard fountain; getting him to lean way over the edge to see before grabbing his legs and flipping him into to frigid water. The way the bawling he heard when he surfaced completely extinguished his will to be angry…
At that point it had gotten too hazy to recall anything but snippets.
The wet trudge back to the guest quarters. His low voice. His skin pale and eyes impossibly dark in the near moonless night.
Lance had said something to Keith. Something about the cold. About how he wanted Keith to stay close. Thinking about it even now his heart hammers at the exhilaration
He doesnt remember who acted first, but the feel of Keith’s mouth on his, on his jaw, his throat- He felt it as if it were a lingering ghost.
“I’m not into guys” He’d told Hunk when he was teasing him aboput his ‘flirty’ behaviour with Keith.
When his sister has accused him of being overly protective of her dating Keith.
When Shiro gave him ‘that’ look after he and Keith got into some stupid fight about some fling Keith may or may not have been having with a new Blade recruit. (I just don’t think they’re good for him, Shiro!).
“I’m not into guys’ he’d feebly reminded himself as he closed his mouth around Keith’s cock, making the other man elicit the most gorgeous sound he’d ever heard from human (or otherwise) lips.
Lance wasn’t into guys.-So then what the fuck was he doing at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning washing his own cum off himself after fantasising about the-very much male- Keith.
Keith way most definitely ’a guy’- those extra alien bits non-withstanding (That was a whole other subject. One he was in all honesty much more comfortable with) and he was almost very definitely on the precipice of admitting he was into Keith. Even before the whole ‘blowing a load into his alien pussy while simultaneously jerking him off and -oh what the fuck was he doing?
Lance puts his face in his hands and groans.
Two months since he’s talked to Keith and his world was falling apart. Keith was probably out there right now saving orphans or some shit. Probably fucking and/or getting fucked by the hottest aliens in the universe.
And here he was. Ex paladin of Voltron. Liberator of Earth. Lance McClain. Still vehemently denying he’s got a great big thing for his pretty friend who happens to also be a (very beautiful) man. Masturbating alone and having an existential crisis about it.
Outside his window he hears the distant sound of an engine starting. A faint blue glow out in the fields of the Estate. The shift workers starting their morning harvest. Hay feeder bales, probably. Their farm had turned into a huge food-producer since the end of the war. The influx of work-hungry refugees were a big part of the growth. It was an added bonus that many of them were at least partly nocturnal; meaning even the most unpopular night shifts were easy to fill.
His family's farm has become a refuge for so many people. A beacon of hope, renewal and harmony. A home. Yet ever since Keith left after that night not even this place could make him feel at ease.
Fucking Keith. He misses him. He wants to talk to him. See him. Just fucking hearing him he would take at this point.
But every time he remembers that it was Keith who left him cold and alone that morning in the guest quarters his impetus halts and his confidence wavers. He didn’t even leave a note. He found at in the foyer the morning afterwards from Shiro that he’d been ‘called on an urgent Blade mission’.
It stung. More than he’d ever thought it would.
“Fucking Keith.” Lance says to nobody and returns to bed.
He’d call him eventually. When he was ready. For now, his phone lay face down on his dresser, counting down the minutes until his morning alarm.
______________________________________________
If there was one thing Keith would never knock the Blades of Marmora for it was their ability to prepared for just about every possible outcome of a mission.
Granted, the ship’s supply crates couldn’t provide them with the bathing, rest and aid they both desperately needed but there was enough in there that they’d survive in relative comfort until they found it.
The infant has calmed a little by the time he’s trudged upon his ship and was; now letting out intermittent sniffles and mewls instead of full-blown wails. Something his aching skull was immensely thankful for. He can’t blame the poor thing, but at least now he can walk without feeling as though someone was electrocuting an exposed nerve in his brain.
With no small effort given his incapacitated state he manages to haul them both into the small ship. Raiding the med supply case, he fashions a makeshift cushion on the passenger seat to lay the child on. They sniffle and kick when he sets them down.
“I know, I know. I’ve just gotta do something about this arm and then we’ll see what we can get you to eat, yeah?”
He finds what he’s looking for; a bottle-cap sized disk with two silver pads on its base. He gingerly wipes an alcohol cloth on his inner elbow, conveniently close to where the splitting pain is located, then places the disk on and taps it twice. There’s barely a prick of pain before morphine -or whatever alien equivalent this is; he never asked- floods into his veins and his arm immediately becomes lax.
Keith sighs in relief, ironically able to think clearer in the presence of the heavy medication. Not the heaviest in this med box, mind. But given his condition he’s been warned to keep clear of the real knockout drugs. Besides, he needs to be lucid right now.
He resumes his rummaging and brings out a blue container from the kit. He’s only ever seen it being used before, but he’d fed infants countless times on nursery duty. He is more than familiar with using the dry-mix formula pouches. The fact this baby was very clearly galra only made the process easier to select the right sachet.
Silently praising the two-part ‘snap & drink’ technology of the sachets (literally, they had a hydration & formula component. You snapped the packet and it was immediately mixed and warmed to the perfect temperature) he poured the now-liquid formula into a disposable bottle and screwed on the cap.
Keith shifts the infant to his lap, cautiously leaning them into his left shoulder and angling to bottle towards them. They give him a wary look.
“Please, please don’t make this difficult. I’m literally begging you.”
They sniffle for a moment but then, thankfully, catch sight of the familiar vision of the bottle and immediately latch onto the teat, sucking so fast He had to stop several times to make sure they didn’t start choking on the fluid. Definitely dehydrated. Next feed he’d have to add electrolytes to the formula. They were too young for straight water.
“Ok, let’s get you strapped in” He breaks off the sentence with a yawn. God, he’s so tired. There was a bulwark of information and emotions he was holding back for later processing and if he didn’t get some rest soon he was going to crack beneath the weight.
He flips the back of the now-vacant passenger seat forward, bringing to front the inbuilt bassinet on its back surface-really, the Blades were prepared for anything- and gently shifts the baby into it, buckling them in. It’s utilitarian in design and probably not that comfortable, but it would keep them safe on the trip. They make no protest. It appears hunger and thirst were the only things keeping them from sleep, and now they were glad to meet it.
Keith boots up the engine, running diagnostics to ensure there’d been no vandalism or parts-looting in his absence. As the sequence performed, he takes out the med-scanner and flashes it over the dozing infant.
The feed flicks through the results he expected; dehydration, moderate bruising, superficial abrasions. A weight lifted from him knowing that he had a healthy-albeit sore- child in his care.
“Looks like you’ll be flying with me for a little while, huh?”
They blinked lazily at him, half-lost in sleep.
“I wish I knew your name. I need to call you something. How about…” Keith clicked his tongue thoughtfully. His head felt mussy and light. “Yorak. That was my name, y’know…Sort of. You can borrow it for a while.”
He looks at Yorak and they are fast asleep, little chest rising and falling slowly.
“Good night, Yorak.” Keith says airily.
Then, he turns the scanner on himself; panning it up and down his body. His chest tightens, and the little thought that's been scratching at the back of his mind since his altercation with the thugs claws at him.
He watches as the annotations flick across the screen.
Species: Galra/Human hybrid
Cataloguing abnormalities:
(!) concussion (Mild)
(!) Major Fracture - Left Ulna: significant inflammation detected.
(!) Minor fracture - Left cheekbone: inflammation detected
Minor oral abrasions & bruising of the gums
Multiple external abrasions
Multiple external bruises
physical status:
Respiratory function: normal
Nervous system function: normal (!) mild concussion detected. May affect nervous response.
Gastrointestinal function: normal
Endocrine function: normal (*pregnancy detected. Hormone levels in species-appropriate range for adequate fetal development.)
Keith nearly chokes on his relief. the grimness lifting from him and displacing just a little of the weight that had been cast on him over the past couple hours. His non-mangled hand comes to rest on his abdomen.
Thank fucking god.
“Good night, little guy.”
Keith sets the ship on an autopilot route to the nearest Marmoran outpost, hits launch sequence and lays back in the pilot seat. He loses to sleep before they’ve even left the atmosphere