nightowldaylark

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] Sins of the Father [Talia/Bruce]

Title: Sins of the Father (a/b/o verse)

Pairing: Talia/Bruce

Characters: (Alpha) Talia Al Ghul, (Beta) Bruce Wayne, (Alpha) Ra’s Al Ghul, (Alpha) Alfred Pennyworth. Cameos by (Beta) Dick Grayson and (Omega) Damian Wayne.

Summary: If you love something, set it free. Talia tries, but no Al Ghul can ever truly escape Ra's' grasp.

Author’s Note: An attempt at merging the 1987 Son of the Demon with the background Morrison came up with for Damian set in an alternate alpha/beta/omega universe. Most interactions are based on Son of the Demon but some characterisations come from more modern interpretations.

I realise this is incredibly niche, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

AO3 Link

It is said that in the beginning was the alpha man and omega woman. It is from their loins that we all descended, and even now it is the alpha man and the omega woman who represent the purest of humanity.

From the perspective of outdated beliefs, Talia, as an alpha woman, is little better than the abominations that betas are supposed to be. An alpha man perverted by femininity, taking on their form and their ability to give birth when mated with an alpha man in rut. Were it not for an alpha woman’s ability to go into rut herself, she would likely not be counted as an alpha at all.

Despite his sophistication and ability to adapt to the ever-changing social mores of the passing times, Talia knows that is how her father sees her. To an alpha man like Ra’s Al Ghul, she will always be an imperfect heir. The part of her that betrayed him is buoyed by it, validated in her feelings and actions to know he will never truly accept her. The part of her that loves him still hurts from it.

It is that part of her that rules Talia whatever she might wish otherwise. It is that part of her that makes her heart clench when she chases a lead to her mother’s murderer to Gotham.

The city of her Beloved. The city of the only beta that has ever come close to overcoming Ra’s’ prejudices. Another complication in a relationship that is built on complications. Any fondness for Bruce is tainted by the knowledge that it is exactly what her father wants - an alpha son from their joining that will finally be the heir he always craved - and yet she is happy anyway, that he approves of the man she loves.

Though it is difficult to remember that Bruce is a capable beta man that Ra’s considers worthier to be his heir over all the alpha men he knows when Talia’s investigations find him crumpled in one of Gotham’s filthy alleyways, injured and vulnerable.

A quick check shows the wound is not life-threatening, though the smell and damp clinging to his suit means it could still happen very easily. Talia makes a face as she gathers Bruce’s limp body to her; Gotham is such a dirty place. For all that she understands loyalty to causes that may not deserve it, she will never stop feeling that Gotham is unworthy of her Beloved.

Still, resting in the high tech base beneath Bruce’s childhood home, even Talia can admit that there are some positives to the place. As if summoned, Alfred interrupts her vigil at an unconscious Bruce’s side with a tray of perfectly brewed tea. Talia accepts a cup with a smile and a murmur of thanks.

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Alfred says with a regal shake of his head. “Who knows when I would have been made aware of Master Bruce’s plight otherwise?”

“He shouldn’t worry you so.” Talia purses her lips, then takes a hearty swallow of the tea. “You are much too good to him.”

“It is my job,” Alfred replies simply. As if there is anything simple about their relationship. Bruce may pay his wages, but considering what Talia knows about Bruce’s relatives, Alfred is more family than those that actually share blood with him. For Talia, whose strongest ties are to her father, it is strange to think that the most important people in Bruce’s life are not his flesh and blood. Which brings her to another point…

“It has been surprisingly peaceful down here this time.” Talia sweeps her eyes around the main cavern exaggeratedly. “Not a peep of disapproval that the great Batman’s secret headquarters is being sullied by my presence.”

“Master Dick is not here presently, if that is what you’re asking.” Alfred’s mustache quivers minutely. Talia hides her own smile in the rim of her cup and takes it as a victory. “He is out with friends.”

“Friends,” Talia repeats drily. “The kind of friends that deserve quotation marks and secret identities?”

Alfred shoots her a sharp look that expresses louder than words exactly what he thinks of questions like that.

Talia is undaunted. This man just served her food with mating season just around the corner; her instincts have marked him as ally the moment she accepted what he offered. “Does this mean I must gird myself in preparation for his displeasure when he returns?”

“That depends, Miss Talia, do you expect to be here three months from now?”

Talia blinks. “I am surprised Bruce would allow his ward out of his sight for so long. Isn’t the boy only...ah, of course, he is fourteen now, isn’t he?”

“Indeed.” There is not a hint of censure in Alfred’s bearing. Talia isn’t sure she would be able to notice if he feels any in the first place.

“Betas.” Talia sighs, still trying to gauge Alfred’s mood from the corner of her eye. The alpha man is frustratingly opaque, and unlike most alphas she dismisses, Talia has a feeling Alfred would not be any easier to read even after mating season is upon them. “I do not know how they have the energy to go at each other all year round. And fourteen is such a volatile age; are three months going to be enough to stop them from being at each other's throats?”

“Master Bruce and Master Dick are assuredly capable of controlling their baser instincts. There is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Miss Talia.”

And there was the censure, though aimed at her not Bruce or Richard. Talia shrugs, unrepentant. While she does not believe in the inherent inferiority of betas like her father, she is not blind to their faults. There is a reason betas make up the majority of her father’s League; their heightened aggression - especially in close proximity to each other - all year round makes them much more useful subordinates than alphas or omegas who only reach such emotional states during mating season, and is much too distracted by the actual mating part to follow orders well.

Of course, like Alfred says, Bruce and Richard are both exemplary specimens of their dynamic, and Talia knows well Bruce’s ability to rein in his emotions when needed. That ability is enough to impress her father after all, despite all the years Ra’s has lived. Though apparently not enough that a beta newly in the throes of puberty like Richard does not need to leave the nest for a while to calm down.

“His absence does explain this bout of recklessness.” Talia tries to look conciliary as she nods over at where Bruce still lies unconscious, hoping Alfred would take this change of subject as an olive branch. “He is usually above such rashness when Richard is around.”

Alfred inclines his head slightly, but, like the best of servants, does not say anything that may be construed as criticism of his master to an outsider like her.

Soon enough, the tea is finished, and Alfred returns upstairs to cook something more substantial while Talia is left alone to her vigil again. It is the greatest sign of trust she has received from the manservant, and Talia lets herself enjoy it while she waits. This rare moment of peace cannot last once Bruce wakes, and she will need her wits about her to convince him to rest - especially when she herself is itching to set off on the trial of her mother’s murderer once more. But Bruce would not appreciate her acting without his supervision in his city, and loath she may be to admit it, she will need him to accomplish her goal. Not just Bruce, but maybe even her father. It is not every day that all three of them are working towards a common objective; she would be a fool to let this chance slip away.

It is said that betas are more aggressive, more emotional, than alphas or omegas due to the instability of their standing. Unlike an alpha whose place is to sire children, or an omega whose place is to bear children, a beta may sire or bear the child of any beta any time of the year.

A beta can also bear the child of an alpha in rut or sire the child of an omega in heat, but that is rarely brought up as evidence for or against a beta’s nature. It is only right for an alpha to sire and an omega to bear even if it is with a beta. In fact, doing so supposedly aligns betas with the natural order that their very existence diverges from. It is a flawed mentality, but Talia is well aware that is what Ra’s hopes for from their union. That if he could not bring himself to make Bruce his heir due to Bruce’s dynamic no matter how suitable he may be otherwise, then to wed Bruce to his daughter is the next best thing.

Another person might rankle at that - that her wishes, her choices, do not matter - but Talia is relieved. She is used to making the best of her circumstances. She knows all too well how important it is when fate allows her father to want what she wants.

Most of all, she is happy that it is what Bruce wants as well.

Talia knows it is not a simple matter of Bruce finally bending to Ra’s’ will. As she had surmised, they need the League of Shadows and their resources to go after Qayin. They all know this. It is why Ra’s has been so accommodating, proclaiming Bruce his son-in-law and even permitting Bruce to teach his League non-lethal ways of fighting. For Ra’s, this will be the best chance he has to bring Bruce into the fold in a long time.

It is a measure of how foolish Qayin was to involve Gotham in his plans. Bruce would never stand for such meddling in his city, and now he knows of Qayin’s plot against the world. But Talia does not mind that it is these less than romantic reasons that drives her Beloved to her; Bruce is an honourable man, he would not have lain with her during her rut had he not meant his commitment to her. Perhaps he will not stay with the League after Qayin is neutralised, perhaps he expects their new bond to finally cleave her from Ra’s for good, it does not matter. Right now, they are united in a common goal, the three of them together and stronger for it, leading the League of Assassins to greater heights. Right now, her life is all she could ever wish for.

And with the dismal failure to stop the launch of the weather satellite, as well as the loss of Donal, it will be some time yet before they can worry about what comes after Qayin. Talia sweeps a critical eye over the dispersing troops that had gathered for the mission, stopping on Bruce leaning tiredly against the far wall. There is much to do, to rally their forces now that they have proof of Qayin’s connection with Golatia, but something about the way Bruce slumps uncharacteristically into himself prickles at instincts deep within her.

Keeping her eyes on Bruce, Talia waves imperiously at Dr. Weltmann as she passes by. It has been over a month since Talia and Bruce arrived at the Demon’s Head, since Ra’s had revealed the criminal Bruce is chasing and her mother’s murderer are one and the same, since Bruce agreed to join forces and stop Qayin together. Over a month since Bruce and Talia had come together at the onset of her rut as proof of their commitment to each other.

Conception for a beta during an alpha’s rut is almost a certainty.

“Miss Talia, what can I do for you?” Dr. Weltmann asks, her manner deferential but distracted, eyes sweeping around the hanger.

“I need a moment of your time,” Talia replies, trying to keep her tone just as polite.

“Of course, are my services required?” Dr. Weltmann’s eyes flicker intelligently over Talia’s face, then slides to where Bruce is without prompting. She is just as aware of the timing as Talia is.

“I need you to conduct some private tests,” Talia says softly, letting her own eyes fall on Bruce as well.

It is all the confirmation Dr. Weltmann needs. “I see,” she breathes out quietly, her gaze drifting away nonchalantly as if there is nothing of interest in Bruce’s direction. “Discreetly, I presume? I promise you will be the first to know.”

The second, Talia thinks cynically, watching Dr. Weltmann pick her way towards Bruce. Whether she tries to keep it from him or not, Bruce will know the moment she does.

“I dare say our Dr. Weltmann will have her hands full trying to keep the results from our Detective until you can be informed,” Ra’s says drily from over Talia’s shoulder, a space she could have sworn was empty until now.

Tamping down the urge to start, Talia whirls around with as much poise as she can. “Father. Do you know?”

“I suspect.” The corner of Ra’s mouth quirks up. “The same as you.”

A rush of emotion sweeps through her, too tangled for her to discern just what exactly she’s feeling. Relief perhaps, that Ra’s doesn’t know anymore than they do. Apprehension, that Ra’s’ plans are finally coming into fruition, and her child may be the key; that her child may be the alpha boy Ra’s desires, or that they may not be. And, finally, tucked deep within her, happiness, that Bruce might be with child at all, their child.

“Congratulations, my daughter.” Ra’s smiles at her, full of pride.

“It is still too early to say,” Talia demurs. What if we are wrong? What if I get my hopes up for nothing? What if what I fear does not come to pass?

“There is no need to be so cautious,” Ra’s says dismissively. “But there is always next year if you are worried.”

“Next year,” Talia repeats in an uncharacteristic lapse of self-possession. She cannot imagine Bruce here next year; he would never leave Gotham that long. Ra’s may try to keep them forever, until he has his male alpha heir and after, for he truly does hold Bruce in such high regard. But Talia cannot imagine a Bruce content to stay and bear child after child for the Al Ghul cause.

Ra’s shrugs languidly, either unaware of her discomfiture or uncaring. “I suppose there is still enough time left in this mating season if you wish to stop your suppressant regime and try again now. But this mission was merely a preliminary venture; it gave us proof of a link between Qayin and Golatia. Now we plan for a strike on Qayin’s base. That will be the crux of this operation. The Detective may have Qayin, and we will have the satellite.” Ra’s stares across the room, at where Dr. Weltmann is leading Bruce deeper into the stronghold, a proprietary smile on his face. “And until then, there will be plenty of time. You will have next year, and perhaps even more.”

Talia presses her lips together. A million replies coalesce and die unsaid. It makes sense for Ra’s to prolong their undertaking against Qayin; whatever he can do to aid in tying Bruce to them as long as possible. Talia knows it will not work, but to Ra’s it is worth a try. At least it is worth a child or two from their joining, any one of which might be an alpha boy.

Her silence must have dragged on too long. Ra’s turns back to her with an elegant raise of his eyebrow. “You do not agree?”

“Bruce will not take Qayin’s life,” Talia says finally. Out of all the possible responses she can give, it is the only one that feels safe to utter.

“You do not think he would break his code for you? The sire of his child?”

Talia scowls. “You know he would not break it. Not for anyone. Not for anything.”

“Perhaps not,” Ra’s acknowledges with a sigh. “But he will want Qayin; it is why he is here. I’m sorry, Talia, but you understand why we must. We will have the satellite at least. It is more important to our plans.”

It is more important to your plans, Talia thinks resignedly. Qayin is the reason why she is here too; the whole reason why she brought Bruce here, so they can go after Qayin together. But to her father, avenging her mother’s death is already not a priority - if it ever had been. Bruce will have Qayin, to keep his opinion of Ra’s favourable, and Talia will have to be content with having Bruce and their child. For however long that can last.

It is said that just as an alpha woman is an alpha man perverted by femininity to a lower place than they deserve in the world, an omega man is an omega woman with designs for a place above their station. Not content with bearing the children of alphas and betas, but siring children themselves on omega women in heat.

Conventional wisdom group omegas together because both omega men and women go into heat during mating season, just as alphas are grouped together because they both go into rut. Physically, however, an omega man’s wider shoulders and narrower waist make him more similar to alpha and beta men in form, while their reproductive organs are functionally no different from alpha women. For unborn children, it can be quite difficult to tell what they are without invasive tests that many feel are unnecessary when they can be done with much less fuss after the baby is delivered.

Bruce hadn’t wanted to know what their child is at all. Neither did Talia. She still doesn’t know if she wants the child to be an alpha boy or not, not when Ra’s wants it so badly. Perhaps that’s why Bruce had not allowed them to do the tests. Ra’s could have forced the issue, but in this as in many other matters he had been lenient, allowing them their self-indulgence. They would all know soon enough.

Except Qayin strikes while Bruce is still in the midst of his pregnancy, having finally wrested their location from poor Donal, and Talia might have lost her baby before ever finding out what they could have been.

Hours after the attack was repelled, hours after Bruce was taken into Dr. Weltmann’s private lab - with the most advanced medical equipment still operational in the damaged base and the good doctor’s personal attendance, after hours of Talia waiting uselessly outside the medical facility, it is the first thing Dr. Weltmann tells her when she emerges.

Her baby is alive.

Her baby is an omega boy.

Talia’s legs give out under her, and she slides down to the ground in a daze. Staring down at her hands as they lie limply in her lap, she wonders if she should be happy or sad. Surely she should be grateful that her son survived such a premature delivery. Surely she should be disappointed that he is not the alpha heir Ra’s coveted for so long. Surely…

“Bruce,” she croaks out. “How is he?”

“He will recover,” says Dr. Weltmann soothingly. “He is strong, and the procedure went off without a hitch.”

A sigh rushes out of her. Talia feels herself relax for the first time since their base was breached. And now that she has, the full implications of their foolishness hit her all at once.

They had waited too long. They should have decamped as soon as they realised they had lost Donal. But the news of Bruce’s pregnancy had weakened her. Weakened all of them. Their safety hinged on Donal’s ability to hold out, to commit suicide before Qayin can wring their secrets from him, and all of them were too concerned with the effort of moving Bruce in his first trimester to look at the situation objectively. Instead, they had exposed a beta six months pregnant to a concentrated assault on their stronghold from the very man they were hunting.

A man is never such a fool but twice, in mating and in conception, Talia thinks bitterly. How true that old adage is, for all of them. Of all people, Bruce would have been the first to force them to move once the aftermath of the failed mission had been dealt with, but of all of them Bruce is the most compromised by his pregnancy.

Unbidden, her mind recalls how...timidly Bruce had fought during the attack, overly cautious of the precious burden cradled in his swelling belly. Which is understandable, but he had also been overly cautious for her.

It’s his instincts, she knows. Not his instincts as a beta man, if he even had such a thing, but his instincts as a protector. Because when Bruce fights, he fights to protect. Always. And now his instincts are pulling him in two different directions. The urge to protect their then unborn child, and the urge to protect their unborn child’s father. Nevermind that protecting her is what put him and their baby in danger.

A hand reaches up absentmindedly to brush against the dark gems spilling from her throat. It seems only yesterday that Bruce had brought them to her, to celebrate the news of his pregnancy. She had laughed at the idea of him gifting her a necklace when he is the one with child, but he had been undeterred. You gave me a far greater gift, he had said, the gift of a baby growing in me. It had made her weak. She had promised to wear it always, when she should have been promising to keep them safe.

Had the destruction of the Lazarus Pit not robbed Qayin of his objective, would he have been willing to leave, licking his wounds? The thought had tortured her the entire time she waited. It could have been too late.

Talia forces herself to take a fortifying breath. Now is not the time to think of what could have been. Her baby survived. They all survived. And now they must live on. She turns steady eyes on Dr. Weltmann. “Who have you told?”

“You are the first to know,” Dr. Weltmann replies calmly. She returns Talia’s look with a firm one of her own. She is the most loyal of Talia’s people here, there was no need to ask; nevertheless, Talia can leave nothing to chance.

“And I will be the last,” Talia tells her, decision made almost without her conscious thought. But the moment she says the words she knows this is the only way. She needs to keep them safe.

Dr. Weltmann’s eyebrows furrow lightly. “That is easily done now when the only artificial womb still operational is the one in my private lab, but what will you do in three months when the baby is to be brought out?” There is no condemnation in her tone. Even though she must understand what Talia is implying. But as an omega woman, Dr. Weltmann understands better than most what her baby’s fate would be as an omega boy in the League of Assassins. Many in the League would not consider it a bad fate, it would not be that different from Talia’s own after all, but Dr. Weltmann will support her decision.

“I will deal with it then,” says Talia, forcing her voice to stay even. “Right now, this baby is our biggest weak point. The less anyone knows about him, the better.”

“Including his own mother?” Dr. Weltmann points out drily, the closest thing to a criticism she would utter.

Talia gives a sharp shake of her head. “It is too dangerous. For both of them. Bruce is stuck in his ways, he will want to protect us his own way. It will not be the best way.”

Inclining her head submissively, Dr. Weltmann sighs but says nothing more.

Talia picks herself back up; there is no more time for wallowing. “When will he wake?”

Dr. Weltmann checks her watch. “Not for hours, not with the sedatives I gave him.”

So he will be waking soon, or might even be awake already, Talia rectifies to herself, striding toward the doors leading to the medical facility. “No one disturbed you during the entire procedure?”

“No,” Dr. Weltmann replies, hurrying at Talia’s heels. “Everyone is still busy dealing with the aftermath of the attack; many of the wounded are still being treated. No one else had the time to be in attendance, I made sure of it.”

Talia stops in front of the small door that leads to Dr. Weltmann’s private lab, one of several places in the medical facility whose surveillance system is still down. “No one questioned you for cordoning off your private lab for the procedure?”

“The son-in-law of Ra’s Al Ghul and his unborn child is of course to be afforded the best care and resources,” Dr. Weltmann says primly, unlocking the security on the door with deft hands. “No one would dare gainsay that.”

It is a good cover story, especially since it’s true. With no witnesses, no one knows what happened inside except Talia and Dr. Weltmann. As long as they can keep the baby hidden, Ra’s will never suspect the truth, and neither will Bruce. It will only be until the baby is safe to be brought out of the artificial womb, Talia consoles herself. And then...then there will be another choice. Except it isn’t one, not really. There is only one way to keep the baby truly safe from all of them.

It is said that a beta’s physiology validates the supremacy of the alpha man and omega woman. All betas may have the same reproductive organs, and be indistinguishable as children, but as they undergo puberty their form grows into the age old split of male and female.

The splitting of betas into male and female is an old practice, stemming from a time when the world still believed alpha men and omega women were all that mattered. Reproductively, there is no difference; unlike alpha women and omega men, who share genitalia but go into either rut or heat during mating season, nothing bars a beta man from the same sexual role as a beta woman. In the modern world, numerous betas choose to eschew from labelling themselves as either, no matter what their secondary sexual characteristics may be.

In another life, Bruce may well have been one of them. Talia has never met a beta so uncaring of their gender identity. But Gotham high society has very strict views about the roles of each dynamic. As strict as Ra’s in some ways. Had Bruce an alpha sibling, he would not have been the heir to the Wayne fortune even as the firstborn. They also believe in strict demarcations between men and women, and Bruce’s broad shoulders relegate him to the role of beta man. A role he puts up with as Brucie for the sake of his precious civilian identity.

A precious civilian identity that could have been in jeopardy had the pregnancy continued as planned. It would have been difficult to explain why Bruce Wayne had borne Talia Al Ghul’s child. Not impossible - the Al Ghul name is a prominent one, and not just in the underworld - but not easy to make up a believable interest Ra’s could have in an airhead lush no matter how much the Wayne family is worth in Gotham.

Now, it will not matter. Not if Talia’s plan works. It will be harder than convincing the world that Ra’s Al Ghul can have legitimate interest in Brucie Wayne, but it has to work, she needs it to work, the baby needs it to work, and so it shall. All she needs to do is convince the World’s Greatest Detective, and everyone else will fall in line.

It is warm inside Dr. Weltmann’s private lab; quiet, except for the soft beeping of machinery tracking the life of what’s most precious to her. With the lights turned down, the room feels like a secret, like safety. That does not deter Talia from sweeping her eyes through the area as she enters the sanctuary unaccompanied, making the checks that come naturally to her after a lifetime of paranoia. The artificial womb is nowhere in sight; Dr. Weltmann must have concealed it before she left to find Talia.

There is a faint stirring on the cot laid out in a clear space at the centre as Talia walks further inside. Her calculations were right; Bruce is waking up.

“Beloved.” Talia hushes him, laying a gentle hand on Bruce’s forearm before he can pull out the IV. “You must lie still. You are still not recovered.”

Bruce reaches down to his belly, then looks at her, face falling as he reads the sorrow and despair Talia doesn’t even try to hide. The emotions are real, even if they are not for what Bruce thinks they are; that’s what makes it believable. Bruce’s breath hitches once. “Where…?”

Talia shakes her head and allows the tears to fall. “I’m sorry, Beloved.”

“No…” Bruce whispers, shattering apart before her eyes. Is this how he looked on that fateful day when he lost his parents? It sounds foolish now to say that she had not thought through what it would mean for Bruce, to lose the baby he wanted so badly. Looking at him, Talia finally realises the true magnitude of her choice. There is no coming back from this.

Bruce stares at her wordlessly. He does not cry. Somehow that makes it worse.

“I’m so sorry,” Talia says one more time, flinging her arms around those slumped shoulders and squeezing the gently trembling body to her chest. She is sorry, more sorry than he can ever know.

“I am the one who should be sorry,” Bruce says brokenly in reply. “I lost the baby. Oh, Talia, I lost our baby.”

“No,” Talia shouts, folding Bruce deeper into her embrace. No, this is the true magnitude of her choice. “It isn’t you, Beloved. You did nothing wrong. I should have- Father should have- Qayin is the one who attacked us!”

“I should have been more careful,” Bruce continues, as if he doesn’t even hear her words. “I was planning to take you away, before Qayin attacked us. Take us back to Gotham. I can protect us in Gotham.”

Gotham, where all of Batman’s enemies gather. This is why it has to be done. There is nowhere that is truly safe from Bruce’s enemies, from her enemies, from her father. There is no way that he can truly protect them. Talia weeps into his hair. “I know, Beloved. I know.”

“I need to go back to Gotham,” Bruce says bleakly, pushing Talia gently away from him. “I need- I need to talk to Alfred, have him prepare for my return.”

“Beloved, I…” Talia trails off at the faraway gaze of Bruce’s eyes; he is no longer looking at her, already retreating into the protective shell of the Batman where his personal tragedies are the fuel that allows him to keep going. It is easier this way, she tries to tell herself, he is too distracted to notice her lie. It is better this way. The illusion of them as a happy family is just that. It was never meant to be.

There is no coming back from this.

Bruce blinks, and Batman’s piercing eyes focus in on her face. “What about Qayin? What does Ra’s intend to do?”

Talia wipes a hand over her eyes. “A counterattack, of course. The satellite will reach optimum orbit soon. Qayin will be sure to try to hijack it once it activates. We have to stop him now. He has lost a lot of men with this assault; there is no better time.”

“Let Ra’s know I will be joining them,” Bruce says crisply in Batman’s cadence.

“You still need time to recover,” says Talia with a frown, reaching out a hand to him.

Once again, he gives her a gentle push. “He won’t be leaving today. I will be ready when he does.”

“But-” She can’t help but to keep trying, even though Bruce is slipping further and further away with every word.

Bruce shakes his head sharply. “Go find Ra’s, Talia. Tell him. I need to contact Alfred.”

Talia presses her lips together in defeat. She walks slowly to the exit, trying to hold her head high, but Bruce does not once call her back. Without conscious thought, she stops at the door, turning towards Bruce to find that his attention is fully on the communication device in his hands.

“B!” Richard shouts tinnily from it, just barely audible where Talia is. “Where have you been?? A. says you left soon after I did, but I’ve been back for months and you’re still not here! Apparently you got knocked up by Talia Al Ghul?! What-”

Talia can’t see any expression on Bruce’s face from her angle, but there must be something there that startles Richard into silence. After a long pause, Bruce stirs. “Dick...there is no baby…not any more...”

“Oh, Bruce,” Richard says, stricken. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.”

Talia whirls back around; the necklace is a heavy weight against her chest, her guilty conscience threatening to choke her with her lies. She can’t keep listening any longer. Behind her, the last thing she hears is Bruce’s soft, even voice saying, “I’ll be home soon, Dick.”

It is said that the alpha man is the protector of the family; the one who sires but can never bear life. All alphas go into rut during mating season, as all omegas go into heat, but it is the alpha man who owns those months between September and November. He is the head of the household; his word is law.

“Father,” Talia says evenly, sweeping into the room without pausing to acknowledge the attendants hanging back against the walls. She tilts her head respectfully when she reaches where Ra’s sits, but makes sure not to lower it too far into obeisance. Ra’s Al Ghul must be honoured as the head, but no alpha child of his can lose face by giving ground. It is a fine line to walk, but one Talia has perfected over the years.

“Talia,” Ra’s responds with the same tone of voice, but well honed instincts warn her that he is displeased. Talia tenses unwittingly, only years of living under Ra’s stopping her from making any rash movements when he summons one of his attendants forward with a wave.

There is a small bundle in the attendant’s arms, one that is starting to stir as the attendant unwraps it. Watching the small face being revealed, Talia is startled by her first reaction, you can’t cover a baby like that, what if it suffocates?

There are far more vicious dangers for a baby in the League of Assassins. Suffocation might be an easier way to go, for all that she balks at the thought of a child’s death.

Talia is so caught up in her thoughts, it takes her a moment to realise why the baby looks so familiar. It’s not until the necklace wrapped around that tiny exposed neck is revealed that the truth crashes down on her. She could not have kept her breath from hitching if her life depended on it. Even though her baby’s life does depend on it.

“I do not understand why you would do this, Talia,” Ra’s says in a deceptively sorrowful voice. “He was found with a civilian couple, one without even the ability to conceive their own children. An ordinary household, who have not even taught him to walk unassisted despite him having already reached one year of age. Why would you do this to him? Why would you cripple one of the Al Ghul blood?”

She is pinned in place by Ra’s’ unblinking eyes as he proclaims his judgement. There is no justification she can make. None that will satisfy him.

“Is it because he is an omega? Despite all the values I have sought to instil in you, do you believe the outdated mentality that your son is not good enough just because he will go into heat every year?”

“No!” The word bursts out of her, riding on the wave of all her emotions that she dare not identify. Talia takes an abortive step forward before she can stop herself. “Never!”

“Then why would you cut him off from us? There is so much we can give him, so much we can teach him; as an Al Ghul, he deserves the world we shape. He deserves to be a part of that shaping. Everything I have ever given you, my daughter, would have been his. Will be his.”

That is the problem, Talia doesn’t say. For all that she doesn’t regret how she was brought up, Talia does not want this life for her son. And yet, isn’t Father right? The opportunities that being an Al Ghul gives her, the resources, the teachings, even Batman. What would she have without being Talia Al Ghul? What would she be without her upbringing? Is it not selfishness unbecoming of a father to deny that for her son? Faced with her father’s implacable condemnation, it is difficult to remember why she made that decision over a year ago. “He wasn’t safe…”

Her father’s face crumples in grief. “Oh, my foolish daughter, how short sighted you are.” He waves again, encompassing both the baby and the attendant. “He would never be safe. If I can find him so easily, then so can so many others. Here, we can protect him, we can teach him to protect himself. What protection could those civilians have given him?”

Unbidden, Talia’s eyes are drawn to the necklace again, and what she had thought at first was a dark shine over the gems are actually, she finally realises, splatters of blood. She is overwhelmed by the absurd urge to swipe the necklace away, and scrub all traces of blood off that vulnerable little neck. The blood that she had put there, because of her choice. She had thought an omega child wouldn’t matter to Ra’s, that he would tolerate the loss of someone who could never be his male alpha heir. But of course Ra’s would never abandon his family.

“You know your Beloved would say the same,” Ra’s intones, the final nail in her coffin. “Send his son away? To be brought up by strangers? He would never agree to such farce.” Ra’s smirks, the cold triumph on his face sends familiar tendrils of icy panic running down Talia’s spine. “But that is why you never told him, did you? Such a momentous lie, could he ever forgive you once he knows? But I am merciful, Talia, I am willing to give you one more chance. Name your son as an Al Ghul, accept him as one of us, and I shall help you keep this secret even from the World’s Greatest Detective.”

The attendant steps forward, holding the baby out. Talia lurches towards them instinctively, taking the precious bundle into her arms. This is the first time she has held him; she had not dared to, watching Dr. Weltmann prepare him for the orphanage after his removal from the artificial womb, it had not seemed fair when Bruce never got the chance. Looking down at a frown that seem too old for such an innocent face, Talia realises that she doesn’t know what name Bruce would have wanted to name him; like everything else they were putting off until the baby was born, this too had become a lost opportunity. Bruce might have wanted a name that honoured his parents, likely Thomas, but Ra’s will not be satisfied with that. “Damian. I name him Damian Al Ghul.”

“To conquer, to tame.” Ra’s nods. “A good name. With all here as my witness, I accept Damian Al Ghul as my family, to be afforded the same rights and privileges as any of my line. He will be taught by the best of the best, to help us in the shaping of the world for our ultimate goal. And one day, when a male alpha is born of his womb, I will accept his son as my heir.” Ra’s lays a gentle hand on Damian’s forehead as he speaks. Talia locks her joints together so that she will not give in to instinct and pull away. “It will be the greatest honour I can bestow him.”

Talia forces herself to take deep breaths. There is nothing to fear. The life Damian will lead is the life she has lead. She has no regrets; neither will he. But the hand on his head seems to have roused Damian from his earlier grumpy contemplation of the world. His face wrinkles up, and a choked whimper passes his lips.

Ra’s frowns. “There is, of course, much training to do, and bad habits to unlearn.” His hand leaves for a moment, and then returns in a harsh slap that cuts off the beginning of a cry.

Damian’s eyes widen, mouth pursing together as if...as if he has already learned the consequences of making noise. Talia’s entire body is rooted to the floor, has been since she saw Ra’s raise his hand in the air, only her eyes are free to dart to the attendant, who stands with bored eyes staring into the distance.

“It will be your job to keep him quiet from now on, Talia,” Ra’s says firmly, turning away now that Damian has fallen silent.

Finally, with her body hers again now that Ra’s has dismissed them, Talia pulls Damian in as close to her as she can. Hunching over him belatedly as if she can protect him from the threat that has already passed. “Of course, Father, I will make sure he meets your standards the next time you see him.” I will make sure he is kept from you for as long as I can.

This time, Talia keeps her head down as she sweeps back out of the room, Damian clutched in her arms. She walks swiftly down the corridors, only long practice stopping her from breaking into a run and revealing her turmoil to everyone she passes.

Talia stares down at the red print already darkening into a bruise on Damian’s face. What could you have been without being my son?

A/N: The beauty of an AU, of course, is that I don't necessarily have to follow canon. Maybe Talia says screw it after this last scene and goes straight to Bruce. It won't be easy revealing that she lied about their son dying, but Bruce will be sympathetic to her wanting a better life for their son away from all the dangers their lives entail. He'll take Damian in, and Ra's will leave them be because he at least trusts Batman to educate an Al Ghul more than two civilians. Talia will try to stay away because of the guilt, but Bruce keeps her updated with each milestone Damian reaches and keeps offering visitation and eventually she makes regular trips to Gotham (I guess the Lexcorp arc could happen at some point around here earlier than the comics though Lex Luthor wouldn't be President at this point). Dick is gonna hate her for life for the trauma she put Bruce through though.

OR Instead of sending newly Lazarus Pit-ed Jason off on his own while she distracts Ra's, Talia jumps the cliff with Jason because she's worried that Ra's will take Damian away from her with this disobedience (since in this universe Ra's already has grounds to be suspicious of Talia's upbringing of Damian). Basically, the moment she decided to put Jason in the Pit she's decided to bring two sons back to Bruce. This might actually be the timeline that's hardest for Talia; on one hand you've got Jason as fucked up by the Lazarus Pit as Lost Days canon and wanting to kill Batman just as much when he finds out Joker's still alive, except this time you've got Talia and Damian along (just the three of them because of Talia's people she either doesn't trust them with both kids or doesn't want them caught up in Ra's anger) so Talia has to keep trying to descalate Jason before they get to Gotham while fighting the worry that to protect Damian she might have to kill Jason again and not knowing if she can actually go through with it, and on the other hand you've got Damian all jealous that Talia had been spending time with this other guy instead of him, and this guy knows Batman! Has been chosen to be Batman's son! And Batman's Robin! While Batman doesn't even know he exists! Talia probably seriously wonders whether she should even take them to Gotham, since Bruce'll surely never forgive her for both making him think two sons of his are dead and now she's bringing them to him while both are pretty murder-y, but Ra's is still on her tail to take Damian away from her because he no longer trusts her with Damian's upbringing (and probably wanting Jason dead too since he's so murder-y now) so she doesn't have a lot of choice. At some point I suppose she tries to stall Jason like in Lost Days and Egon happens and she has hope again. Maybe Nyssa still comes after Talia (a bit earlier than the comics again I guess) and helping stop her is what gives Jason that push.

OR Talia hides Damian from Bruce all the way until the resurrection of Ra's storyline because the longer she keeps Damian from him the harder it becomes to come clean and also Death and the Maidens screwed with her mind like in the comics. But with Damian in danger of being taken over by Ra's as his host body, and Talia losing control of the League of Assassins because of Ra's' return, she has no choice but to go to Bruce at last. Bruce is probably the least welcoming to her in this timeline because she didn't choose to come to him, but was forced to because of circumstances. Also she set Jason on him. But at least it's not as bad as having to deal with Jason's issues and Damian's issues all by herself while trying to keep away from Ra's. Meanwhile Jason strolls in because he heard Talia's in Gotham only to find that while she had been acting all chummy with him she was keeping secret that she has a son with Bruce, and he doesn't miss the fact that he and Damian are both omegas and now he's wondering if that's why Talia saved him...And Tim is upset about the whole situation because he still gets captured with Damian and almost gets used as Ra's' host body even though neither of them are even alphas (the drive to survive is apparently enough to make someone set aside their sexist views), and also Damian keeps threatening to kill him/Dick/Jason once he finds out about that guy to prove his true son-ness, but at least he doesn't have the chance to actually try like in canon. Dick just hates Talia for life for making Bruce think he miscarried and then 10 YEARS of keeping up that pretence, and also training Bruce's kid to be all murder-y and hiding Jason's resurrection from them and inadvertently turning HIM all murder-y too.

Man, Dick hates Talia for life in all of these.

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch8 of 8

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch8 - Featuring Keith and James

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo in this chapter.

Chapter Summary: In which Keith and James have a moment that is interrupted by Kosmo and resumes after banishing him away.

Author’s Note: This is probably the longest fic I’ve ever posted so thanks, Voltron, for that, I guess lol I blame it on the fact that writing an aftermath fic after I binge a season is just what I do now apparently.

Posting now because I don't want to know what NYCC reveals will do to this story so I'm gonna finish posting beforehand.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch7

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch7 - Featuring the Garrison Top Brass, Olia and the Blades (with Kosmo)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. The Garrison top brass, Olia, and Kolivan and the Blades in this chapter.

Chapter Summary: In which Keith attends a very tense meeting with the Garrison top brass, Olia and the Blades while James gets a push in the back thanks to Kosmo.

Author’s Note: I was going to post this yesterday but I forgot ._.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch6

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch6 - Featuring Krolia, Acxa and the ex-Rebels (with James sulking alone)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. Krolia, Acxa, and the ex-rebels now-coalition in this chapter.

Chapter Summary: In which Keith is press-ganged into refereeing a friendly match for Krolia and Acxa by the ex-rebels and James acts depressed all by himself.

Author’s Note: I can't believe I forgot to thank van for looking over this fic until now. Thanks, and sorry I forgot.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch5

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch5 - Featuring Shiro, Baujal and the Balmerans (with the Paladins)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. Shiro, Baujal, the Balmerans, and the rest of the Paladins in this chapter.

Chapter Summary: In which Keith helps Shiro, the Balmerans, but not Baujal with the Atlas while James accidently finds Kosmo with the Paladins minus Keith plus Shiro.

Author’s Note: The most awkward thing about this chapter was how I couldn't just group them as the Paladins because Keith's not there and Shiro is. Also this chapter contains probably the highest number of personal headcanons about the aliens of Voltron in the entire fic.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch4

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch4 - Featuring Allura, the Arusian King and Bii-Boh-Bi (with the MFE Pilots)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. Allura, Coran, Romelle, the mice, the Arusian King, Bii-Boh-Bi, Rizavi, Leifsdottir, and Kinkade in this chapter.

Chapter Summary: In which Keith prepares for a live broadcast with Allura and the other Alteans, the Arusian King, and Bii-Boh-Bi while James is waylaid by his fellow MFE pilots on the way to Kosmo.

Author’s Note: Posting today because I will have no time to do it over the weekend. Also I just remembered each chapter can have its own summary on AO3 so I’ve done that now.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch3

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch3 - Featuring Lance, Plaxum and the Arusians (with Veronica)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. Lance, Plaxum, the Arusians, and Veronica in this chapter.

Summary: For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

One thing Keith was not expecting when he took on the mantle of the Leader of Voltron was for the entire universe to have an opinion on his personal life. It didn’t help that he himself wasn’t sure what James meant to him. Or what he meant to James.

Meanwhile, if the closest James could ever get to Keith now was bribing his giant wolf, then by god he was going to be the best bribe ever.

Author’s Note: As always, thanks to everyone for all the great responses! Next chapter may have a longer gap because I'm swamped with RL this weekend, unless I get the time to upload on Friday.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch2

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch2 - Featuring Pidge, Ryner and the Mers (with Sam)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. Pidge, Ryner, the Mers, and Sam in this chapter.

Summary: For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

One thing Keith was not expecting when he took on the mantle of the Leader of Voltron was for the entire universe to have an opinion on his personal life. It didn’t help that he himself wasn’t sure what James meant to him. Or what he meant to James.

Meanwhile, if the closest James could ever get to Keith now was bribing his giant wolf, then by god he was going to be the best bribe ever.

Author’s Note: I was going to post tomorrow but I got some really nice responses to the last chapter (thank you <3) and will be busy all day tomorrow because of a Marvel Marathon so I'm posting early.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] The Law for the Wolves [James/Keith] - Ch1

Title: The Law for the Wolves: Ch1 - Featuring Hunk, Shay and the Olkari (with Iverson)

Pairing: James/Keith

Characters: Keith, James, and Kosmo. Hunk, Shay, the Olkari, and Iverson in this chapter.

Summary: For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

One thing Keith was not expecting when he took on the mantle of the Leader of Voltron was for the entire universe to have an opinion on his personal life. It didn’t help that he himself wasn’t sure what James meant to him. Or what he meant to James.

Meanwhile, if the closest James could ever get to Keith now was bribing his giant wolf, then by god he was going to be the best bribe ever.

Author’s Note: Not posting to Tumblr this time because the whole thing is like 25k words and I can’t take re-adding that much formatting.

AO3 Link

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] I Am Thee, Thou Art Me [Shiro/Keith]

Title: I Am Thee, Thou Art Me

Pairing: Shiro/Keith

Characters: Shiro, Keith, Pidge, Lance, mentions of others

Summary: What if putting Shiro's consciousness in the clone's body melded them together? 

In which Shiro tries to come to terms with who he is now and what that means. And what Keith means to him.

Author’s Note: Dedicated to Yin because you said you're anticipating this :p Sorry I took so long this is no longer relevant orz I WAS GOING TO POST THIS BEFORE SDCC AND THE S7 SPOILERS I SWEAR! At least I managed to post this before s7 actually came out.

AO3 Mirror

His eyes are brown.

Out of all that’s happened, out of everything that’s changed, everything that Shiro’s had to endure because there was no other option, it’s this that is somehow too much to bear.

All of his hair might be white now, all of his arm might be metal now, but it’s his eyes - the only thing that had stayed the same all throughout that interminable year, the only thing that had ever stayed the same when his body, his mind, his actions were no longer his - that mock him with the truth: he has control over nothing.

But Keith is in front of him, peering at Shiro with wide, pitying eyes. He can’t lose it here; he can’t do that to Keith again.

He takes a deep shuddering breath. “Go on, let’s get this over with.”

“Okay,” Keith says, subdued. He kneels between Shiro’s seated legs, holding the space razor to Shiro’s face gingerly and running the thick end against his jawline. Shiro keeps as still as he can, trying not to stare at his reflection in the makeshift mirror clasped in his one good hand.

They watch in silence as the small prickles of hair waft down onto the cloth spread out at their feet. The razor plucks each individual hair out painlessly Coran had explained, back when Shiro had first gone to him for a way to stay clean shaven. Back then, the lack of feeling as he watches a part of himself be shorn away had been a relief, one less distraction, one less reason to focus on his body; now it only serves to make the distance between him and what should be his body feel even larger.

Keith clears his throat, leaning in to concentrate on the underside of Shiro’s jaw. “I’m sure you’re looking forward to the new arm they’re making for you. You won’t have to put up with me much longer; you’ll be able to do all this for yourself soon.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, pressing his lips together, “I’m sorry for the trouble. You don’t need to wait on me hand and foot.”

“No!” Keith yelps, the razor twitching in his hand in a way that would have been dangerously close to his jugular if not for the fact that futuristic space razors have no sharp edges. “I didn’t mean it like that! It’s not a bother, Shiro. I’m glad I can help you. Whatever you need.” He takes the razor away, free hand carefully smoothing over where the razor had jerked across Shiro’s skin. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You didn’t,” Shiro hurries to reassure him. “It’s not like you had a blade to my throat.”

Too late, he realises it’s the wrong thing to say. He was the one with the blade to Keith’s throat. He remembers forcing his weight down, mind full of nothing but the need to destroy Keith in all the ways possible, because that was what he had been told. Keith shrinks away, mouth twisting down. “I did. I drew my sword at you. I cut off your arm.”

“You saved me,” Shiro counters, desperate to make Keith see. “I’m the one who-” His eyes linger on the scar that mars Keith’s cheek. “I tried to kill you. I tried to kill everyone. If cutting off Haggar’s hold over me is what it takes to stop me then an arm is more than worth the sacrifice.”

Keith flinches, the hand that had been on Shiro’s neck flying to the scar as if they can pretend it’s not there if they can’t see it. “That wasn’t you, Shiro, that was the clone.”

Shiro opens his mouth, then hesitates. He hasn’t said anything yet, even though he knows he needs to. But it’s been less than a day since he woke up, sleeping through the entire aftermath of Keith’s return, Haggar taking him over, Allura putting him in the clone’s body. Now that he’s awake, it’s time to face the music. Even this small moment of calm as Keith attends to him is more than he deserves. Keith is the last person he wants to burden this with.

“That wasn’t you,” Keith repeats, less sure of himself this time, frowning into Shiro’s eyes. “You’re the original Shiro. You told me yourself. You were stuck in the Black Lion after you...after you died, and then Allura drew you out and into the clone’s body.”

“Yes,” Shiro says finally. “I was Shiro, who died fighting Zarkon and was preserved in the Black Lion’s mindscape. I was the clone, despatched by Haggar to be her spy and agent. Now I am both.”

Keith’s frown deepens. “What does that mean? What do you remember?”

“All of it.” Shiro turns away. “I remember being in the Black Lion while you searched for me. I remember being found floating in space. I remember being inside the Black Lion while I pilot the Black Lion. I remember attacking you all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Keith give a sharp shake of his head. “It was the witch. She made you do it. It’s not your fault, Shiro. Those weren’t your actions, they were hers.”

He doesn’t bother trying to argue. Keith is right. At the root of all his actions is the Empire and it’s time to stop denying it. It doesn’t matter whether he’s killing for them or fighting against them. There is nothing left of him that Haggar has not touched.

Even without the bombshell he just dropped on Keith, Shiro is expecting the others to barge in the moment Keith leaves the Black Lion’s hold. The fact that it’s Pidge with a determined frown that says she will not be denied does not surprise him; the fact that she comes in alone does.

Bracing his left arm against the side of the pod he’s been using as a bed, Shiro shifts around to face her. He knows he’s not much to look at; it’s not as bad as last time, since Keith has just made sure his hair is tamed and stubble removed, but he’s clad in just the Altean undersuit, hasn’t done any more than taking the bulky outer pieces off. He’s far from presentable.

Pidge’s firm strides falter as she reaches him, reticent in a way she’s never been before. “Hey, how are you doing?”

He blinks. Considering what Keith must have told them, this isn’t how he is expecting their reunion to go. “I’ve been better,” he admits, surprise making him more honest than he might have been.

She nods solemnly, stares down at her shuffling feet, then looks back up with a resolve he’s more familiar with. “Keith says you have the clone’s memories?” she asks, plopping down at his feet with aplomb and starts unpacking a convoluted mess of machinery in the space around them.

Shiro finds himself raising his eyebrow at her. It’s so very Pidge to not beat around the bush. “Kind of,” he says, trying to gauge her reaction. A part of him still balks at the idea of talking about it, but he had tried to hide his weakness before and all it did was allow Haggar to use him with the others none the wiser. Maybe if he had actually tried to be forthright it would have never come to this. They might have been able to stop him earlier. It’s not a penance, but it will be worth his discomfort if it means they will be on their guard now. Keith has told him what Pidge had done. Maybe if he gives her enough warning this time her virus can stop him beforehand. “I don’t know if I’m Shiro with the clone’s memories, or the clone who’s absorbed Shiro for good this time.”

“Am I a man who dreamt I was a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming I am a man?” The glare from her glasses hides Pidge’s eyes from him for a moment, then clears as she shrugs. “I’ve read Philosophy for Beginners, but it’s not exactly my field of expertise. I guess the question is, does it matter?”

“It matters,” Shiro says reflexively. It has to matter. “The things I’ve- the clone has done…”

Pidge looks at him steadily, then back down at the hybrid machine she is setting up. Shiro remembers Pidge and Hunk telling him about their plans for it; based on Pidge’s laptop, it’s an unholy mix of Earth technology they finagled from the Space Mall, Altean technology they begged off Coran, and Galran technology they received from Lotor and is apparently capable of doing anything they put their mind to. Right now, it seems to work as a distraction, so Pidge doesn’t have to look at him when she asks, “You don’t think the clone was a different person? That his actions might not be yours?”

“No, those were my actions. I remember every single thing he’s done. I remember the rationale behind all of them. That was me.”

Pidge keeps her eyes on the machine, fingers flying over the keyboard with purpose in contrast to the pensive frown on her face. “Is it really your actions even though Haggar was controlling you?”

He can feel his face twitch. It keeps coming back to this, no matter how much he might want to deny it. “No, I suppose you’re right.” He takes a breath. They need to know so that this can never happen again. “Haggar warned me, actually, when I was fighting her at Central Command. I was meant to be their weapon. Maybe my actions were hers all along.”

“Not all of them.” Pidge laughs weakly. “You’re a paladin, the Leader of Voltron. The bit where the clone- where you fought against us was Haggar’s fault, but the rest of it was all you.”

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. How does he explain the feeling of...violation, that nothing of him, whether his actions or his feelings or his body, belongs to him anymore? The fear that maybe none of it had ever belonged to him. Not since his capture. He had worked so hard to escape, both times, and Haggar had been planning this whole thing before they even put that arm on him.

Something must show on his face. The tepid humour drains from Pidge’s expression and she stops fiddling with the cable connecting the stump of Shiro’s arm to her mess of machines. “What’s wrong, Shiro?”

He looks at her steadily, trying to keep his expression smooth. “Do you remember what Hunk said before? About the arm having a direct pathway to the brain?”

“And a molecular level storage unit?” Her eyes flicker to the stump then back to his face. “Yeah. And now we know what it was being used for. That’s how the clone had all your memories.”

“Don’t you see what it means? They were planning for this from the very beginning. I thought that I was free of them, that I could regain the life I lost and be who I used to be again. But what if I’m just her puppet following her directions all along?” What if everything I’ve ever done is for nothing?

Pidge doesn’t answer immediately, waiting to make sure he’s finished before she stands and sweeps him up in a hug. “It’s not the same, I know, but I’m not who I used to be either.” She draws back a little to stare at him fiercely, her short hair framing her face like a halo. “Maybe if I had a choice I wouldn’t have wanted things to turn out this way, but I don’t think the person I’ve become is all that bad. And the same goes for you, Shiro.”

“I hurt you.” The guilt claws at him, as heavy as it did when he made the confession to Keith. “I tried to kill you all.”

“If we’re talking about regrets, I’ve got mine too,” she retorts, undaunted. “I had a clear shot at you in the hanger. I couldn’t take it. If I had, Keith might never had to do what he did. Allura might never had to do what she did.”

“You did what you could.” The justification comes easily. Mercy is a quality to be celebrated. It isn’t right that her compassion should hurt her. “And you made up for it afterward. I heard that it was your countermeasures that saved the Castle from the virus.”

“Right back at you, Shiro.” Pidge doves back into the hug, arms tight around him as if trying to keep him from flying apart. “You’ve done so much good. You’re the Black Paladin, you’re the Champion, you’re a hero. Haggar might have created the clones, but there are a lot of people out there who owe their freedom to the clone too.”

Shiro has no response to that, nothing except hugging her back just as tight.

Want me to call Keith back in? Pidge had asked after she had given the stump the all clear. Shiro had demurred, not sure what everyone thinks is between him and Keith and not sure he wants to stir up that hornet’s nest quite yet.

But it reminds him of what happened last time, when he had come back and holed himself up and Keith had to drag him out to reassure everyone. This time, he’s going to go out there himself, without needing to Keith to baby him.

What he isn’t expecting is for everyone else to act differently as well. The moment he walks out, they’re all suddenly crowding around him in a swirl of well-meaning solicitude. Before he knows it, Shiro is settled down in front of a professionally built campfire, someone has flung one of the blankets that must have been swiped from the Castle in its final moments around his shoulders, someone else is making a poor attempt at massaging his back, and a third person has just slid a bowl of...something into his hand only for it to be snatched away and the spoon from the bowl brought in front of his face instead. Looking at the poorly masked concern on everyone’s faces as they encircle him, Shiro can’t help the watery smile spreading on his face. He doesn’t deserve this, but it’s hard to deny himself in the face of everyone’s love.

“How are you feeling, Number One?” Coran asks from around Shiro’s knees, fussing with the edges of the blanket as it pools around Shiro’s seat - what feels like two more of the blankets folded and stacked on top of each other.

“Can you feel all of your extremities? No problems transmitting signals via your nerves?” Allura asks from behind him, which means she’s the one massaging his back badly, or possibly not massaging at all since it’s Allura. Maybe she’s checking her work. Maybe it’s supposed to be traditional Altean therapy.

“Here, try this.” Hunk is the one pushing the spoon into his face, the bowl hovering just behind it and emitting an amazingly alluring smell considering the fact that there’s nothing but barren plains around them. He takes a tentative mouthful because he knows he can trust Hunk’s cooking, but he’s not sure he wants to know where the ingredients came from. It’s not from the Castle, he realises immediately. He’s never tasted this while in the Castle. He hasn’t tasted this since he left Earth.

“How…” Shiro licks his lips, grabs the spoon with his left hand and carefully takes another sip. “Where did you find this?”

“From Keith actually.” Hunk thumbs over at where Keith is hovering at the edge of the circle with Krolia, Romelle, and the giant blue wolf. Krolia and the wolf are impossible to read, but Romelle looks faintly anxious, as if she’s not quite sure of everything but sympathises anyway. She ducks her head when she notices Shiro’s attention on them, while Krolia and the wolf remains inscrutable, but Keith is smiling at him the moment he catches Shiro’s eyes. “I didn’t believe it at first either. Especially since it was just Keith shoving some kind of root tuber at me. But it really does taste like it, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, something else to add to the list of unbelievable things Keith comes back with,” Lance says in an overly dramatic tone, wringing his hands together. Hands that were the ones that had given him the bowl in the first place, Shiro realises belatedly. “Space miso soup! How do you find these things??”

“Technically,” Pidge cuts in snottily, having seated herself next to Shiro during the chaos, “it’s not actually miso soup because there’s no soybean, or fungi, or fermentation whatsoever. Keith just chopped up the root into a pot Hunk boiled.”

“Yeah, hence space miso soup,” Lance retorts, shoving another bowl into her face.

As if it’s a sign, everyone gathers around the campfire with soup of their own and Shiro finds his other side now occupied by Keith.

“How is it?” Keith asks, setting a board across Shiro’s knees so that he can balance his bowl on it without needing an extra hand. “I didn’t even believe it myself at first. I know it’s a bit of a joke by this point that we keep finding familiar things in space, but space miso soup is just too much.” He ducks his head as he smiles, and Shiro is hit by the incongruity of Keith’s shyness after everything. Or maybe he’s shy because of everything. His confession still reverberates inside of Shiro, filling up all the empty nooks and crannies inside him. He never wants it to fade.

It takes an age before Shiro realises that Keith is waiting for an answer. “It’s perfect,” he says truthfully. “It tastes just like my memories.”

Keith’s smile widens. “It’s the only thing you knew how to make, of course I remembered the taste. It took me a while, but I had nothing but time on the back of that creature. More than enough time to get it right.”

An old memory stirs in the back of Shiro’s head. When he was still a very young boy, he would sit with his grandfather at the table and watch as his grandmother bustles around the kitchen making miso soup for them; his grandfather smiling widely the whole time. I’m a traditional man, he would say, which is a nice way of saying I didn’t know how to treat her right. The only words I could give her was my wish to drink her miso soup every day. And yet your grandmother accepted such a clumsy proposal anyway.

It’s the first time he’s thought about his grandfather in a long time, maybe that’s why the words slip out of him. “I wish I could drink this every day.”

“Sure,” Keith says blithely, clearly not knowing what it means to him. “I’ll make it every day for you. Every morning. I’ve already been doing it for Krolia the last two years as practice.”

He doesn’t know, Shiro tries to tell himself, but it’s difficult to not gape at Keith. Not when the memories of his grandparents still feel so fresh. The others seem to realise it’s a significant moment, all conversation dying out as everyone stares at Shiro staring at Keith. Across from them, Lance chokes on his own soup.

Shiro doesn’t remember much of the rest of the…meal, if a meagre pot of soup can be called that. Somehow the awkward moment is diffused, the soup consumed, and the campfire tidied away while Shiro tries his best to sink into the ground and pretend the last 20 minutes didn’t happen.

All too soon, Shiro’s bowl and makeshift serving board are whisked away with terrifying competency by Krolia, and he’s left with no reason to linger. But when he makes to stand it’s Lance who squeezes himself by Shiro’s side and proclaims, “I’ll help you, Shiro! Heading back to the Black Lion?”

Shiro looks around awkwardly at everyone as they bustle about setting up a makeshift water system to clean the dishes. Even the wolf is getting into it, a rag from who knows where clenched between its teeth while it dances around Keith. There is no place for him to butt in. “I was actually thinking of having a look around. You don’t need to come with me; I still have two legs, I can walk.”

“Oh, right! Of course!” Lance takes an exaggerated step back, both hands coming up defensively. “I didn’t mean it like that! But where do you want to go? I’ll join you!”

There is a determined glint in Lance’s eyes that tells Shiro there’s no point trying to decline. “Let’s just take a short walk around the perimeter then.” He looks around, taking a deep breath of probably fresh air.

Lance falls into step easily as they start the sweep, hands lingering awkwardly by his hips as if he had tried to put them into his pockets and forgot that their Altean armour don’t have any. “This is the first time you’ve been out here since...” he muses self-consciously, looking out at some point in the distance. “Well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Shiro replies shortly; the self-consciousness is catching. “Lance, I-”

“I’m sorry, Shiro!” Lance interrupts, whirling around to face him. There is a wobble in his voice that Shiro thinks he should probably pretend he doesn’t hear. “You reached out to me. Both of you; the one on the astral plane AND the clone. And I didn’t notice! The clone came to me for help and I blew him off!”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Shiro says as firmly as he can. “You didn’t blow me off, you comforted me. Even when I was being unreasonable, you made allowances for me. Thank you for being kind.” And then, because the tears are threatening to spill from Lance’s eyes, “But maybe you don’t need to be that kind. I can be a dick, Lance, you shouldn’t just put up with that.”

Lance shrugs, eyes falling away but no longer looking like he’s about to burst into tears any minute. “The clone- you were under a lot of stress. And you didn’t ACTUALLY do anything wrong until Haggar took you over. Okay, there’s the thing with Lotor, but he tricked all of us. I’m not gonna blame you for that.”

“We all have our regrets,” Shiro says, Pidge’s words from earlier coming back to him. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“How about this,” says Lance, “we both stop apologising to each other and just try to make up for the past, so we won’t have any more regrets?” The smile he gives Shiro is crooked but filled with resolve. “I still wish I could have done more for you. Maybe if I had realised earlier none of this would have happened. Maybe I could have helped the clone when he- when you came to me.”

“Even though the clone was just a weapon of Haggar’s?” Shiro can’t help but say.

“Even though the clone might have been created to be a weapon,” Lance says firmly, “he was more than that. You are more than that. You’re our friend, Shiro. We care about you. That’s why I wish I could have helped the clone. That’s why I’m going to do all I can to help you from now on.”

Shiro can feel his face softening, the corners of his lips curving up without him quite meaning to.

Lance looks away again, this time with a flush. “And we’re RPG buddies! I sat through your paladin character creation like five times! There’s no bond stronger than that!”

Shiro chuckles. “That was a lot of fun. You think we’ll get the chance to play again even without the holographic interface?”

“Wait, Shiro, don’t tell me-”

Shiro’s smile widens into a smirk. “I do wanna be a paladin again.”

Lance groans, throwing an arm theatrically over his eyes. “Yup, you’re Shiro alright. All of you.”

Shiro chuckles again, facing forward now that their conversation is winding down. They have almost finished their sweep around the perimeter; he can see Keith waiting for them up ahead, by the Black Lion’s left paw. He’s looking over at them, standing tall with his head held high, one hand lying easily on his wolf’s neck as it sits on the ground at his feet. Shiro can’t quite make out his expression from this distance and he’s struck with the sudden urge to walk faster, to bridge that gap between them, to have Keith in his reach.

But Lance is choking again, and Shiro turns to see him whipping his head wildly from Keith, to Shiro, then back. “Wait, that proposition was for real? Keith!? Seriously!? I know he’s bigger, and cooler, and, like, grizzled now, but really!?”

Shiro doesn’t know what surprises him more, the fact that Lance knows about that obscure cultural convention or that Shiro’s infatuation is so obvious. “Lance-”

“Well, I meant what I just said, Shiro.” Lance slings an arm over Shiro’s shoulders with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m going to do all I can to help you, even if it’s getting you together with Keith.”

“Wait, Lance-”

“You can do so much better!” Lance leans in conspiratorially. “But don’t you worry, they don’t call me Loverboy Lance for nothing!”

Somehow Shiro manages to convince Lance that his intervention isn’t necessary. That he’s not really looking for a romantic relationship at the moment isn’t quite a lie, but it’s less to do with his own ‘healing’ as Lance seems to believe and more because Shiro isn’t sure he should be allowed.

The Shiro of before wouldn’t have said that a person needs permission to be in love, everyone should have the right to their feelings and the right to know if someone has feelings for them. But the Shiro of before hadn’t been cloned and mind-controlled to attack his own friends. The Shiro of before hadn’t been tried to break Keith, hadn’t tried to kill him.

He knows that’s not what the others’ think of him- of the clone. Pidge and Lance has made it clear that they will see him and the clone as one person because that’s how he wants it, and that they care for him even with the clone in the equation. Even with all that he’s done. Their faith in him is humbling, and Shiro knows he can do nothing less but make himself worthy of their faith.

But it’s different with Keith. You’re my brother, Keith had said. I love you, Keith had said and refused to let go. It feels like he still has his hold on Shiro, that even now he still hasn’t let go.

“What are you thinking?” Keith knocks gently on the entryway to the Black Lion’s hold as he walks in, a quick warning for Shiro’s jumpy nerves without bringing attention to it. So effortlessly considerate that it threatens to take Shiro’s breath away.

Shiro smiles at him. He can’t help it; even when his thoughts take such a dark turn, he can’t help but smile at Keith. “Hey.”

Keith smiles back. “Hey. How have you been? You looked pretty out of it after your walk with Lance.”

“A bit tired,” Shiro admits, though it hurts to think that just a little walk like that would tire him out so quickly. “I’ve been thinking about the conversation I had with Lance.”

“Oh?” Keith joins him sitting on the hard edge of the pod, leaning forward intently. “Lance came up to me just now actually, was it about the same thing?”

Dread runs down Shiro’s spine. “What did he say to you?”

“Something about the miso soup?” Keith’s face scrunches up adorably. “He said I should ask you what you meant.”

Damn it, Lance. “Don’t listen to him.” Shiro scowls. “I meant what I said, there’s no deeper meaning.”

Keith spears him with a potent look. “So I should make sure to always be by your side? To be with you every morning, so you can drink my miso soup.”

Shiro’s breath catches in his throat. This is Keith reaching out to him. Again. He needs to tell him. This is his chance. Keith is waiting. But he can’t.

Keith’s look turns worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Just...that wasn’t really what we were talking about.” Shiro gives his head a sharp shake. “Lance apologised for not helping me when I was under Haggar’s control. So did Pidge actually. As if they could have done something to prevent it.”

“Maybe they could have,” Keith says softly. “I’m sorry too, for not doing more.”

Shiro shakes his head again, slower this time. “There was nothing you could have done. Nothing that you didn’t already do.”

“Maybe you’re right, maybe we couldn’t have done anything. But I’m sorry anyway for what you had to go through.” Keith stares at him with clear, unyielding eyes, eyes that Shiro finds himself hard-pressed to meet.

“Even though I should be the one apologising. Even though I was the one who tried to kill everyone. Tried to kill you.” It’s like he keeps having the same conversation over and over again.

But this time, Keith doesn’t say it was Haggar’s fault. He draws closer, takes Shiro’s face between his hands. “But you didn’t. I stopped you, Shiro. I found you.”

Shiro closes his eyes, takes a breath, and then opens them again. “Thank you, Keith. I should have said this already.” Shiro huffs a bitter laugh. “I should have said this first. Thank you.”

Keith’s face softens. “You’re welcome, Shiro. I told you, as many times as it takes.”

They’re so close, Shiro can see the individual flecks of colour in Keith’s eyes. Maybe he doesn’t deserve it, maybe he doesn’t have the right, but Keith deserves to know. Keith deserves everything. “You’re right. That is what I meant. I want to drink your miso soup every day, Keith. I want you to be here, with me, always.”

Keith’s breath hitches, the flecks of colour overlaid with a watery sheen. “Shiro...I called you my brother, but you are so much more to me, you know that, right?” He draws even closer, close enough that Shiro can feel his next words against his lips. “You are everything to me.”

Shiro bridges the final gap between them, reaching out to cup his one hand on Keith’s face gently, reverently. The words that had been stuck inside him finally break loose. He’s wanted to say it for so long. Ever since Keith said it to him. “I love you too, Keith.”

Guess what was the most self-indulgent part of this super self-indulgent piece:

1. This Shiro being an amalgam of the original Shiro and the clone 2. The guilt that's a part of that and the responsibility Shiro takes over all Shiros's actions but also everyone's acceptance of all Shiros and Shiro's acceptance of himself 3. Keith kneeling between Shiro's legs while he gives him a shave 4. Keith making miso soup for Shiro 5. The miso soup proposal in general 6. All of the above

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] His Mother’s Son [Gen]

Title: His Mother’s Son

Characters: Keith, Krolia, Kolivan

Summary: Episode Tag for Season 5 Episode 5. Why did Kolivan send Keith?

Author’s Note: I have so many other fics on backburner but I knew I needed to get this out first before season 6 josses me.

AO3 Mirror

“You’re my…” The boy did not complete the sentence. He turned away so that he was no longer looking at her.

Krolia allowed the silence to grow between them, waiting for him to make the first move. It seemed only fair. She owed him so much. But she had no compunctions against watching him as he busied himself in the cockpit, running checks that he didn’t need. With the masterful flying he had accomplished against Trugg’s troops, he had more than proved his mettle.

She spent the rest of the trip drinking in the sight of him, her son, Keith as he piloted the small craft like it was a part of him. Her son is an ace pilot. She held on to that knowledge tightly, a new fact about him that she could tuck among her faded memories, worn out from the innumerous times she had gone over them back when they were all she had of him.

She knew her staring was making him nervous, his shoulders creeping up in an achingly familiar gesture that spoke of his discomfort. But she could not bear to tear her eyes away. Still he did not look at her. Not until they had finally touched down at Headquarters - in what felt like the longest trip of her life, but fleetingly short at the same time and leaving her wishing she had more time just to look at him - did he turn her way at last.

They looked at each other, and it was as if he finally realised that she was waiting for him. Keith’s eyes widening as he opened his mouth, paused, and then said, “I’m an orphan, you know.”

She could hear the Earth word he actually using even as the translator overlaid it, a word that meant one without kin. She was not surprised. Since she saw the blade and realised who he was, she had known, somewhere in the back of her head, that he must be gone.

Keith turned away again immediately, clearly not wanting her reply. “I need to debrief with Kolivan.”

She let him go. She did not have the right to do anything else. Besides, this would give her time to catch up with her contacts at Headquarters before she had to go for her own debriefing.

Krolia had not been back to the Marmora Headquarters in many deca-phoebs, but it had weathered its shift to the public stage as it had weathered everything else in its long fight against the Galra empire - persistently and unbending in its principles.

Perhaps it was simply mimicking its leader, as Kolivan did not seem to be any more ready to change. There was a familiar stern look on his face as she gave her report, and despite the turmoil seething inside her that he must have noticed, Kolivan merely furrowed his brows as she described Ranveig’s weapon. “So you handed it over to Trugg?”

“She will not be able to control it. Ranveig couldn’t. That’s why he left it there.”

Kolivan relented, though the glower did not leave his face. “The fact that it was created from this new type of quintessence is more crucial, I suppose. It is troubling, if it really does lead back to Lotor. I dread what this will mean for the partnership between him and Voltron.”

Krolia’s eyes narrowed. She could no longer wait. “Why did you extract me, Kolivan?” Except that wasn’t what she really wanted to ask. “Why did you send Keith?” The question had been burning inside her since she first marked the little Blade as he skulked unskilfully behind a corner. She had been unimpressed that Kolivan would send someone so untried, for an extraction so risky. And then she had found out who he was.

“So he is your son,” said Kolivan, as if he hadn’t realised.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Krolia couldn’t help but spit out. He was so human even as a baby, he still looked so human now; she hadn’t thought he would be so much like her.

“Yes,” Kolivan intoned gravely, “but he doesn’t quite have your ability to defy orders and come out on top despite it.”

“So you send him to me on his own.” She had been so angry, was still so angry, all her plans out of alignment because Keith had to come first. Kolivan must have known how dangerous the situation was that she had cut off all communication with them. She hadn’t even expected him to send anyone, that she would be written off as a loss unless she managed to extract herself. Instead he had sent her son. All by himself.

Kolivan was unmoved. “Did you hear of his last mission?”

Krolia nodded reluctantly. She had borne the brunt of Ilun’s ranting as the two of them caught up before her meeting with Kolivan. 'Of course, he’s your son. I don’t know what else I could have expected. Well, tell your son to accomplish his personal objectives without messing up the actual mission next time. You need to pass on more than just your pretty looks, maverick.' “I heard from Ilun. Is that why? Because his loyalty is to Voltron. Not to the Marmora. Not to you.”

“I don’t need him to be loyal to me. I just need him to listen.”

“So you reunite me with him. Do you think I will make him listen?” She wasn’t sure if she would ever ask that of Keith. She wasn’t sure if she could ask that of him.

“I think you are my last chance to keep him alive,” Kolivan said evenly. “He was with us for the mission when Regris overextended himself, did not retreat when I told him to. He died.”

“You have my condolences.” Krolia lowered her eyes. “I am surprised that it does not seem to have curbed his rashness. The young ones usually settle down after they see one of the older members die from overconfidence.”

“He is very much your son.”

Her jaw clenched. “There is an easier way. Give him back to Voltron.” Her eyes darted up. “The connection to the coalition that he symbolises is not worth what we’ll lose if he dies on one of our missions. Voltron has officially put their support behind Lotor; they don’t need us as their link to the Galra anymore. Our worth to them won’t make up for losing one of their own.”

“This suggestion has nothing to do with the fact that Keith will be safer protected by Voltron.” It was not a question, but a statement.

“It has everything to do with that fact,” Krolia declared, facing Kolivan fully. “He will be safer; Voltron can protect him far better than any of us can, especially if he doesn’t listen to you.”

“Oh how the tables have turned.” Kolivan stared back. “I too remember informing a rash, newly minted Blade that she would be safer away from the front lines if she couldn’t heed my words.”

Krolia scowled, but she could not refute his words.

“But it is not that simple, I’m afraid.” Kolivan said, sobering. “I do not think he believes he has a place with them.”

Krolia’s scowl deepened. “Because they have five Paladins and he isn’t one of them? Are their bonds so shallow?”

“From what I know of them, I do not believe so; but it is true that all positions in Voltron are filled. He does not need to be a Paladin to be one of them, and I believe they feel the same. But he will never accept not being out in the field.” Kolivan’s face softened. “He is very much your son, Krolia.”

Krolia could feel her own control slipping at the rare sight of a comforting expression on Kolivan’s face.

“This is why I cannot turn him away,” continued Kolivan, as if he could not see her fighting her emotions. “But I cannot manage him, so I must leave him in your hands.”

“I cannot manage him either,” she admitted. “How can he accept a mother who was never there for him?”

“If you cannot manage him, then teach him. Teach him to survive, if he must listen to none but his own council; teach him how to do so and live.”

“You ask too much of me.” The words rushed out of her unbidden; the weakness that had ate at her for so long. “I who have already failed him.”

But Kolivan was unrelenting. “Then will you fail him again?”

Her head shot up. “Never.”

Kolivan gave a perfunctory nod. He knew there was no other way she could have answered.

Krolia closed her eyes. ‘I left you once. I will never leave you again.' It was a promise; to Keith, to herself, to the universe. She would not fail him again.

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] String Theory [Slav/Shiro]

Title: String Theory

Pairing: Slav/Shiro

Summary: In any number of these realities, Slav knows the meaning behind the tangled red string that curls one end around him and flings the other out into the cold emptiness of space. In any number of them, the red string does not exist.

Author’s Note: This fic is the culmination of:

1) Reading a bunch of soulmate AUs and making myself nostalgic for the traditional red string version which is pretty rare in this fandom

2) Me wanting to do a soulmate AU from the POV of an alien who didn’t have this custom but got soulmated to a human and had to spend their whole life not understanding what’s going on until they actually meet the human

3) Wanting to write something from Slav’s POV (never again)

4) Slav/Shiro being one of my favourite crackships and I love their angst potential with the whole shared Galra prisoner background and how Slav is one of the few people who consistently gets Shiro’s back up.

I think that says everything re: what this fic is about.

AO3 Mirror

Every action has its corresponding reaction, its consequences that split reality into an infinite web of parallels and divergents. Slav traces them in his mind’s eye, and lets the pure precision of mathematics leading him down the paths of what-could-be and what-might-be and what-is.

In any number of these realities, Slav knows the meaning behind the tangled red string that curls one end around him and flings the other out into the cold emptiness of space. In any number of them, the red string does not exist.

In other realities, it is a simple sight defect. A mutation that allows him to see in spectrums the rest of his species cannot. No one else can see because their eyes are simply not made for it. But Slav has never seen anything else outside the visible spectrum. Nothing except the red string. Nor does his eyes differ from the average in a measurable way.

In more far-flung ones, it is a sign of his madness. A mental defect instead of a physical one. A lie he conjures up that exposes rot in his brain long before his captivity by the Galra. The string does not exist. There is nothing on the other end.

But in this reality, the red string simply is. Incalculable, unmeasurable, a mystery that defies explanation. A predetermined path to he knows not what, but a constant presence even the Galra cannot take from him.

At least until the Paladin enters his life through the door of his prison.

Later, Slav calculates the possibility of the Paladin coming through a different entrance, one that does not exist in his cell. He calculates the possibility of the Paladin never coming for him at all. The probabilities are immense. The likelihood of him living in the reality where the other end of his red string of impossibility comes to him while he is still alive, while they are both still alive, is so infinitesimal it sends his vitals elevating through the roof.

At the time, Slav is too busy elevating his vitals due to other panic-inducing reasons. Starting with the fact that the Paladin wants him to leave his cell. Slav is achingly aware of what happens if, when, if they fail to escape. But the Paladin talks of stopping the Galra, and freedom, and a way to be of use that does not involve torture or compromising his morals. And his lucky range of terahertz. Every word the Paladin speaks is a too-attractive trap that makes him hope.

It is almost a relief when the Paladin loses his patience. This, Slav is used to. He lets the familiar snarls of frustration fade into the background as he teases the crease in the blanket just so. The Paladin had actually lasted an amazingly long time before giving in; perhaps that is what the red string means: someone who can put up with Slav and his compulsions.

“Just take the blanket with you!”

Perhaps the red string needs recalibrating. The thought amuses Slav and almost calms him except the Paladin is still asking him to brave the water. There are too many realities where he can’t swim. Slav can’t remember if this is one of them, and the more he tries the more the realities blur together. Perhaps this is the reality where he is already drowning.

It is not any of the realities where Slav is drowning because it is the reality where the Paladin picks him up with his glorious robot arm and carries him heroically across. Sadly, it is also not the reality where the Paladin has two glorious robot arms which would increase their likelihood of survival to actually maybe survivable. But Slav is wrapped around the Paladin’s shoulders, and the arms cupped around him are gentle in their grasp. Slav lets himself enjoy it, until they reach The Cracks.

Slav isn’t even surprised that the Paladin seems to have no regard for his mother. Whatever importance Slav may place on his unquantifiable string and what lies at the end of it, it is clear that this is not the reality where the Paladin differs from everyone else in any appreciable way.

But in the end, the Paladin never forces him over. He listens, and implements Slav’s suggestion instead of making him go along with his. He does not harm him, even though he could have at so many points, even though Slav knows he wants to.

In the end, as realities unspool from his numbers, bright strands of actions and reactions pulling and pushing each other into infinity, Slav picks his reality and slams down on the control panel. His eyes on the tableau in front of him - his torturer, his saviour, the other factors who matter but do not matter. Slav calculates all the ways in which this ends.

The airlock doors swirl open, reality shunting down another path as Slav follows the pull of his consequences. There is, always and forever, the fear of death; dying in the void of space is such a messy death. But Slav is following his string, and the Paladin is there at the other end.

Slav does not go to him, but aims himself at one of the others, the one who had praised his suggestion. He keeps some distance between himself and the Paladin; a better vantage to observe. Safe in the arms of the small green one - not an unlucky frequency, but he regrets a little that he hadn’t aimed for the blue one instead - Slav lets himself be relieved for a moment; this is not yet the reality where he dies. He looks over, and contemplates the possibilities of a reality where the end of his string is a positive outcome, that he is defective in neither his eyes nor his brain. And then he remembers, this man does not even honour his mother’s back.

In some realities, it is not the Galra Slav must fear, but the Alteans.

Here, he is a fighter, he is powerful, and Shiro is Sven is a comforting presence at his side. Their string is not tangled but runs true between them, and their bond is the strength of physics and trust.

They are partners in all the ways that count. From the moment Slav sneaks into the Altean prison and finds that the weapon the Guns of Gamara wanted him to steal is a living, breathing alien. From the moment Slav finally meets the other end of his string and solves the mystery that has plagued him his whole life.

He is the one who breaks Sven out. He is the one who saves him.

In this reality, Slav sits in the outdated ship of a dead race and calculates how to keep them all alive. He is in his room tonight, having finally aligned everything inside it in optimal ‘staying alive in as many realities as possible’ configurations. So engrossed is he in his work, Slav completely misses dinner and does not even realise until someone knocks on his door.

“It’s me,” Shiro says, tone even. “I brought you some food.” It takes Slav a mathematical age to remember that he is no longer a prisoner and Shiro is waiting to be allowed entry.

Shiro squeezes inside gingerly when Slav finally opens the door, trying not to touch anything, and stands in the middle of the room with his limbs tucked close, food tray held to his chest. It is comforting to see him act so respectful; it makes Slav wonder once again if the red impossibility that twines around them means something, that Shiro can be so accommodating.

Slav takes a quick look around the room, trying to see what can be moved with the least chance of disaster. After some deliberation, he shifts the tablet on his bed from one end to the other and points at the space left behind. “There. Our survival rate in 42 whole realities will not suffer inordinately if you sit on the creases of this corner of the blanket.”

Shiro takes the seat, his mouth quirking up in a way that does not say ‘danger’. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Does ‘inordinately’ in this case mean we’re already doomed, or that we’re not doomed at all?”

“Only if you sit on that corner and that corner ONLY.” Slav folds his primary arms, his secondary set already reaching out for the tray of food. Shiro lets go of it without even a play at keeping it from him, and Slav finds himself pulling the tray with too much force without even realising he was going to. He should have been able to anticipate this, he should know Shiro well enough by now to be able to predict how he would act - how he wouldn’t be cruel this way, but Slav had seen the food and let his hunger and fear override his calculations. In other realities he would have used just the right amount of force, Slav thinks bitterly, watching the synthetic nutrient goo slop onto the tray. In other realities, the entire plate might have overturned.

But Shiro is here, hovering his hands under the tray as if to catch it in case it falls. “Sorry, sorry,” he says hurriedly. “I should have just put it down somewhere instead.”

Slav’s torso stiffens, straight as a beam. “No! The chances of disaster if you just drop it down haphazardly! The-”

“What are the chances of disaster?” Shiro asks, cutting in before Slav can build up more steam for his rant.

“Very high!” Slav blusters. “There is a 96% chance that someone can trip over it, fall down on something important, smear this nutrient goo all over EVERYTHING.”

“Huh, that actually sounds reasonable.” Shiro blinks. “Good thing I didn’t put it down somewhere then.”

The calm that surrounds him grates at Slav, people aren’t calm around him - not even Shiro. But the low-key condescension to Slav’s behaviour is at least familiar. Slav spoons nutrient goo into his mouth and glares.

Shiro ignores it with seeming ease. Except now that Slav is looking, he is not so sure whether Shiro is as calm as he had thought he was. The way Shiro is holding his shoulders, it is both similar and dissimilar to when they were running through the prison. His eyebrows are set low on his forehead, and there is a stiffness to him that reminds Slav a little of the corridors of Beta Traz, when Shiro was so set on forcing Slav over the Cracks. It sets off Slav’s instincts, vestigial ones from before Slav’s species learned to reason. Instincts that tell him to fight or run or both.

“I want to apologise,” Shiro says, all the stiffness leaving his body. This is not the reality Slav had thought they were in. “I’m sorry for shouting at you on our way back. It was uncalled for. I’m not sorry for doing whatever it took to save you while we were in Beta Traz though.”

“I saved us,” Slav points out to give himself time to think, to recalculate.

“Yes, you did.” Shiro nods firmly. The corners of his lips are tucked down. It makes him look - not foreboding, not the way the Galra do when their lips turn down, but - unhappy. “Thank you for saving us. It was brave, what you did, and dangerous.”

“Well.” Slav blinks, uncertain - the number of realities where this happens is so small, almost smaller than the number of realities where he finds the other end of his string and it is a Paladin of Voltron who saves him from the Galra. “I don’t plan on repeating it.”

“Please don’t,” says Shiro, still with that look on his face. “It’s our job to protect you .”

It has been so long since Slav felt the emotion that wells up inside him, he doesn’t recognise it at first. And then he does. He feels safe. Slav looks at the string, still hanging between them and not a hint of slack in it - despite the distance they had between them, the distance that has shrunk so much. The probabilities of something positive on the other end of it were so small. The probabilities are still so small.

Shiro’s voice interrupts the familiar litany of his thoughts. “Are you comfortable here? Do you have everything you need?” Slav looks up to see him glancing around the room. “Nothing’s in an unlucky terahertz range or something?”

Slav blinks slightly at the sudden change in topic, but follows along. “No, no unlucky terahertz ranges here.”

“ Do you have an unlucky terahertz range?”

“Less of a terahertz range, and more of a colour that doesn’t really exist,” Slav says drily.

Shiro’s mouth works as his brows furrow. “Wait, wait, I think I know this one. Our eyes made it up or something. Purple, right?”

Slav looks at him. “Yes, exactly.”

“Oh. Right.” Shiro presses his lips together, then opens them again. “Weren’t you working with the Blade of Marmora before?”

“Yes, exactly,” repeats Slav, waving his tertiary arms at the prisoner smock he still wears, his secondary set still occupied with the tray and primary set with the bowl and spoon.

“Fair enough.”

“Surely you understand,” Slav points at the robot arm with a quarternary hand.

Shiro looks down at it, face scrunching up as he does so, but then he is looking back up at Slav and all the wrinkles have smoothed out. “My experiences with the colour purple has actually been quite positive recently.” He turns as if he can see through the walls, in the direction of the hangers that house the Lions, if Slav remembers correctly from his tour of the Castleship.

“The Lion? That’s black.” Slav scowls at Shiro, turns to where he is looking, then turns back for good measure. “Is this a problem with your visible spectrum? Are all human eyes like this?”

“No.” Shiro huffs, in inexplicable good humour. “It’s the Black Lion for us too. But it’s also quite purple.”

Slav squints at Shiro’s face, he looks - if it is even possible for humans in the first place - besotted. “Is this a human language thing then?”

“Hmmm.” Shiro’s brows scrunch together. “I don’t think this is a translation issue. It’s two different words in English - the language I speak - as well, and two different concepts. It’s just how the Lion works.”

The explanation explains nothing. Slav sniffs contemptuously. “Magic.”

Shiro just shrugs. “It could be a leftover from Zarkon, that’s not the kind of thing I felt comfortable asking Allura or Coran, but...I think it’s just the Lion itself. It’s Black, but also Purple.”

“That makes no sense scientifically,” Slav says, trying to ignore how Shiro says Zarkon’s name so easily.

“Magic,” says Shiro, and this time his smile is a smirk.

Slav sighs. “I suppose magic is as good a reason as any why all of our species recognise a colour that doesn’t actually exist.” That’s not the only thing Slav sees that doesn’t actually exist, after all. Almost unconsciously, he reaches out with his tertiary hand, watching as his fingers slip through the string like all the other times he had tried.

But this time he is not given a look of confusion for grasping at what everyone else only perceives as air. Shiro is looking at him with wide eyes, skin leeching of colour. Slav’s instincts surge up again and he flinches back, but Shiro is faster, one large hand clamping down on Slav’s outstretched wrist, the tray clattering between them.

“You can see it?” Shiro’s voice is urgent, but not harsh. Slav squints open his eyes to see Shiro’s face filling his entire field of view. Somehow, his instincts no longer tell him to flee.

“You see the string too,” Slav accuses. He glances to the string and back, in time to see Shiro has just done the same.

“I- I didn’t think…” Shiro stumbles over his words, face slack. Slav knows that look, it is wonder. “The Alteans don’t have it, you know. I thought it was just a human thing. I hadn’t thought you would be able to see -”

“You...did this…?” Slav knows as soon as he says it that it’s not true. But nowadays he is all too accustomed to a life where he sits as things are done to him.

Shiro tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know... do I take responsibility for this? I didn’t do it on purpose, and it’s not something I can control, but this string is - as far as I know - a human construct that I’ve never heard exist in any of the alien races we’ve met. Unless - is it a thing for your species?”

“No,” says Slav. “As far as I know, I am the only one. No one else could see it. It doesn’t exist to them.”

Shiro winces. “Yes, even on Earth - among our species, you can only see the string that is tied to you, no one else’s. If none of them are tied by a string, then it’s only natural they wouldn’t see anything.”

“Then how do you know,” Slav asks, voice rising in horror. “How do you account for it? If it can’t be measured, or quantified, if no one can see it but you and the one who shares your delusions-”

The way Shiro looks at him is so soft, Slav doesn’t understand. “You just have to trust it.” His mouth quirks up again. “Or that’s how it goes in our society. Maybe it is a delusion, but precisely because you share the delusion with the other end of your string, it means something to us. No matter what your life is like, on the other end of your string is someone who will see the world as you do, even if only a small sliver of it. It’s a special bond.”

Slav lets the words sink into him, breaks them down into their component numbers and allows his calculations to reform around them. Possibilities die and spring into life. “What are you going to do now that you know?” Slav asks because he does not know the answer for himself.

Shiro hums. “For humans, this string is a symbol of fate tying us to one another, it shows we’re soulmates. It’s expected that once we find each other we’ll stay together. But, well, human expectations don’t exactly prepare for aliens.”

Slav frowns at that. “But your string must have stretched out into space like mine did.”

Shiro hesitates, the hand that was still circled around Slav’s wrist finally drawing away. “Yes, it did.” He does not explain further.

The dismissal does not hurt, but Slav feels whatever connection that Shiro had drawn between them fade. He could try to reach out, to draw up a connection from his end, but Slav is still not sure if he wants to. Slav looks down at the tray in his lap, then back up. The string is still there, no longer Slav’s delusion but a shared one; whatever bond they have or not have, that hasn’t changed.

“Anyway, we still have to defeat Zarkon first,” Shiro says calmly, as if he doesn’t realise the impossibility of his words. “We can talk about what we’re going to do once it’s over.”

Perhaps it is the result of this new paradigm that Slav has been introduced to, perhaps the idea that the delusion is shared means something to Slav as it means to Shiro, but for once he does not want to bring up their vanishingly small chances of success. Realities unfurl in front him as they always do, but Slav spoons more goo into his mouth and does not speak of their doom.

In other realities, the string is quantifiable after all. Traceable by the dark magic of Haggar’s druids. The quintessence of two pools together into one, and Haggar follows the string to the end.

Slav is kept not at Beta Traz, but Central Command. His first view of the end of his string is the Champion fighting for Zarkon’s entertainment. Their first contact is under Haggar’s observation; their string is not a private bond between them, but yet another thing for the Empire to violate.

But they are strong together, they escape together. Together they are unstoppable.

In this reality, Slav is sneaking onto the Teludav one last time on the eve of their culminating strike against Zarkon. He has made sure everyone had left before he did so, a feat that takes longer than he would have liked - how long does it take for Humans to have an emotional moment together before the big, decisive battle anyway?

But Slav is patient, he knows how to wait. He has been watching the Humans; he makes sure to count every single one of them as they leave, before hunkering down on the ring that runs horizontally across the Teludav. He is just starting to run both primary and secondary set of hands over the curve of one of the lenses when he hears the voice behind him. “Didn’t Coran ban you from the Teludav after you made it explode?”

“Only a small explosion!” The assertion slips out while Slav is still turning. It is the first time he has seen Shiro again since he brought food to his room. Since Slav found out that the string is real. That Shiro is the other end because he sees it too.

“No more explosions, even small ones!” Shiro looms, inserting himself physically between Slav and the Teludav. Slav lets himself be herded, but plops down on the ground the moment they’re off it.

“If you just let me do what I need to do, we will have an even higher chance of surviving in this reality!” It feels strange to trust that Shiro will listen, but despite his disregard for Slav’s methods, he has let Slav act out his compulsions before, and does seem to have some respect for Slav and his abilities. All he can do is appeal to Shiro’s better nature.

“What you need to do,” repeats Shiro, robot arm waving wildly. “To this already complete Teludav. That you have already blown up.”

“Yes!” Slav beams. “Also, I repeat, that was only a small explosion, nothing as dramatic as ‘blowing up’.”

Shiro frowns. “No, Slav.”

Clearly Slav is a fool for thinking Shiro even has a better nature. Meeting the other end of his string has been nothing but a long, painful road to disillusionment. Despite what Shiro says about the string being a special bond, he has proven time and time again that he does not understand Slav at all. Slav frowns too, the disappointment making him restless. He throws himself forward even though he doesn’t even need his calculations to know his chances of getting past Shiro are somewhere in the negatives.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Shiro catches Slav easily in his arms, taking heavy strides that lead them even further away from the Teludav. The momentum curls Slav around Shiro’s body, a reminder of their breakout from Beta Traz. “Look,” Shiro says with a sigh, “can’t you do whatever you need to do away from here? Preferably somewhere without anything breakable.”

“Nooooooo.” Slav wobbles in Shiro’s grasp, feeling childish and disagreeable. He clings tighter, refusing to let Shiro set him down. It is Shiro’s fault for not listening. For being such a disappointment. For avoiding him after all those pretty words about how they’re soulmates who are supposed to be together.

Shiro remains unsympathetic, dropping down cross-legged on the ground now that they are a decent distance away and taking Slav with him. “Don't you ‘noooo’ me. Act your age, for goodness sakes.” Shiro pauses, mouth slack. “Wait, how old are you?”

Slav pauses too, thinking.

Shiro narrows his eyes at Slav suspiciously. “Why is this something you need to think about?”

“Your words made me realise that in 112 realities you let me on the Teludav when I told you I am prepubescent for my species,” Slav says truthfully,

Shiro does not stop looking suspicious. “I can't believe that works on me in any reality.”

“Well, to be fair, in some of those realities that was one of the first things I told you about me. And then there are the ones where it's true!” Slav waggles his eyebrows at him, trying to look sly. “This might be one of them.”

“Yeah, no.” The frown deepens on Shiro’s face.

Slav thinks about trying his luck further, but Shiro is pulling at him, hands tangling in Slav’s prisoner smock and keeping him in place. Slav curls tighter in retribution, stretching up from the back of Shiro’s head so he can rest his chin on the crown, feathering out over Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro squints up at him, cross-eyed. “If I let you stay there, will you keep away from the Teludav? What about a distraction. Can I distract you with something?”

“Hmmmmm.” Slav strokes down his chin, tugs at the strands and calculates the probabilities if he pushes now. He is 57 and 77/100ths of a percent sure that this is one of the realities where it will work. “Tell me more about the string. I tried to scan it with the equipment the Castle had. Even they can’t trace it.”

Shiro stills, but does not pull away. “Yeah,” he says, looking away. “The Alteans don’t have it. It was pretty hard to explain the whole thing to them. I’m still not sure if they believe us now, or they’re just humouring us.”

“On the bright side, the Galra doesn’t seem to be able to measure it either.” Not in this reality at least.

Shiro’s face jerks; not upwards, in a smile, or downwards, in a frown, but an intense look into the distance that Slav is intimately familiar with. “Yeah, they can seem so indestructible; they’ve been around for so long, unchallenged. But there are things even they don’t know.” Shiro takes a breath, his face smoothing out. “It’s something to keep in mind. Even if they’re so technologically advanced that they can attach a brand new limb to an alien they’ve been studying for less than a year and have it go without a hitch, they’re as unaware of the red strings of fate as everyone else.”

“Does that mean you have been rethinking my proposal about two robot arms? Because I think it will really improve-”

“No, Slav,” Shiro says exasperatedly, a phrase he has heard too many times today. Shiro’s human hand reaches up, tugging at where Slav had earlier. His grasp is gentle, gentler than Slav’s had been, and the intimacy of the act sends a shiver up Slav’s torso.

Slav slithers back down, pooling into Shiro’s lap this time. “You’re distracting me, my question was about the string.”

“I did say my whole goal is to distract you, remember.” Shiro shifts his arms away from Slav, leaning his weight on them as he flattens his hands against the ground and giving Slav the choice to move away if he wants. Slav stays where he is, looking up into Shiro’s face as the shadows there are banished by a smile. “What else did you want to know?”

57 and 77/100ths of a percent, Slav reminds himself. “Is the string how you knew I would be here?”

“Pretty much,” Shiro says easily. “That’s another aspect of the bond. You can’t really hide from each other, not when the string gives away your general direction.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Slav replies haughtily. “I thought you would just ignore it. Like you’ve been ignoring me.”

Shiro doesn’t reply straight away, the silence between them stretching out long enough that Slav braves another glance upwards. The shadows are back on Shiro’s face. “I-”

Slav waits, but Shiro doesn’t say any more. “I haven’t seen you since our conversation in my room,” Slav offers. He isn’t sure what response he wants from Shiro.

“I have been avoiding you,” Shiro admits. “I’m- I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been...I’ve been rude,” Shiro says finally, as if he’s not quite sure how to admit to all the outbursts he’s directed at Slav since they’ve met.

“You’re not very good at cooperating,” says Slav, in full agreement.

“I’m not-” Shiro splutters. “I’m not cooperative! I-”

Slav watches as Shiro takes deep, shuddering breaths until his face is back to its normal colour. He’s gotten used to the Humans enough that it doesn’t scare him as much as it did, though the fact that he’s not stuck in a confined space with Shiro as his only hope for freedom certainly helps.

Shiro takes another breath before he speaks. “Forget about cooperation, what I’m talking about is how I haven’t been very good at staying in control. Mostly around you.”

There is a familiar darkness in Shiro’s eyes, one Slav recognises. That might be why he gives Shiro an out. “The conversation in my room wasn’t so bad. You didn’t shout at me in there.” Just scared me half to death with the intensity of your reveal that the string actually exists.

“Just scared you half to death by being too intense about our bond?” Shiro raises an eyebrow, emphasising the way he casts his eyes to the string between them.

Slav strokes his chin again, more solid under his fingers than the string will ever be, and says, “So is this all connected to our...bond? To the string?”

Shiro looks away, a habit that Slav understands well enough now to know it is guilt. “No. That’s not how the bond works. That’s not how a person is supposed to treat their soulmate.” And then he is looking at Slav again; the intensity in his eyes and the way Shiro sets his jaw should be scary, dangerous, but it isn’t. “I don’t deal very well with people not listening to me, especially when I can’t understand the rationale behind why you don’t listen to me. I am trying, but...a lot of the time your requirements just sound frivolous. I don’t think I’m worse about it because we are soulmates or anything, but, well, a year as a prisoner of the Galra probably didn’t help the control issues.”

“My requirements are always rational,” Slav says, because he knows what Shiro really wants is absolution, but he doesn’t know if he wants to - if he can - give it to him.

“Only to you,” Shiro says with a sigh.

Slav curls up tighter in Shiro’s lap, and then, because he does know something about being a prisoner of the Galra, he gives Shiro another out. “In our last conversation, you said that you weren’t prepared for aliens. What did you think of your string then? Surely it stretched out into space like mine did. What were you expecting?”

Shiro’s face closes off as it had last time, but - maybe he realises this is Slav’s way of reaching out - he still doesn’t pull away, hasn’t even once in this entire conversation, Slav realises belatedly. Shiro’s human hand reaches up from the ground to trace the space the string doesn’t inhabit. “I said humanity wasn’t expecting aliens, because we aren’t. We haven’t even left our solar system. None of us knew aliens existed until…” The hand in the air waves at his robot arm. “But I’d always wondered - hoped - that my string leading out into the sky meant something. That there’s something out there, on the other end, waiting for me just like everyone else.”

“Me too,” Slav admits, unable to look away from emotions that flits over Shiro’s face as he talks. “I didn’t know what it meant or where it lead, beyond the infinite of space, but I’d always hoped that there was something on the other end.”

“There is,” says Shiro; this time, his smile is not happy. “All those people who thought that there was something wrong with my string, and all it took was a year of captivity by an evil alien empire and being chosen to save the universe by a telepathic robot lion.”

“So many realities where you are already dead.” Slav nods in agreement. “So many realities where you could still die.”

“That’s what you said back in the prison too.” Shiro pauses briefly, then says, “Why did you decide to come with me, when there were...what, only 2% chance of not dying?”

“1 and 97/100ths of a percent actually, it only became 2% thanks to the efforts of my blanket,” Slav corrects him. “And those numbers were only of ME not dying in the prison break. Your chances were worse.”

“Why did you come then?”

Slav shrugs into Shiro’s thigh, uncurling from his lap so that he can flop out over his knees instead. “The other choice was to stay there. Of course I chose you.”

Shiro’s face starts turning red again, but this time not from anger. “Yeah, I get it, any choice starts looking better when you compare to being a prisoner of the Galra.”

“And if I was going to die, at least I managed to find out what was on the other end of the string before that.” Slav shrugs again, watching as Shiro’s face turns even redder.

“We’re not going to die,” Shiro says firmly, and clears his throat. “We will defeat Zarkon, and win; what do you want to do afterwards?”

“You do realise our chances of defeating Zarkon are much, much less than our chances of not dying in that prison break?” Slav asks, so he can avoid actually thinking about what Shiro’s asking of him.

“You said that the possibilities are infinite,” Shiro replies, undaunted. “So if we do live in the reality where we will defeat Zarkon, what are your plans?”

“You’re the one who said we’ll talk about it after it’s over.”

This time, Shiro doesn’t respond straight away, closing his eyes and opening them again before saying, “Yes, but that’s just what I want, and that’s not fair to you. What do you want, Slav?”

Slav looks up thoughtfully. All those different emotions he had seen on Shiro’s face, all the feelings he had revealed to Slav, all wiped away now by the determined face he shows to everyone else. When they had met, and Slav had said he survives in less than 1 and 97/100ths of a percent of realities, he hadn’t even known Shiro back then. Now he does, now he knows the chances of Shiro surviving are even smaller than that. And yet, the reality they are in had ended up being the reality where they survived the prison break anyway. “Very well. After it’s all over, we can talk about it then.”

A/N:  One thing I’ve noticed on Voltron is that all the aliens have ‘our’ body language; almost everyone is at least vaguely bipedal and most have the same number of mouths/eyes/eyebrows. Which, sure, why not, more things in heaven and earth etc. etc. At least it made it easier for me to write Slav, though I wasn’t sure how much familiarity he would have with lips. But he has been around a lot of Galra after all.

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] Through Adversity to the Stars [Gen]

Title: Through Adversity to the Stars

Characters: Hunk, Shiro, Coran, Pidge, Lance Keith, Allura

Summary: Hunk bonds with his teammates and learns to fly.

Author’s Note: I binge watched Voltron and found myself with a craving for Shiro teaching Hunk to fly (it is a tragedy that all the show gave us was one line of dialogue), but I am terrible at searching AO3 and only found 1 fic with this concept so I ended up writing my own. And there were all these little moments with other characters I wanted to cover too, except I still wanted to write about Shiro teaching Hunk, so it turned into this. I have decided to call it a Hunk character piece to make it sound like I know what I’m doing.

AO3 Mirror

In the past...however many hours it has been since he allowed Lance to drag him out of the dorms after curfew, Hunk has broken a man out of Garrison custody, taken a space ride through a wormhole, been given a mission to save the universe by an alien princess, stolen a yellow lion robot from a hostile planet while being shot at by more aliens, and, just now, defeated those same aliens’ spaceship as the leg of a giant robot. It has been the longest two days of Hunk’s life and it isn’t even over yet, because Shiro is looking at him with gentle but firm eyes as he says, “Can I have a moment, Hunk?”

Behind Shiro, Lance stares at them like Hunk has just been sent off to the principal’s office by the nicest, most patient teacher in the world. Hunk may be projecting a little; he swallows heavily.

As if realising how tense Hunk is feeling, Shiro quirks his lips up in a stiff smile that is probably trying to be comforting. It doesn’t really work, but does remind Hunk that he isn’t the only one feeling the effects of a rough couple of days, and he hasn’t even escaped from an evil empire just before all this. “Uh, sure, what can I do for you? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not sure there’s anything I can do right now. I mean, I’m in the engineering track. Earth engineering. For Earth things. And, okay, so I did manage to get some alien machinery moving at the mine, but what if that was just a fluke? You can’t depend on a fluke, Shiro, and I’m not sure anything in this castle has Earth things except whatever Pidge had in that backpack of his- oh, and whatever is in my pocket, which is...lint, I think this is lint. Even I can’t do anything with lint on an alien space castle, Shiro!”

Shiro not only lets Hunk rant to a natural conclusion, but also waits for him to take a deep breath afterwards before saying, “I was just wondering how you’re doing with the Yellow Lion. The Lions seem to be helping with the piloting, so it doesn’t matter none of us have ever come across anything like them before, but there are some things the Lions can’t compensate for.”

Hunk casts his mind back to the ‘flying’ he has done so far, some of which weren’t so bad, maybe even good, and some of which weren’t good at all. “Yeah, it feels like Yellow is telling me what to do? Except not all the time, and I don’t know how to think like a pilot or fly like one, and I keep ramming into things because I don’t know how else to fight, and I’m probably not supposed to. Um.”

Shiro smiles again, a smoother one this time, as if it comes more easily to him. “I was thinking I could offer some lessons.”

The practical side of Hunk squirms uncomfortably; he shouldn’t impose, not on Shiro who is supposed to be leader and doing important leader things. But the rest of Hunk is stuck on the other side of the galaxy - the universe - from his home and everything else he knows and Shiro is one of the only four familiar things Hunk has right now, even if they only met yesterday. Probably yesterday.

“Yes, please.”

The relief from surviving his first major fight against the evil alien empire as part of a giant robot sinks into Hunk’s bones and reminds him he is alive, and also reminds him that he is hungry. Except now that they are out of immediate danger, Hunk finally remembers his lessons on the dangers of introducing alien organisms into the human body willy nilly, and gets a bit nauseous at the fact that he had eaten green goo that could have given him an anaphylactic shock and kill him - or just poison him and kill him.

Hunk is on his feet almost before he realises it, bustling out the door and leaving the others looking on in confusion, still sprawled over the stiff benches that circle the centre of the room they are tentatively calling the lounge.

Coran had left them there not a minute ago, promising to whip them up something nutritious and filling to celebrate their victory. Except now Hunk’s not so sure about the nutritious part and he needs to find Coran before it’s too late.

Coran is, disappointingly, unsympathetic when Hunk finally find him in a spacious room with what looks like a space kitchen island in the centre - apparently some things are universal. “Oh, there’s nothing to worry your little head about! Of course the food is completely safe for you, you’ve been scanned when you entered the castle, haven’t you?”

Hunk does remember the sci-fi beam that had washed over them when they entered the castle, but the thought that the beam may have irreversibly changed their physical makeup so they would survive on this alien planet doesn’t make him feel better. “Uh...what does that actually mean?”

“It means,” Coran says with a long-suffering sigh, “that the Castle’s systems know your biological systems down to the last atom! It knows exactly what can kill you and in what quantities!”

It is as if aliens are incapable of being comforting in any way whatsoever, but at least it’s better than a beam that irreversibly changes their physical makeup. Hunk gives his head a little shake, and tries to focus on what’s important. “So it scanned our physical bodies to see what we can be safely exposed to?”

Coran’s face takes on the same patronising look he had turned on Pidge back when they were looking for the Lions. “Why that’s almost an adequate, if very abridged and simplified, summary of the complicated processes that are involved!”

“The Lions can do something similar,” Hunk muses, ignoring Coran’s condescension as he thinks back to how the Blue Lion had let them disembark so easily when they first came here. “Is it connected? This castle kind of feels connected to the Lions.” Going home, Lance had said, and now that Hunk has his own telepathic robot lion bond, he can see why.

“Of course they’re connected. This is the Castle of Lions after all!” Coran sounds almost offended, and Hunk feels a little bad about not knowing any of this when it seems so important to him, when everyone else who might have understood all the things Coran and Allura find important are dead. But most of his attention is caught on the plates piled high with more of that food goo Coran had been offering Allura.

There is no time to do anything about it now - Hunk is way too tired to try cooking in an alien kitchen when he doesn’t even know what ingredients a 10,000 year old castle has - but his mind whirls with possibilities. “Do you think I can access the data too? On that little tracker you gave me to find the Yellow Lion, or even in my helmet.”

Coran blinks at him. “The Castle has already scanned you, everything in this dwelling is completely safe for your species.”

That...is not actually something Hunk had been worrying about, until now, but good to know. “Not in here, but there’s plenty out there I want to try scanning.” Hunk remembers seeing vegetation when they first touched down; surely there is something more edible on this planet than green food goo, and Hunk is determined to find it. It may even cheer Coran and Allura up; even if this goo is native Altean cuisine - which is just the saddest concept Hunk has ever considered - there's no way it can provide any comfort.

Without the rush of adrenaline in a life-or-death situation, Voltron refuses to come to them and Hunk wishes he can be more surprised. But he’s used to the path to success being littered with failures, and he finds himself trusting this far more than the ease with which they had formed Voltron before. They just need to try again. Later.

The moment the Castle stops firing at them, Lance is wrenching his Lion around once again, though this time he pauses at where the barrier had been and inches through cautiously, only picking up speed once he’s sure the barrier has disappeared along with the shooting. Keith and Pidge follow him immediately when they see him pass through safely, and Hunk is just about to go as well when Shiro’s voice comes over the comms.

“Hunk, how about we have a lesson now?”

“Right now?” Hunk can’t help the whine that enters his voice, and he doesn’t really want to either. “We’ve just been shot at! For the whole morning!”

“And now we’re not being shot at anymore,” Shiro points out reasonably. “I’m not suggesting we stay out for long; I just want to have a look at how you fly for a few minutes now that I don’t have to concentrate on my own flying.”

Underneath his moderate tone, Shiro sounds as tired and frustrated as Hunk feels, which is what tips him over into saying yes. That, and the fact that, when he’s not futilely trying to force his Lion into forming Voltron, it’s actually quite nice to ride inside Yellow.

Shiro puts Hunk through a few laps while he watches in the Black Lion, then joins him inside Yellow while Hunk goes through the same laps again. It’s the first time Hunk has had someone else in his cockpit; it doesn’t feel bad, but still strange, and Hunk finds himself tensing up and wondering how disappointed Shiro is in his piloting. Hunk is under no illusions about his ability to fly.

Shiro doesn’t mention how much he must suck, probably because Shiro is the nicest superior officer in the world, just purses his lips and nods to himself. “That’s not bad.”

“Wait, really?” Hunk can’t help but exclaim.

Shiro smirks. “Considering the fact that you were an engineering cadet just a few days ago? Yes, I think you’re doing well.”

“It’s Yellow who’s doing all the work,” Hunk mumbles, suddenly feeling shy.

Shiro looks at him thoughtfully. “I think if it was just the Yellow Lion, the flying would feel more like the autopilot from the Blue Lion when we left Earth.”

It makes sense, but… “Are you saying it has to be me flying because Yellow would have piloted better?”

“No!” Shiro’s eyes darts away. “...Maybe a little, but there’s also less consideration for the people inside when the Lion is in full control.”

It’s weird, seeing Shiro look awkward, but comforting too. “It’s okay, I think I know what you mean.” Hunk looks down at his hands on the controls. “It feels like there’s still more I can do. I just...don’t know what I can or what I should be doing so I can reach that point.”

“That’s kind of what I was talking about before. The Lions don’t make us see differently, or think differently, so we still end up approaching things the way we always do.” Shiro points at the HUD, except not straight ahead, but slanted downwards. “And one thing that takes people time to get used to, is to start thinking in 3 dimensions.”

Hunk peers out, following the direction of Shiro’s finger. “So...don’t fly in a straight line?”

“Something like that.” Shiro hums. “Just try to keep in mind that even if you do fly in a straight line, it doesn’t have to be forward. If you’re turning, you don’t have to stick to the same altitude, you can fly up and left at the same time. And, of course, the same goes for the enemy.”

Shiro sets him more laps to run, and this time Hunk tries to be aware that the air above and under him are just as much part of the ‘road’ he’s allowed on as anything else. It’s hard, Shiro’s right that Hunk’s never thought about it this way before, but it feels like he’s making progress.

Hunk gets into the rhythm enough that he lets his attention wander. “Shiro.” Hunk’s focus is on the man beside him, even as he tries to keep his eyes on the HUD. “Why...why me? Why give me lessons? I mean, I could have gone to Lance…”

It’s not until he sees Shiro wince that Hunk realises how his words can be construed. “Would you rather learn from Lance?”

“N-noooo?” Hunk pauses. “It’s just, I’m not sure why you’re not delegating this to Lance? You’re the leader, I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

“And you’re my teammate,” Shiro says, eyes boring into Hunk’s face. “What can be more important than that?”

Hunk can feel heat rising in his cheeks. He may not have the hero worship that Lance does, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to Shiro looking at him so intensely. “I guess I just wonder what you’re getting out of this. I mean, even with Yellow’s help I don’t think I’m gonna turn into a good pilot any time soon.”

“I get to spend time with my team,” Shiro says easily. “Don’t hold back if you’d rather have Lance here; he’s your best friend, I get it. But I had fun today, and hopefully you’ve learned something, so it’s not like this was a waste of time for me.”

“Fun? Really?” Hunk eases up on the controls just so he can turn and stare at Shiro skeptically.

“Sure. You’re an easy guy to get along with, Hunk.” Shiro smiles blindingly; it’s as effective as his stare, maybe even more so.

Hunk turns back, prodding Yellow downwards slightly, then up as he turns to the left, bringing the Lion into a loose spiral as he draws them higher. “I did learn something. Thank you, Shiro.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hunk sneaks a peek. “And I don’t want Lance here. I mean, nothing wrong with Lance, but you’re a good teacher. I liked learning from you.” Hunk takes a breath, tries to smile the way Shiro had smiled at him before. “We should do this again. I definitely need the help.”

“I’d love to,” Shiro says, and Hunk can hear the answering smile in his voice.

There is a lull after Hunk and Coran get back from Balmera, with Lance inside the cryo-pod and everyone at loose ends until he wakes. Anxiety fizzes inside Hunk at seeing Lance so still and unresponsive, so broken. But it blocks out the anxiety of the knowledge that somewhere out there is the Balmera, and Shay, and the rest of the Balmerans, all waiting for the rescue he had promised. At least with Lance, Hunk has done all he can, power thrumming through the walls around them and lighting up the pod as it heals the damage the Galra had wrought.

The others have already drifted out of the room when Hunk gets there, to while away the time until the pod is finished with Lance. A part of Hunk wants to leave with them; there are more experiments he could be doing in the kitchen, more ingredients he can play around with. But the engineer side of Hunk makes him stay. Pidge, with that same relentless curiosity that had apparently led Allura to name him Paladin of the Green Lion, is drilling Coran about the cryo-pods’ inner workings.

Hunk stands next to Pidge as Coran pontificates, and lets the jargon wash over him. He doesn’t recognise half of the words Coran is using, even though the translation microbes or whatever they have been granted with is working overtime to compensate. It doesn’t really matter, Hunk doesn’t have the medical training to get all the intricacies anyway; mostly, he’s just keeping an ear out for the bits of technical knowledge he’s gleamed so far, letting that build into a better idea of how the Altean technology works.

In contrast, Pidge is nodding furiously as he listens, even though Hunk knows he has just as many holes in his knowledge. But they can pool together what they have figured out later, and maybe even come to an understanding about the cryo-pods. The medical miracles it seems capable of will definitely come in handy.

Finally, Coran reaches the end of his lecture, apparently as capable of running out of steam as the rest of them. It reminds Hunk that Coran has his limits too, even though he has been working tirelessly this whole time, doing whatever needs to be done, always there as a well meaning source of support for everyone. Hunk makes a note to himself to be nicer to Coran, and starts by stopping Pidge when it looks like he wants to keep hounding with questions.

“Hey!” Pidge scowls at him, which Hunk is feeling pretty inured to by this point. “I’m not finished!”

“I think you’ve gotten everything you can out of him. Coran needs rest too, you know,” Hunk says, trying to sound resolute instead of just tired.

Pidge is still scowling, but does stop trying to chase after Coran as he takes the chance to escape, so Hunk takes it as a win. All the fight seems to leave him now that there are no technical explanations to pay attention to, and Pidge heaves a deep sigh as he slumps back against Lance’s pod.

Hunk sinks down next to him, not quite willing to leave Pidge here alone. It’s also the perfect chance for Hunk to ask the question that has been burning on his tongue since he returned. “Where’s Rover?”

Pidge stiffens, eyes dropping to the ground. Hunk can feel his stomach dropping too. “Rover’s...gone. Dead. To save me.” There is a faint waver in Pidge’s voice, as if he’s going to cry.

“I’m so sorry.” Hunk tries to infuse as much sympathy as he can into the words, hands coming up for a moment before futilely dropping back down to his sides. Pidge has always set himself apart from the team, that fact not changing even though the team is now a mindmelding giant robot on regular intervals; perhaps he’s always been preparing to leave them. It leaves Hunk uncertain how to judge the distance between them, and reading his journal and poking into his mind just confuses him more.

Pidge ignores the awkwardness, maybe not even noticing it, and gives a quick shake of his head. He looks up with a wan smile. “It’s okay. Rover made that decision, and I’m grateful for it.” And just like that, the moment is over; Pidge is back to Pidge, indomitable and unreachable.

“Are you really leaving?” Hunk makes sure his vulnerabilities are loud and clear in his voice. It doesn’t matter if Pidge pushes them away, Hunk has always left himself open and that won’t change.

Pidge blinks in surprise. “Oh! You and Coran weren’t in the room when I told the others.” There’s a slight blush on his face as he looks down again, and Hunk feels like he’s just missed something big. “I’m, um, not leaving anymore.”

“Really!?” A wide grin spreads on Hunk’s face.

Pidge shrugs. “Okay, I really wasn’t planning on saying this more than once, but a team’s like a family and...I guess I’m part of the team after all.”

Hunk barely waits for him to stop speaking before he is sweeping Pidge up into a tight embrace. Pidge stiffens in his hold, but Hunk doesn’t mind. They will have plenty of time for Pidge to open up; for now, he’s here with them, he’s willing to stay. That is enough.

This time, it’s Hunk who invites Shiro out for a lesson. The Balmera has gifted Hunk with a lot; a newfound confidence in himself, conviction in his role, determination to defeat Zarkon, and also an awesome-looking new gun cannon thing.

But the battle there also showed how excruciatingly underprepared they still are. Even with the extra time Shiro has spent with him, and all that experience Hunk now has piloting the Lion, there is still so much Yellow is capable of that Hunk cannot draw out. And the same goes for the others.

Hunk knows what he should be doing is inviting everyone together. They can all use the practice, and training with all five of them together is just more effective when that’s how they fight in actual combat. But Hunk doesn’t want to share this moment with the others. Not yet. Next time, he thinks, next time we can all practice together. Today is just for me and Shiro.

Shiro, luckily, doesn’t say anything, even though he must know just as well, maybe even better, the need to have them all train together. But when Hunk invited him, earlier today, all Shiro did was nod.

They run through the things Shiro taught last time, and there is an ease in the way Hunk runs through the motions now, buoyed by all he has been through in the meantime. Undeniable proof that he has improved. Shiro smiles approvingly, and Hunk’s heart feels like it’s going to burst.

“I want to focus on something else this time,” Hunk says when they are done with the review. He is still feeling the rush from how well he’s done so far, the exhilaration helping him sound like he knows what he’s talking about. “I want to know more about fighting. How do I fight better?”

Hunk is used to the thoughtful looks Shiro sends him during their private lessons, though he isn’t always sure if they’re a good thing or not. Today there is something dark in Shiro’s eyes that make Hunk wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have asked. But he can’t not ask, he can’t not fight, and Shiro knows as well as he does. “The most important thing in a fight is to play to your strengths. The best way to win is to either start the fight in your advantage, or steer it until it is to your advantage.”

It sounds impressive, but Hunk is not sure how to apply it to himself. “Uh, Shiro, I’m not sure I have any advantages in a fight. I’m in the engineering track; us nerds aren’t made for fighting. And I realise the kind of build I have but violence just isn’t my thing, Shiro. No offence.”

“For one thing, Hunk, we’re all Garrison raised. We’re all nerds here; you can’t use that as an excuse,” Shiro says, amused. “But we can approach this differently. What are the Yellow Lion’s strengths?”

“The armour,” says Hunk immediately. “It’s slow but tough. I ram it into everything all the time and it works just fine.”

“Then that’s your strength.”

Hunk frowns uncertainly. “Just ramming into things? But Yellow has the laser things too, and other weapons.”

“But what do you do in a real fight? How did you fight on the Balmera?” Shiro is still using his teaching tone, unsubtly telling Hunk to think it through on his own.

“I just kind of rammed into things a lot,” Hunk admits, remembering his ‘fight’ with a wince. “That was just the first thing I thought of!”

“And it worked,” Shiro points out. “There’s nothing wrong with doing the first thing you think of if it works. Especially in a fight, having the first thing you think of be the one that works is the best outcome.”

“But that’s not going to be enough,” Hunk protests. He wants to follow Shiro’s suggestion, it would make life so much easier for him. Too easy; that’s the problem.

Shiro just smirks. “So we just teach you to ram better.”

It’s that same confidence that makes Shiro such a good leader. That unquestioning belief in Hunk and his abilities, even when Hunk doesn’t believe in himself. That is what makes Hunk, makes all of them, follow Shiro; to wherever he may lead. On his own, Hunk may let his worries talk him out of action; his uncertainty in this new reality is a constant companion. But when Shiro tells him to do something, he does it.

Having the big bad of the evil alien empire on their tail with no discernable reason why isn’t good for the nerves, and Hunk finds himself as jumpy as the others after their multiple run-ins, terrified that Zarkon is going to show up again at any moment. They can’t keep up this hyper vigilance forever, and Hunk takes his distractions whenever he gets the chance.

Unfortunately, Hunk’s usual method of relaxation is not available at the moment. The last time he tried to bake had resulted in an inedible mess that might have ruined his confidence as a cook for good, if it wasn’t for his cookies turning into their only means of escape. Now isn’t the time to try again, especially when he still doesn’t know what all the ingredients are - and which are even ingredients in the first place, as his cookies have demonstrated.

This is why, even though Shiro has told them to rest up for tomorrow, Hunk does not head straight for his room but falls into step with Lance instead. “So what happened in between those showdowns with Zarkon earlier? You and Keith both come back in swimming trunks and actually getting along, in the middle of battle! Did you guys bond or something?” He doesn’t mean anything serious about it, just a light bit of teasing before they separate for bed, and he is a little curious even though the answer probably isn’t going to be a big deal.

So Hunk is not expecting Lance to swell up like a balloon and throw his hands in the air. “Oh, you will not BELIEVE what BULLSHIT WE HAD TO FACE. My Hunk, my man, my friend, sometimes the situation is just SO BULLSHIT even the fieriest, coolest of rivalries just have to be set aside, okay?”

Hunk raises an eyebrow at the theatrics, because just hours ago Lance and Keith had been having one of their little pissing contests right in the middle of fighting Zarkon. Hunk cannot imagine a situation more bullshit than that.

Still, looking up at the...pool...embedded into the ceiling of the giant hall Lance leads him to after seeing his doubt, Hunk can’t help but agree that it is pretty bullshit. “That’s not a pool, that’s a feng shui decoration.”

“I. KNOW.” Lance swings his arms wildly, as if trying to disperse the frustration that is pouring off him in waves. “Look at it, Hunk! Who even does that? A pool is for relaxing! For enjoying the water! What is WRONG with Alteans!?”

Hunk shrugs because he doesn’t have an answer, but he agrees with Lance’s sentiment. Not just the one he’s voicing, but the deeper layer of homesickness, the need for something recognisable that had led Hunk to baking something that can remind him of Earth. They haven’t talked about wanting to go home again, not since that fateful night when Lance’s longing had led him to the Bridge and gets him caught up in a life-threatening explosion with Coran, not since Hunk returns from the Balmera with the newfound determination that as a Paladin of Voltron this is a fight he cannot walk away from. Wanting to go home is no longer a luxury that any of them can afford. But looking at Lance’s desolate eyes as he stares up at yet another betrayal of something that should have been familiar, Hunk can feel his heart aching in tandem.

Forcing himself to look away, Hunk follows Lance’s gaze up. “I wonder how it’s staying up there?”

Lance turns sharply, as if picking up something in Hunk’s tone. “Wait, can you- is this something you and Pidge can figure out? Can you do something about this?” Naked hope shines painfully in his eyes. “A pool. A real pool.”

Hunk glances around the room until he sees what looks like a control panel, and wanders over to poke at it. “We won’t know unless we have a look.” The writing is in Altean, of course, and Hunk makes a note to have Pidge translate for him. It would be easier to learn Altean himself, but he has heard about how she got her hard earned knowledge of the language and Hunk isn’t that desperate yet.

Lance bobs his head up from behind Hunk’s shoulder, even though he knows as much Altean as Hunk does. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think,” Hunk says with a sigh, turning away from the panel, “that we should go sleep so we can be rested for the battle tomorrow, and that we should ask Allura for permission before we start any long term renovations on her castle.”

“You’re a wuss,” Lance complains, but follows Hunk out of the room. “When we get a breather, we need to do something about this. Let’s get some Earth up in here.”

Sometimes it feels like the Lions never stop changing, every time Hunk thinks he’s getting closer to figuring out Yellow something new gets introduced. If he’s Pidge it would be different. Pidge likes the challenge of confronting new things and conquering them, Hunk just wants to understand and be done with it.

But he gets the same thrill every time he unlocks a new feature as everyone else, and Hunk can feel the excitement bubbling under his skin as he gives Shiro a closer look at the Armour Claws during their private lesson.

Shiro is appropriately appreciative, oohing and aahing over the new additions in a way that makes Hunk feel powerful. As if he’s the one who’s come up with something new instead of Yellow. Hunk basks in it as long as he can before he caves. “Okay, so I didn’t actually have any plans today except showing you this.”

The look Shiro sends him is slightly quizzical, but with none of the exasperation Hunk is expecting. “That’s okay. Not every lesson has to be serious business.”

It’s a far cry from the tension that had been suffocating them for the past few days, and Hunk finds himself smiling. “Well, we do have a pretty important contact to meet, which is pretty serious business, but I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Shiro smirks. “Worst that can happen is we lead Zarkon straight to the only people we know actively fighting against him besides ourselves. No reason for it to be serious business.” His smile turns rueful. “But hopefully Black is completely on our side now, and the Blade of Marmora comes through.”

Hunk notes Shiro placing a careful hand over his metal arm, and pretends he doesn’t. “Yeah, so...how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” says Shiro, the smile more practiced this time.

Hunk frowns a little. Maybe this is the time to push. But before he can say anything, Shiro is turning to him fully, stare intense but familiar.

“I meant what I said. Not everything has to be serious business.” Shiro’s gaze turns back to Yellow’s HUD, freeing Hunk from its grasp. “Why don’t we do a little flying for fun?”

Despite the relief, Hunk makes himself say, “Shouldn’t we be training? Preparing for whatever might happen when we meet the Blade of Marmora?” Anxiety is a constant companion nowadays, one that feels all the more clingy after the fun the Space Mall had ended up being despite everything; nothing they’ve faced so far suggests that their meeting with the Blade of Marmora will be peaceful or without mishaps.

“Do you want to be doing more training?” Shiro raises an eyebrow, looking far too knowing. “It’s okay to have some fun. It sounds like you guys did plenty of that at the mall.”

There is something in Shiro’s tone that makes Hunk want to frown. Suddenly, he is struck by the possibility that Shiro might have wanted to come with them. That he might have wanted to have fun too. They all understand the importance of Shiro staying behind and bonding with his Lion, but that’s done now, there’s no reason why he can’t let loose. “Okay, let’s fly.”

Shiro pauses, giving Hunk another one of his intense looks. “I don’t need to point out that this isn’t for me, do I? I don’t need pity.”

“It’s not pity,” says Hunk with as much conviction as he can. “One of my friends was doing a big, important job while the rest of us were having fun. So now we’re going to have fun together to make up for it.”

Shiro looks away from Hunk, facing forward. “Okay. Thanks.”

This time it’s Hunk who pauses. “So, uh, do you want to be flying instead? You know my piloting skills, how fun is my flying going to be?”

“You fly,” Shiro says easily. “We’re having a lesson right now, so let’s teach you how to fly for fun.”

“I know how to have fun! I just don’t know how to fly.”

The look Shiro sends him is fond, and a little exasperated. “You know how to fly.” The look turns teasing. “What have you been doing all this time?”

“...Ramming into things?”

Shiro snorts. “You’re really stuck on that, aren’t you?”

“It’s kind of my thing,” Hunk points out.

“Yeah, you guys have the armour for it,” admits Shiro, his human hand coming up to pat the wall closest to him. “But that doesn’t mean what you’ve done doesn’t count as flying. You guys don’t always ram into things.”

Hunk thinks about his time with Yellow. Tries to match the idea Shiro planted with what he’s done, and what he is doing. There is a thrill to being in Yellow, being in the air, in space; an exhilaration in the power he controls at Yellow’s consent. He’s not sure it’s fun. He’s not sure it’s ever been fun. “Teach me, then. Teach me how to fly for fun.” The words rush out of him, Hunk never realised he wants this, and now he does. “Please.”

Shiro gives a solemn nod, his eyes kind.

Hunk isn’t so oblivious that he can’t feel the tension that surrounds Keith ever since the Reveal, as if trying to shield him from the rest of them. That doesn’t mean Hunk has to acknowledge it though. Allura contributes to the tension enough for all of them.

He doesn’t begrudge Allura for her issues with the Galra; Hunk knows the Galra as the enemy, and then as someone who sacrificed his own life for theirs, but Allura had known them as friends and allies, one of the Paladins who kept the universe safe with her father. In some ways, that probably makes it harder for Allura to accept.

It’s different for Hunk; still a shock, but he is as prepared to accept Galra Keith just as much as Regular Keith. Now if he can just get Keith to see that.

‘I didn’t just turn Galra!’ Keith had snarled, as if it matters. Hunk doesn’t know how to explain to him it doesn’t. Maybe he hasn’t suddenly changed, but their understanding of him has, and so has his understanding of himself. Hunk doesn’t trust him any less than he did before, but Regular Keith who didn’t know his mother or what his dagger means is now Galra Keith with a past and ties to a culture he never knew. And he actually has a sense of humour. Sure, Regular Keith had laughed at his jokes, but Galra Keith makes them too.

Since he doesn’t have the words for it, Hunk defaults to what he does best, and pokes at the old records in the Castle - with some help from Pidge - until he manages to collect a range of traditional Galra dishes from 10,000 years ago.

He’s not expecting gushing praise, but a bit more enthusiasm than the disgusted curl of Keith’s lips would have been nice. “And what is this supposed to be?”

“Galra food!” says Hunk, making up for Keith’s lack with enthusiasm of his own. “I was thinking we can start small, then work our way up. Go through these first, and THEN go bother your secret clubhouse about what kind of menu evil empires have.”

The look on Keith’s face doesn’t improve. “They’re not my secret clubhouse! And I’m not going to suddenly start eating Galra food either! I still haven’t turned purple!”

“So?” Hunk blinks at him. “You don’t need to turn purple to eat this. I checked with the Castle AND Coran, these are all dishes that humans can eat too. I was thinking we can try them out. Er, maybe not Allura, not yet.”

Keith’s face finally softens. “We?”

“Well, yeah!” scoffs Hunk. “This is my chance to finally try some Galra food! Non-evil version. There’s no way I’m not in on this too.”

“I don’t know about this,” Keith says, his tone hesitant.

“Why not? This is your chance to eat what your people eat.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, because the walls slam back up and Keith is scowling again. “My people eat human food.”

“Some of your people. The Galra part of your people eat this.” Hunk waves at the files on the screen in front of them. “Or...whatever version of this exists after 10,000 years. Like I said, we can try the current, evil version later.”

“You really care a lot about food, don’t you.” The look Keith sends him is no longer as defensive, though still not nearly close enough to cooperative.

“Food is important,” says Hunk seriously. “They’re what ties us together as a culture.”

Keith takes his eyes off Hunk, turning to look fully at the screen. “So this is what the Galra eat.”

“Yeah, don’t you want to know?”

“I-I don’t know.” Keith bites his lip. “I thought I did. For the longest time, it was what drove me. I thought I had to know what it all meant. But now...now I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

Hunk does his best to nod without judgement. It’s not his place to say how Keith should feel, and yet... “But it’s a part of you. It’s who you are.”

“You really care about this too, don’t you.” The look Keith sends him is heavy with exasperation.

“It’s who you are,” repeats Hunk. “It’s not going to go away if you ignore it.”

“It’s not like you’re letting me ignore it,” Keith spits out, then blinks. “Is that what you’re trying to achieve?”

Hunk shrugs, not sure he understands what Keith is getting at. “Allura’s not going to suddenly pretend it never happened if you just ignore it either. And...don’t you think it’s a waste? Okay, so we’re kind of at war with the Galra, which IS awkward, don’t get me wrong. But there are nice Galra, that we’re working together with to save the universe, and Ulaz sacrificed his life to save us, and...don’t you want to try their food?”

Keith looks away. “Maybe.”

“Oh, you’re not going to regret this.” Hunk grins, excitement bubbling up in his chest. “Which one do you want to start with?”

On the eve of their confrontation with Zarkon, after the symbolic moment the five of them shared together on top of the Teludav, Shiro takes Hunk out on one final lesson.

“It’s not really a lesson, I suppose.” Shiro scratches the back of his neck. “There’s nothing left to teach. I guess I just wanted us out here one last time.”

“Uh, there’s plenty left to teach,” Hunk points out doubtfully, waving at their surroundings. “You can’t call this good flying, Keith would have an aneurysm.”

“But it’s not bad flying,” says Shiro, and beams at him.

“If you say so.” Hunk shrugs, and smiles back. “I accept the compliment.”

“Good.” Shiro nods, falling quiet as Hunk flies through the Olkarion sky.

There is a fragility to the silence, in Shiro’s eyes as he stares at the HUD, one that Hunk finds himself loathe to break. Also he is concentrating on flying his best today, which doesn’t leave much mental capacity to talk anyway.

In the end, it is Shiro who breaks it after all, just as Hunk is running out of moves he can execute without ending in disaster. “Is there anything you want to go over for the battle?”

Hunk gives himself time to think it over, even though he knows the answer already. “No. My job is just forming Voltron when the time comes, right? I don’t need to worry about anything as a leg. You’re the head, you’ll be there telling us what to do.”

Shiro’s eyes feel like they are staring right through Hunk. “Thank you, for the trust.”

“Of course I trust you.” Hunk grins. “We all do.”

“I know.” There is that same undertone in Shiro’s voice that Hunk has heard before. Automatically, Hunk’s eyes fall to Shiro’s metal arm, just in time to see Shiro place his human hand on it.

Hunk takes a breath. “What are you going to do, after it’s all over? You didn’t say anything when the others were talking about it.”

Shiro’s eyes dart towards him, then away. “Neither did you.”

Hunk frowns in thought. “I guess...it doesn’t feel like it’ll be over. I can barely imagine 10,000 years, how am I supposed to imagine the aftermath of 10,000 years?”

Shiro’s brows furrow out of the corner of his eyes, and Hunk feels bad for bringing it up. He’s not sure this responsibility should be laid on them, on Voltron, but suddenly he gets the feeling that Shiro would take on that burden whether he’s meant to or not.

“You’re right,” says Shiro heavily. “I haven’t thought about that. But first things first.” The frown disappears, a familiar expression of determination back on his face. “Let’s concentrate on the battle. On defeating Zarkon.”

“Yeah,” Hunk agrees quickly. They are silent for the rest of the flight.

But after they land, as Shiro leaves Yellow’s cockpit with Hunk on his heels, he turns around one last time. “Don’t worry about what comes after, Hunk. I mean what I said; defeating Zarkon, that’s all we need to do. Voltron’s role ends there; you’ll be able to do whatever you want afterwards. I’ll make sure of it.”

Shiro makes it sound so final. So confident Voltron will never be needed again. As if it’ll be all over if Zarkon dies.

Hunk thinks of Shay and her people, who have never known freedom, or the sky, because they’ve lived their whole life under the yoke of Galra rule and never even knew things could be different. How they’re still learning to live life outside of the framework of slavery.

Hunk thinks of Shiro, of all he’s suffered and all he’s lost, and an arm that will never let him forget what he has been through. How strongly he clings to Voltron and the team and their mission to defeat Zarkon.

And then Hunk thinks of calzones again, because he’s still hungry. Because amidst the uncertainty of dismantling a 10,000 year old empire and the bloody stability it erected over the corpses of its enemies, food is the unchanging rock that brings Hunk comfort no matter what - except for that one time it tried to kill him, still his worst experience in space. Empires may come and go, or not go, but people will always need to eat.

They win the battle, but Shiro is gone. They defeat Zarkon, but he is simply replaced by his son. Every victory they gain is counteracted by all that they have lost. Even regaining the ability to form Voltron brings not happiness, just a sickening sense of relief that there is one less thing to worry about. There is no Shiro to tell him to stop panicking now.

Instead, Hunk holes up in the Castle kitchen and fiddles with something he’s been calling the space stove. He has been getting better at space cooking, better at figuring how to use alien ingredients - and which actually are ingredients. One day, they will stop slapping ‘space’ in front of everyday words in an effort to make the foreign closer to what they recognise, but that is not today.

Hunk is just taking the space pot off the heat and onto the space - okay, no, it’s just a normal counter when the door swishes open, Allura striding in with an uncharacteristic drop to her shoulders. She blinks at Hunk, smiling on reflex. “That smells amazing! What is it? Is it more Earth food?”

“Kind of,” Hunk says earnestly, a responding smile just as much out of habit as hers. “Strictly speaking, none of the stuff I’ve made really counts as Earth food because they’re not made with Earth ingredients. But I did base this on an Earth recipe! It’s space chicken soup!”

“Chicken…” Allura frowns over the unfamiliar word. “Like a duflax? I think Pidge mentioned it at one point!”

“Uhhh…” Hunk tries to remember when Pidge has ever talked Altean animals. “No, I think that’s Altean duck? A chicken’s different. Probably. They live on land and flap around a lot, and people eat them, okay?”

“Oooh, so it’s like a...actually maybe not, that’s poisonous.”

Hunk sighs. “Anyway, this isn’t a chicken OR a duck OR a duflax. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I had some leftovers of the ingredients I was using in those canapes, and this kind of looked like white meat, so close enough!”

Allura leans in closer to peer inside the pot. “Oh, um, I don’t think that’s meat-”

“CLOSE ENOUGH!” Hunk hunches over the pot protectively as he begins to serve.

Allura quickly leans back. “The green bits give it a nice touch of colour,” she says as a peace offering. “But what are those yellow floating things?”

“Oh, I’m really proud of this one.” Hunk grins, indignation forgotten. “So originally I wasn’t sure we could get a cracker substitute for the base of the canapes, so I was noodling around with that flour substitute we got from the Olkari - I know it’s actually some kind of leaf - but it’s just too soggy and then Coran found that other thing we ended up using as the base so it all worked out! But I still had all this Olkari flour bits sitting around, and I was thinking of baking them one more time - not that it worked the last five times I tried - but THEN I thought, what if I just put them in a recipe that needs them to be wet anyway? And voila!”

Allura nods along, hastily saying, “That sounds fascinating! I now know all about it!”

Hunk puts a bowl in front of her. “Here, give it a try.”

“Thank you, Hunk.” Allura smiles again, still on automatic. But the satisfied sigh she gives after the first bite is completely unfeigned. “Oh, this tastes- this tastes like-”

Hunk stares. “A-Allura?”

Allura blinks back at him, one hand coming up to her cheek. She looks as surprised as he feels to find it wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” Allura rubs the hand roughly over her eyes. “It’s just...I don’t know why, but it tastes so comforting. Like home.”

Galvanised by her actions, Hunk quickly digs some space tissues out of his pocket and passes them to her. “On Earth, chicken soup is what you make for people when they’re sick; it’s supposed to be comfort food. So I added some seasoning that should taste familiar to Alteans...Coran vouched for it!” Hunk glances at her anxiously. “How is it?”

“It’s perfect, Hunk,” says Allura huskily, more tears spilling as she spoons another mouthful into her mouth.

“It’s been a stressful couple of days for all us,” Hunk continues, serving himself some of the soup too. “I figured we all need some comfort food.”

“It has been stressful, hasn’t it.” Allura sighs into the bowl. “I’m sorry about Shiro.”

Hunk looks down. “Yeah. Me too.” He sticks the spoon into his mouth, the soup warming him from the inside. “At least we have Voltron again. Thanks for piloting with us, Allura. I know you’re busy with the Castle too.”

Allura gives a quick shake of her head. “Voltron is more important. And I hope you guys are starting to understand how important it is. How important you all are.”

“I think I am,” Hunk says slowly, remembering the hope in the eyes of the people they liberated. “And you’re a part of that too. You’re a part of us.” He smiles at her, suffused with the warmth of the soup.

Allura smiles back with matching warmth, genuine and beautiful.

Shiro coming back should have fixed everything. Everything should have been the way it’s supposed to be again.

But he can’t pilot Black, he clashes with Keith on leading the team, and the undeniable truth is that everything has changed.

Hunk should be glad Shiro is back, and he is glad, but his return exposes how naive Hunk’s expectations had been. They’ve had to deal with Shiro being gone, and now they must deal with Shiro being here again.

Hunk doesn’t mention the lessons. Shiro doesn’t ask.

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] Placebo [Gen]

Title: Placebo

Characters: Nasu Rei, Konami Kirie

Summary: Nasu hides on the roof and receives comfort from an unexpected source.

Author’s Note: Second of the fic I wrote a while ago and forgot to crosspost. I had been feeling really sad about Smash Borders, so it seemed the perfect time to polish up this sad fic that I started last year and post it. It was originally going to end in kisses, because what am I if not a rarepair generator, but it wouldn't have fit. 

AO3 Mirror

The sun was just starting to set as Nasu opened the door that led to the roof of the school. The heavy metal creaked under her hand, rusty with disuse – no one used the roof in a posh girls’ school, not in the middle of winter when there were nice, heated classrooms and libraries instead.

Nasu listened to the door clank close quietly behind her and took a deep breath, sinking down until she was sitting with her back resting against the cold wall. Already her breaths came in sharp pants, and she had even taken a rest halfway up those stairs. She stared up into the scarlet-dyed clouds and pushed her hands deep into her uniform pockets; one hand took out the little package she had been careful to keep hidden all day, placing it gently on the ground before her, the other rubbed lightly against her trigger holder.

“Trigger on.”

The world twisted and resettled itself as her trion body materialised. Diagnostics ran in the edges of her sight, the radar flickering on then off as it informed her that there were no trion signatures in the area – nothing except the other Border agents still in the school. With classes over for the day, most of them would be on their way to HQ by now – the ones that weren’t already there. There was no better time than now.

Nasu reached down for the package on the ground, unwrapping the wrinkled handkerchief and revealing a slightly crumpled cigarette box and a cheap lighter. She had ‘borrowed’ the two from Suwa a few weeks ago, although he would surely be apoplectic if he found out that it was Nasu who had taken it, instead of forgetting it somewhere like everyone had thought. Despite the sloppy impression he gave, Suwa was dutiful about things like this.

That was why Nasu was here, on the roof of her school after classes had finished. It was her little secret, not the least because she knew no one would approve. But what did approval matter in the long run?

She flicked the lighter on carefully while using the other hand to shake a cigarette out of the box, then watched as the end of the cigarette caught on fire – the red as bright as the sky above her. She brought the cigarette to her mouth and took a breath. Nasu could almost feel the smoke curling down her throat, sharp prickles that burned and brought tears to her eyes as she coughed.

It was all in her head of course, trion bodies didn’t have proper lungs to be affected by the cigarette. It was just an automatic reaction to the detection of foreign matter. In her trion body, the cigarette left no mark, so it didn’t matter. It was just a placebo.

A distracting placebo, Nasu found, hearing the thump of someone running up the stairs a moment too late. She rubbed out the lit cigarette, but didn’t have time to put it back in the box or to hide the whole thing before the door was swinging open.

“Nasu-san!” Konami exclaimed in her schoolgirl persona. “So you were here!”

Nasu looked up to see Konami stop with a jerk, staring down at the incriminating cigarette box and lighter on the ground. That plus the lingering scent of smoke made it all too obvious what was going on here.

“So that’s why you’re in your trion body,” Konami said more quietly, switching to a more familiar tone. Not the words Nasu was expecting from her.

Nasu shrugged. She looked down at the ground, not quite able to meet Konami’s gaze. There was a small awkward silence while Nasu was trying to think of something to say, before it was broken by Konami again.

“Is it worth it?” she asked, crouching down - a hand smoothing down her skirt so that it was tucked neatly under her legs as she did so. Konami always was good at looking the part in school, even when it was only the two of them.

“I’m smoking in my trion body,” Nasu replied, working to keep the bitterness from her words. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something,” Konami said quietly, but didn’t elaborate. Sometimes Nasu forgot how much longer than everyone else Konami had been in Border, how much more involved she was, then she would say something like that and Nasu would be reminded of the weight of that history she kept so well hidden.

Konami reached forward, scooping up the box of cigarettes and lighter and wrapping it back inside the handkerchief. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but don’t say it doesn’t matter because it’s a trion body.” Her voice was solemn, heavy with something that Nasu didn’t want to touch.

“Trion bodies don’t affect your real body.” This time, Nasu couldn’t stop the bitterness.

Konami shook her head. “It doesn’t. That’s why it matters.”

This morning, Nasu had woken up feeling so bad she almost didn’t go to school. Despite the reasons behind her enlistment in Border, there had been no real improvement in her health since. Only in her trion body was she free. But all that meant was that in her real body she wasn’t free.

It was Konami who looked away this time, standing up with the wrapped package lightly cradled in her hands. “I’ll get rid of these. I can always hide them in Boss’s belongings.”

Nasu watched as Konami opened the door to the roof, preparing to leave. “Wait,” she called out. “Thank you.”

Konami turned back, making an effort to smile. “No problem. I’ll see you at HQ sometime. We should have a match.”

Nasu kept watching as the door closed behind her. The cigarette she had snuffed out was still in her hand, hidden at her side. She let it fall to the ground and brought the hand up to her eyes. She’d had all sensation cut off today, so the fist she made with her free hand felt like it was grasping nothing. She tilted her head back, misty eyes staring blindly up at the darkening sky.

Trion bodies were the real placebo. And Nasu didn’t know what she would do once it was no longer accessible to her.

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice [Somei/Katori]

Title: Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

Pairing: Somei Hana/Katori Youko

Summary: Katori learns to make chocolate. The situation is blown out of proportion.

Author’s Note: I keep forgetting to crosspost my fic here. This was originally written for Valentine’s Day, and uses a lot of cultural cues from Japanese Valentine’s Day: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valentine%27s_Day#Japan

AO3 Mirror

There was a claim that nothing moves gossip faster than an academic institution, especially one populated by teenagers.

As proof, Katori Youko was witnessed sidling into the classroom of 3-A 10 minutes before homeroom - an unheard of action for a freshman, and especially unheard of for Katori who spent her time in school like she was above it all, engaging in a fervent whispered conversation with Kon Yuka - voted best cook in both her year level and 18-year-old Border members, and then leaving with a stubbornly determined look on her face.

By lunchtime, the news had trickled down to the first years and Shiki found herself surrounded by her female classmates the moment Katori waltzed out the door of Class 1-E.

Shiki stayed silent despite the expectant gazes, waiting for them to make the first move. Except the initiative was stolen by the ruckus across the room instead.

A much larger crowd was gathered around Koarai’s desk, and making enough noise that Shiki could hear every word.

“She was asking about making chocolates!!” One particularly desperate sounding boy shook Koarai by one shoulder.

“Honmei chocolates!!” Another desperate sounding boy shook Koarai by his other shoulder.

A third boy was waving a small desk calendar in Koarai’s face, as if he wasn’t aware that Valentine’s Day was a week away.

“So?” Koarai asked, obviously confused.

“You’re both Border, aren’t you?” One of the desperate sounding boys said accusingly, as if it meant something. “Who is it??”

“Is it someone in Arashiyama squad?”

“A sempai in the school?”

“Karasuma?!”

“Does our idol already have someone!?”

Shiki could have lived her life without knowing that someone viewed Katori as their idol.

One of the girls in front of Shiki smiled ruefully. “I think you know what our question is.”

Shiki sighed. “Does it matter?”

It was a different girl who answered. “Aren’t you curious? Katori-san always looks like she doesn’t care about anyone, and yet here she is, making chocolates for Valentine’s Day.”

Maybe being in Border together did mean something, because Shiki already knew Katori did care - deep, deep, down inside - and that was enough for her in a way that was clearly not enough for the rest of their classmates.

Shiki shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably. “Does it matter?” she asked again, but no one was willing to budge. With no other choice left to her, Shiki threw her sempai under the bus. “Why would I know anything? If anyone knows, wouldn’t it be her teammates?”

“Are you expecting us to bother the sempai with this?” One of the girls tried to look scandalised, but Shiki knew she bothered the sempai all the time, with matters much smaller than this even.

Shiki - and Koarai - were finally set free from their classmates with Katori’s re-entrance into the classroom, a sandwich dangling in one hand. Unfortunately, a glance at all the message notifications on her phone told Shiki she was far from being free of the matter itself. She wished people would stop expecting her to know everything about Katori just because they were classmates.

As further proof of the claim, the whole story had already spread to Rokueikan by the very next day, and not all of it caused by Border members gossiping amongst themselves even.

But, when it came down to it, Katori was a girl from another school, it wasn’t enough to keep the attention of a prep school focused on the upcoming exams, except among Border members.

Kodera looked over at Somei’s desk, where most of the prep school operators had gathered - including Usami, chatting cheerfully amongst themselves. Kodera turned his eyes away from Usami, forcing down the blush that burned his cheeks, and focused on Somei. She had the same blank look on her face as the one she wore when the crowd around her had been normal classmates - the few who knew enough about Border to know about Katori and cared enough to approach Somei about it. The whole situation didn’t seem to be affecting her nearly as much as it affected the people at the other high school - at least from the complaints Kodera had been aware of: from Koarai in the chat group they shared, from Wakamura that he heard from Narasaka who heard from Arafune who heard from Inukai, even Miura had been less than his usual accepting self according to the testimonials of multiple Attackers. Kodera had a lot of pride in his data collecting skills.

But there were always gaps, people who refused to participate - people like Somei. Kodera was convinced that Somei knew who Katori was planning on giving chocolates to. If anyone did, it was her. But Somei would never tell. Even if it didn’t matter, Somei kept quiet and let people make their own assumptions.

One thing Kodera was certain of was that the chocolates weren’t for Karasuma. When he had gathered up the courage to ask her about it at lunch - since Karasuma had been the most likely possibility, Somei had smiled - a small quirk of her lips - and said, “do you think so?” The look in her eyes told Kodera she didn’t think it was Karasuma, and if Somei didn’t think it was Karasuma then it wasn’t Karasuma. It was that simple.

This, unfortunately, left the question of who. He wasn’t getting any more hints from Somei, he knew that, which meant he would have to gather his intel from somewhere else. Kodera ran through his sources, who hadn’t yet commented on the occasion? Who might know something - even if they themselves didn’t know what they knew? Who was in a position to find out?

Unconsciously, Kodera started planning out the logistics like one of the strategy problems Tsukimi would set him up with. It was no longer about Katori - it never really was - instead, there was a puzzle for Kodera to solve, even if he didn’t care what the answer was.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the rumour mill was in overdrive and Class 1-E’s anticipation was through the roof as everyone hoped to see the fruits of Katori’s training with Kon. And because the teachers at Mikado First Municipal High School valued a good bout of festivities just like anyone else, the Home Economics teacher turned all of her lessons on Valentine’s Day into chocolate-making tutorials. For everyone.

But Class 1-E was destined to be heavily disappointed as their Home Ec. class began with Katori sitting around and playing with some of the unused equipment while the rest of the group did the actual work, glaring at her resignedly.

Koarai might have disassociated himself from Katori and whatever she was planning for Valentine’s Day to keep the gossipers at bay, but he had fought her often enough in the rank wars to know her personality through and through. He could have told them that she wouldn’t be making honmei chocolate on the day in front of everyone else. If Katori did make chocolates, it would have been by herself, so that no one could see her mess up or expend effort on something that actually mattered to her. If Katori did make chocolates, it would already be wrapped - perfectly - and hidden in her bag for her to give when she chose before she even got to school today.

Finally fed up, the teacher walked up to Katori with a stern expression. Katori, however, merely flipped her hair lazily, clearly not taking the teacher seriously. Her voice rose sharply, clearly audible even from where Koarai was. “Well, what if I’m not giving Valentine’s Day chocolate? Are you going to force everyone to participate even if they don’t have anyone to give to? All those poor girls having to either reveal that they have no one to give chocolates to or fake making chocolate and then having to eat it themselves! It’s public humiliation!” Katori did not sound like she was feeling sorry for anyone at all.

“You always have to make a smart comeback, don’t you,” the teacher replied wearily, not at all cowed by Katori’s words. “All we are doing is making chocolate, whether you are giving them to anyone as honmei chocolate on Valentine’s Day is up to you. I don’t see anything wrong with giving it as obligation chocolate, friend chocolate, or eating it yourself, do you?” Not giving Katori a chance to reply, the teacher continued in the same tone of voice, “Now I want to see your hands moving if you don’t want to be penalised.”

Katori didn’t seem in the mood to continue the fight, grabbing baking paper and spreading it out roughly with a sharp pout on her face. It was apparently enough for the teacher though, turning away with a nod of satisfaction.

Koarai turned his attention back to the chocolate his group was supposed to be making as everyone else also stopped paying attention to Katori now that they were sure she wasn’t going to do anything interesting.

Around him, Koarai could hear the disappointment of his classmates that, whatever she had been up to with Kon, it didn’t seem to be actually making Valentine’s Day chocolates. Koarai ignored them. He had been receiving obligation chocolates from Hitomi for the last ten years, and this time he was going to give her something in return. And to do that he had to make sure these chocolates were edible. There was no time to wonder about what Katori was or wasn’t doing.

Meanwhile, in contrast, matters have quieted down to almost nothing on the prep school side. Somei had been privy to the same complaints as the rest of Border from those who attended the other high school on the ridiculous heights the grapevine was reaching on the simple matter of Valentine’s Day chocolates. But Katori was enjoying all the attention, and that was good enough for her.

Feeling eyes on her from the front of the classroom, Somei turned that way, keeping her face blank. Kodera looked back at her undaunted. He was the only one in prep school who was still paying attention, though it was obvious by this point that he didn’t really care about who Katori was giving chocolates to - Kodera would probably be more interested in knowing who Usami was giving chocolates to, if she hadn’t already announced to everyone days ago that she’s giving obligation chocolates to every official Border member at the school. It was the puzzle for him, the thrill of solving the mystery.

Not that it was much of a mystery. Katori had been unusually silent on the matter even to Somei, when usually Somei would have been the first to know - and maybe even roped into helping Katori make the chocolates. But this time, not only did Katori not come to her, she hadn’t even told Somei about them. It had been a bit of a rude awakening to learn along with everyone else at prep school that Katori was planning on making chocolates after the fact. But that was also how Somei realised who Katori must be making them for.

Somei did not believe in false modesty, she knew she was intelligent in her ability to see patterns and make connections, it was obvious that if Katori was changing her habits just to hide this from Somei, then the chocolates were probably for-

“Somei-san,” the girl who sat next to Somei said, pointing to the window beside her, “I think you have a visitor.”

Somei peered out the window. Class was already over for the day, dotting the school grounds with students leaving, but as a prep school the number of students who remained to catch up on work, to prepare for the next day, or to participate in club activities far outnumbered those who left. Even Somei’s own classroom was still half full of students even excluding her and Kodera. This was why Katori’s lone figure at the front gates stood out even at a glance. Some early cherry trees were blooming already, a stunning backdrop that lent a story-like quality to the scene, as if Katori was the protagonist of a movie. Katori was very suited to be the protagonist of a movie.

The sky was starting to darken as Katori led Somei to a small park near the Forbidden Zone. It was a sad little park, with just a single rusted slide, two rocking horses that no longer moved, and an abandoned air that betrayed its neglect. That and the location meant it was empty at all times, and the sunset gave the surroundings a romantic flair that Katori had made a lot of effort to ensure. Effort that was going to go to nothing if she messed this up. Katori gulped.

Somei, who always knew Katori better than she knew herself, turned expectantly when Katori stopped in her tracks, her usual blank look on her face.

Sick of her own anxiety and uncomfortable with the unfamiliarity of it, Katori plunged a hand unceremoniously into her bag and said, “Here. For you.”

Somei received the well-wrapped package solemnly, not a hint of surprise on her face. “Thank you.”

Katori kicked lightly at a small rock between them. “You’re welcome, I guess,” she mumbled, feeling weirdly disheartened. She had known Somei wouldn’t react, she knew her that well, but it still felt discouraging.

Katori could feel Somei’s gaze on her, but something inside her didn’t want to look up. Katori's cheeks were shamefully hot. She wasn’t sure she liked the feeling.

There was a light crinkling of wrapping paper and the quiet crunch of chocolate being bitten into. “It tastes very good.”

It was as if a weight that Katori didn’t know had been stuck in her chest had suddenly fell away. She looked up. “Of course! I made it!” Everyday after school at Suzunari branch, she didn’t say, until it was perfect.

Somei smiled. “Of course,” she repeated, and placed another chocolate in her mouth.

Katori smiled too, feeling like she was floating off the ground, like everything was right in the world again. She didn’t know why she was so worried. As if there was ever any possibility of it going wrong. She made those chocolates herself after all. Katori looked Somei straight in the eyes. “You’re supposed to return three times as much on White Day, you know.”

Somei blinked slowly, and nodded. “I see,” she said seriously. “Understood.”

The setting sun was lined up perfectly behind her, casting a hazy glow over Somei’s features and dazzling Katori’s eyes. It made her look ethereal, as if she was out of Katori’s reach. But Somei always had lived in a different world, one that contemplated difficult matters and planned for a future Katori didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. They didn’t need to live in the same world, not as long as Somei was willing to meet her halfway.

Katori leaned forward, her eyes open, watching as Somei did the same. Their faces were close enough that Katori could see every imperfection in her skin, every hue of colour in her eyes; undeniable proof that Somei existed right there in front of her. Their lips met in the middle. It tasted of melted chocolate.

[nightowldaylark]

World Trigger Prompt List - Day 31 Set 3.8 Rank Wars

Characters: Ui, Kakizaki, Teruya

“Why the long face, Captain?” Ui smiled at Kakizaki, flopping down next to him and peeking at the tablet in his hands.

Kakizaki shook his head. “Just looking at the rankings.”

Teruya peered over his shoulder from the other side. “Kakizaki squad, no.13.”

“Yeah,” Kakizaki said heavily.

Ui and Teruya looked at each other.

“I’ve been thinking about those new strategies we talked about,” Ui said cheerfully. “They still need some work, but it’s coming along well.”

Teruya nodded. “They’ll make us stronger.”

Kakizaki looked at them, then smiled ruefully. “You’re right. Let’s look over these strategies some more.”

[nightowldaylark]

World Trigger Prompt List - Day 30 Set 2.8 Captains

Characters: Kittaka, Tsukimi, Ouji

The door to Ouji squad’s operation room opened with a faint whirr as Kittaka ushered Tsukimi inside. “We will have the place to ourselves, no one else is coming in to...day…” she trailed off weakly as she saw Ouji’s lean figure on the sofa.

Ouji looked at them apologetically. “I’ll be out of your way soon.”

Tsukimi walked up to him. “Writing the captain’s report?”

Ouji sighed. “It’s not something you can put off.”

Tsukimi felt like sighing herself, her mind turning to a different captain who would never write his report if he could put it off instead.