#and with this eerie customer service face started talking a mile-a-minute

[gl1tchr]

I love mentioning unions at work and watching every manager turn into a glassy-eyed robot and start spouting off taught union-busting bullet points like corporate zombies. truly fascinating

[brettanomycroft]

Swamped [Kidge Cryptid Hunt Oneshot, VLD]

“Why else do you think I would insist we come here before we started on our Swamp Ape hunt?” she asks.

“Because we needed cookies?”

She flings her hands up, and the bag of cookies nearly flies off her arm.

“Because we needed to harness Publix's mystical force to aid us in our quest!” she exclaims. Her voice deepens, heightening her drama. “Dark Publix, show me the Cryptids!”

Author’s Note: This was completely self-indulgent. I’m a 3rd or 4th generation Florida native and have spent all but a few years of my life in this lovely, strange state. All but one thing written here about Florida is fact, which is that I don’t think there are two Publix across the street from one another in Cape Canaveral, but there sure are in the town I live in now. Thank @stardusted for the inspiration and planning. She started this. Not me.

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender Paring: Keith x Pidge Words: 6101 Tags: Swamp Ape, gratuitous Florida, barely edited, bonding, sass, snark, more Florida, mosquitoes, kissing, cute shit, rednecks.

Read on AO3 "Flashlights?"

"Check."

"Water bottles?"

"Check."

“Camera?”

Keith turns in his seat towards Pidge and presses the button on a boxy, plastic camera. A flash goes off. She pouts, but for once keeps both hands on the steering wheel, rather than trying to retaliate.

“Digital and disposable, check,” he says with a grin.

“I can't believe they still sell those. At least if that picture is terrible, I can physically burn it.”

“It won't be,” Keith says.

Pidge’s brows raise. It takes her a moment to resume going through her mental checklist. “Bug spray?”

“Like a gallon of it. Are you sure this isn't overkill?”

"Look, Toto, we're not in the desert anymore, so unless you want the mosquitoes to turn you into a prune so you can start planning your early retirement to Boca, then we're going to need alllllll that bug spray. You've gotta trust me, I'm the expert here. Now, do we have the cookies?”

He looks down at the disposable camera. Suddenly, the process of winding it to the next picture is the most important task in the world.

“Uh…”

The clicking sound as he winds the camera bridges the silence.

"You forgot to grab the cookies?" she asks in a low voice.

"My arms were full carrying all the bug spray!" Which is how Keith finds himself in the middle of an aisle at a grocery story that is surprisingly nice considering he lost cell service thirty minutes ago and still isn't sure if Pidge sneezed in the middle of telling him the name of the "town" they were stopping in.

For an intergalactic pilot, his Earth-side travel had been limited to the desert outskirts beyond The Garrison and a few big cities he visited with his dad, cities that seem more haze than memory now. The maze of palm trees and identical ranch homes the Holts lived in mystified him, and the rural, ramshackle spots he and Pidge had stopped off at when they needed gas were downright eerie. And while he really doesn't get how peanut butter cookies are crucial to the cryptid-hunting process, he's more than willing to give Pidge credit for taking them to what seems the likeliest place for downhome folklore to become fact.

Assuming they ever get out to the site. By the time Pidge decides which brand of cookie to get, the team’s “Voltron Spring Break 2020” will be well over. He wonders how the locals would take to the sight of a massive, glowing UFO appearing over their neighborhood Publix.

“Why don't you just get the ones from the bakery?” he asks.

She looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes as if he’s asked the most obvious question in the world. Keith gets the sense that she’d wave a dismissive hand in his direction, if both weren’t occupied with two different boxes of cookies.

“The bakery cookies come in those child-proofed plastic containers,” she says, “meaning they’ll make way too much noise to open and close any time we want to eat during the hunt.” The follow up *duh* is unspoken.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Keith leans against the shelves opposite her, careful not to disturb the rows of crackers. “You’re the expert,” he replies, voice going flat so that she could tell just *how impressed* he was.

Pidge puts one of the packages of cookies back on the shelf. She must hear his sigh of relief, though, because a moment later she locks eyes with him and makes a slow reach for another type of cookie.

“Come *on* Pidge.”

A wicked grin stretches slow across her face. “Why don't you go grab another bottle of bug spray while I finish picking out the cookies?”

Keith shakes his head and crosses to Pidge’s side of the aisle. Stretching past her, he picks the box of cookies Pidge just set down, and another box of the ones she still has in hand.

“It's a conspiracy,” he says gravely. “No one needs that much bug spray unless they've got a vested financial stake in it. I refuse to to help you serve the secret interests of Big DEET, Pidge.”

“While in most cases I'd be inclined to agree with you,” she says, “This time, your theory neglects to take into account one important variable: we're in Florida, a state that is more bug than land.”

“Sounds like something a Big DEET lackey would say to cover up their connections.” He pauses to stick out his tongue in response to hers. “Forget the extra bug spray, let’s roll.”

With a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, she sets down the cookies in her hand and follows him towards checkout. When he glances back, he can see the tell-tale tight lips of one trying their best to hold back a smile.

The two of them ignore the strange looks they get from the cashier as they unwind the secret plottings of Big DEET and the significance of OFF™. They pay, and Keith hands the plastic bag filled with cookies to Pidge. She immediately tries to push it back to him, but he sidesteps and comes in with a “You know, we're standing in the most intriguing Florida conspiracy I’ve ever witnessed, but I haven't heard anyone question it.”

Already curious, she doesn't try to hand the bag off to him again. Success.

“What are you talking about?”

The cashier stares hard at them, face still fixed in a smile, but ready for them to clear out so she can finish with the customers behind them. Keith ignores her in favor of making a wide, sweeping gesture towards the grocery store around them.

“Publix. Ever since we landed, it's all I ever hear your mom and dad and Matt talk about. Even you've started doing it. 'Keith, you haven't lived until you've had a Pub Sub,’ and 'I know we stopped at Publix earlier, but let’s go pick up this other thing.’ It goes on.” Pidge nods along, glee filling her face.

“I'm pretty sure everything in your house is Publix brand,” he continues, “and three days ago, when your dad was driving us around town, I saw two Publix across the street from one another…And both were packed. Everyone here has an unnatural obsession with this store.”

The cashier finally shoos them towards the exit. They stop once they reach the parking lot, where Pidge reaches up to cup his cheek. She shakes her head.

“Oh, poor, naive Keith,” she says, doing her best to keep a straight face. “The Publix Phenomenon isn't a conspiracy if everyone knows about it and is willingly accepting. Every Florida child grows up learning of the strange contract made between the Jenkins family and a powerful, interdimensional entity. No one cares because Publix is the best.”

Her words pick up momentum, excitement and investment in the ridiculous story growing. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and he's not entirely sure if it's her pulse or his that he feels at the point where their skin meets.

Her hand drops. Keith exhales, letting go a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

“Why else do you think I would insist we come here before we started on our Swamp Ape hunt?” she asks.

“Because we needed cookies?”

She flings her hands up, and the bag of cookies nearly flies off her arm.

“Because we needed to harness Publix's mystical force to aid us in our quest!” she exclaims. Her voice deepens, heightening her drama. “Dark Publix, show me the Cryptids!”

She holds her pose for a few long ticks before they both dissolve into laughter. Clutching at his stomach, Keith doubles over, gasping as he tries to speak.

“And here this whole time I thought you were weird. Turns out you're just Floridian,” he manages.

“Hey! I resemble that remark!”

Pidge chases him all the way back to the car, both cackling as she tries to nail him with the wildly swinging bag of cookies.

…

It's another 30 minute’s drive out to the location Pidge has found for their Swamp Ape stakeout. The sun is low in the sky and right in their faces, but the car’s A/C is cold and conversation engaging. Pidge once again shares how she found the spot: a combination of digging through forums and coding a program that took location and environmental data from the various sightings and calculated the best possible area for spotting the cryptid. Keith's heard the story three or four times by now, but doesn't begrudge her excitement. Once she’s done, he retells his story of how his attempts at tracking down the Thunderbird ended up with him trespassing on Garrison property before he was even a cadet. Pidge always laughs at the part where he evaded Iverson by making terrible bird calls, so it’s worth the embarrassment of recreating the scene.

Between laughing at themselves and the dense forest that crowds the single lane highway they’re cruising down, Pidge misses the turn off. They’re alone on the straight, narrow road, so Pidge lets out her choicest of expletives and pulls a U-turn right in the middle of it. Both of their phones are without signal, but Keith had gone the old school route and printed out the map as well, so after a few miles going under the speed limit and another U-turn, they find their road.

Loose gravel crunches under car tires. A plume of dust rises up behind them. Keith stares out the windows, transfixed by the way the trees flit by. His eyes catch on shadows and shapes further back in the woods: trees, no doubt, but in the growing twilight he swears he sees something dart away.

Being a paladin of Voltron came with no shortage of action and excitement. They were constantly on guard, always ready for the next fight. But this is a different prickling in his stomach. This is a pick up in his pulse that he hasn’t felt since he was fourteen and scrambling under a break in the fence at The Garrison. He glances over at Pidge. Her attention is glued to the path ahead, but there’s the hint of a grin at her lips. Her hands flex and tighten on the steering wheel.

The road dead ends at a small clearing of grass. Pidge parks the car. At the far end of the clearing, a few knobbly fence posts do their best to hold back the forest. Pidge turns to him, vibrating in anticipation. Her eyes are bright, a hint of gold lit in the setting sun.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Beyond ready.”

Keith opens the passenger door, slides out, and shoulders his backpack. From the side pocket, he withdraws his knife and returns it to its proper place on his hip. Pidge had assured him that open carry was a thing in Florida, but he hadn’t wanted to take chances. The weight of his blade at his side kickstarts the pounding of his heart, sending it to his ears. He can see Pidge getting geared up on the other side. She bounces from foot to foot, tests the weight of her backpack, and consults the compass clipped to her shorts.

“Let’s roll. We’ve got an hour or so until sundown.”

They cross the clearing. Long grasses and weeds tickle and stick at Keith’s ankles. He regrets not wearing jeans, but Pidge had insisted that he’d die of heat stroke before they found the Swamp Ape if he did.

Pidge stops between two of the fence posts. Barbed wire coils between the posts, the “NO TRESPASSING” sign attached to it faded but sturdy. She doesn’t hesitate or turn towards the car. He can’t hold back a grin as she pulls a pair of thick work gloves and her bayard from the side pocket of her backpack and goes, “Care to do the honors?”

“Nah, go for it. I broke the law last time.”

She chuckles, tugs on the gloves, and dispatches the barbed wire with little effort.

“Remind me to fix that on the way out,” she says.

“Fix that on the way out,” he replies.

“You’re *so* helpful.”

With her gloves, she holds the barbed wire back, allowing him to pass. He reaches up and ruffles her hair once he’s safely past the sharp metal.

“I try,” he says.

He walks two or three yards into the forest, then turns when he doesn’t hear Pidge’s footsteps behind him. Rather than the expected look of disgust, she stares at him with an expression that falls somewhere between impish and downright devious.

“You’re forgetting something, Keith,” she says in a singsong voice.

“And what’s that?”

From the bottle holder of her backpack, she yanks out not a bottle of water, but a massive can of bug spray.

“Spray down time.”

Groaning, Keith trudges back to her.

“Repellent?” he asks. “I thought that’s why I had you and your personality here.”

And, as he deserves, Pidge hits him in the pants with a long shot of the wet, citrus-smelling stuff.

…

Their little camp is little more than a blanket laid out on the ground and their backpacks leaned up against the wide trunk of an oak. They’d walked maybe a mile or two from the clearing until Pidge had dubbed them sufficiently far enough from civilization for a Swamp Ape to appear. Settling in, they’d gotten out their individual field notebooks, water, and one of the boxes of cookies. And then, the wait began.

There’s desert hot, and then there’s *this*, and *this* is misery. Oftentimes when Pidge had talked about home, she’d referred to it as “the swamp”, but in the cool expanse of space, it had been hard to imagine. Keith ought to have figured it out as they were flying in, when he’d seen from Red’s viewscreen the long tracts of murky green, but Pidge had been chattering away over their private channel about how great it was going to be to see her family and take him out on a proper cryptid hunt, so it hadn’t really hit him.

The heat doesn’t just swelter, it clings. Walking through a wall of food goo would have been easier and more pleasant than what they’re sitting in now. The lowering sun provides as little relief from the heat as do the pines that stretch above them. If anything, the trees trap the humidity in. Pidge runs a can of soda along her forehead and cheek. The hair from her ponytail that isn’t plastered to her neck curls and frizzes.

A buzzing at his ears tells him that despite all the bug spray, he’s about to become dinner; he swats at the mosquito near his neck and lands a hit. When he pulls his hand away to look, its a mess of sweat, dirt, and a smear of blood. Keith decides then and there that the only good thing to come from Florida is Pidge, and even right now, she’s not earning many points. He should have gone to Disney with Lance, Hunk, and Allura, or stayed in Cape Canaveral and gone bar-hopping with Shiro, Matt, and Coran.

“Why did we have to choose to hunt the Swamp Ape?” he grumbles. “Why couldn’t it have been the Beach Ape, or better yet, the Indoor Air Conditioning Ape?”

“Because those aren’t legendary monsters, those are tourists,” she says. “I know the heat’s shitty, but shut it. All your complaining will scare off the Swamp Ape.”

He’s not sure if he should feel relieved to know from the sting of her words proved the heat was getting to her too, or offended by her jab. Pidge could get downright nasty when the mood struck - her sense of tact and social etiquette were about as refined as his - but most of the time he had the privilege of being the observer, not the recipient.

And maybe she realizes her harshness: a few ticks later, she pulls a chilled soda from her bag and waves it in front of him.

“Cool off?” she asks, as close to an apology as he can expect.

“Yeah, sure.”

She slides the can up his arm, giggling when he jumps at the cold contact on his skin. A trail of goosebumps follows the condensation the can leaves as she rolls it over his shoulder and up his neck.

The next two hours pass easier with Pidge recling on her backpack next to him. They split a beer Keith nicked from Lance; not because either of them were too young to buy their own, but because watching the confused look dawn on Lance's face the next morning as he counted the drinks left and tried to compare it to what he was sure he’d drunk the night before was one of their new favorite things. In low whispers they exchange what they know about their quarry, from the accounts they’d each read about to their own pet theories. There’s an undertone of hope, as if talking about the Swamp Ape might make it appear, but instead the sun sinks below the horizon and the mosquitoes come out in full force.

Keith had the foresight to bring a deck of cards, so they flip on the lantern Pidge packed and run through their options. Egyptian Rat Screw is out of the question - too loud - but they play a few good rounds of Rummy, Crazy Eights, and a game Coran had taught them called Yarbling Yellmore. Pidge then cajoles him into a game of Go Fish, which is unfair when they both know she’s the reigning Go Fish champion back on the Castle.

“Got any… threes?” she asks.

“Go Fish,” he says, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

In the fuzzy blue light of the lantern, Keith sees Pidge give him a *look*. Her eyes narrow and she purses her lips.

“You’d better not be lying,” she mutters.

“I’m not. Go Fish.”

“Keith, this isn’t Bullshit, give me your goddamned three.”

She leans in. He resists the impulse to lean back, doing everything in his power to maintain his semblance of innocence.

“I already told you, I don’t have one. Go Fish.”

As if this weren’t the first time this has happened, Keith scrambles back on his butt the moment before Pidge launches herself at him. He keeps his card hand high in the air, out of her reach as she practically crawls over him on all fours.

“You’re such a shit,” Pidge swears, trying to swipe at his cards.

“What happened to being quiet?” he teases. He stretches his arm up even higher.

Of all of the paladins, he’s the shortest second to Pidge, but every bit of extra height counts in carrying on the game of keep-away. Her knee digs into his thigh and her hand is planted on his shoulder as she continues her futile attempts to snatch his cards from him. He tilts his head up to avoid getting a mouthful of green tee-shirt, only to come to close to getting a mouthful of something else. Pidge seems not to have noticed the precarious nature of their position or the red that floods his face. She leans in closer as she tries to leverage all the height she can to reach his cards.

“What happened to h-” Pidge starts, but her voice cuts off with a sharp squeak the moment after a loud rustle comes from the dark forest.

Their heads snap towards the sound. Beyond the circle of the lantern the forest is a patchwork of black and blacker. They both jump as a deafening crack of a tree branch snapped in half echoes around them. Without looking away from the verge of light and shadow, Keith plants his hands on Pidge’s hips to keep her from tumbling on top of him. His cards hit the ground with the faintest flutter. Pidge is too occupied to notice the pair of threes.

“Swamp Ape?” Pidge breathes.

“Dunno.”

The sound of scattering leaves and shaking foliage continues. A chorus of pops and cracks surround them. Pidge tenses under his hands.

“Flashlight?”

“Closest one is in my backpack. Front pocket,” he whispers.

Pidge slides off of him and inches towards his backpack. With aching slowness she undoes the zipper, trying to make as little noise as possible. The unseen source of the rustling nears; Keith can practically taste the tang of his heart in his mouth. Whatever it is, it's almost at the edge of their makeshift camp.

“Gotcha,” Pidge hisses. She stands, Keith's flashlight in hand, and swings the beam of light towards the noise.

Three small, bulbous shapes give off a dull shine in the light. They freeze in the middle of their rooting around in the dirt. Black beady eyes peer out at them. Pidge lets out a long string of expletives that ends in “Quiznaking armadillos.”

Tension drains from Keith's body, and he falls back on the blanket. He needs a minute to get the painful pounding of his heart back to a healthy tempo. He hears Pidge stomp around and kick up leaves and twigs to chase the small creatures away; the rustling they make as they scamper back into the forest isn’t even as close to as loud as it had seemed before.

Pidge collapses on the blanket next to him with a huff. They look at one another, and burst into laughter.

...

“We’re goinna give it thirty more minutes,” Keith insists, “and then call it quits. If the Swamp Ape doesn’t show up before then, it gets to keep its ‘Elusive’ status.”

The protest Pidge offers is garbled, drowsy.

“Beg pardon?” he says.

She shifts a little to look up at him, but her head remains planted on his shoulder. Her eyelashes flutter as she fights oncoming sleep.

“But I wanted you to have the coolest cryptid hunt ever,” Pidge whines. “Instead all we’ve had swampy weather and some stupid armadillos.”

Keith eyes the watch on his wrist. After having gotten used to the ticker he wore while in space, it takes him a moment to interpret. It’s already past midnight, and they’ve got a two hour drive back to Pidge’s house that Keith suspects he’ll be in charge of. He runs a hand over her hair, consoling.

“I’m having fun,” he says. “Swamp Ape or no Swamp Ape. What else do you think I’d want to be doing? Spending my Spring Break keeping Coran and Matt from starting bar fights? Spinning around in some silly bowls at an overpriced circus until I puked?”

Pidge chuckles, and scoots closer. She adjusts until it seems she’s found a more comfortable position leaning against him.

“One,” she starts, “don’t pretend like you wouldn’t be the first to start a bar fight.” Keith shrugs the best he can without disturbing her. “And two, don’t knock the teacups ‘til you’ve tried them. Outside of the mindlessly long lines the Disney Corporation uses to optimize harnessing of human soul energy, the parks are pretty great.”

“The only way any of that could be more entertaining than what we’re doing is if the bar fight was at Disney.”

They continue chatting, doing their best to keep the other awake for the final half hour of their quest. While not as oppressive as earlier, the air is still on the warm side, and between that and the lullaby-strains of frog song and insect hum, Keith knows he’s fighting a losing battle. He can see a pocket of stars through a break in the trees above, and decides he likes how pleasantly surreal it feels to be with Pidge looking up at the stars instead of down. His fingers absently toy with the end of her ponytail as they talk.

Ten minutes remain in their hunt when it happens.

It starts with the frogs. Pidge is the first to notice. She sits up.

“Hear that?” she whispers.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

The forest is cloaked in odd silence. Keith feels very, very awake.

They sit in absolute stillness, and are rewarded a few seconds later by a long, deep howling sound. It’s too far off for Keith to figure out what direction it’s coming from, but it won’t be that way for long: it’s getting louder.

When he’d imagined the Swamp Ape, he hadn’t imagined the terrible crush of underbrush like thunder rising from the earth, hadn’t imagined the inhuman, reverberating roar, unlike anything he’s ever heard before. Blurry images of a tall, loping figure flash through his mind. All reports indicated it was fast, powerful. His paladin armor would be a blessing right about now.

Pidge grabs his hand and squeezes hard. She’s gone pale, and it’s clear the same thoughts are crossing her mind. Blindly, she fumbles for her backpack and feels around until she finds her bayard.

“Keith, if we die here,” she says, voice low and serious, “I want you to know that there’s no one else in the world I’d want to go cryptid hunting with and that I’d been hoping we could do that kind of stuff together for the rest of our lives, Voltron or no.”

Something pings in his brain at her words, something some part of him feels like he would be paying a lot more attention to if the angry bellowing of a charging creature weren’t headed straight for them. He stands, muscles tensing.

“We’re not going to die, Pidge,” he snaps. “We’re both trained warriors with space weapons going up against a big monkey.”

“Okay, well, yeah,” she says as she stands up, “but the adrenaline’s talking now and I don’t have a good brain-to-mouth filter under normal circumstances and monkeys and apes aren’t the same thing.”

Whatever beast is out there isn’t slowing down. Keith estimates they have maybe another twenty seconds before it reaches their camp.

Pidge and Keith turn to each other as one. And maybe the adrenaline has hit his bloodstream, or maybe her words catch up with him, or maybe this was going to happen the entire time and both of them were too wrapped up in the hunt to even notice, but it happens now: Keith slings his free arm around her waist and Pidge grabs his shoulder and their teeth click painfully as their lips collide once, twice, three times. He tastes peanut butter and mint gum when his tongue slides into her mouth. A soft whine rises from the back of her throat when they part for air, a sound he mimics when she sucks his bottom lip between her teeth a moment later. The roaring in his ears is either his heart or the Swamp Ape less than ten feet away, probably both.

Hand on his blade, he pulls away from her and turns to the source of the roar. Every muscle tenses, each nerve fires off with the command to defend: now that he's kissed Pidge, he's not about to let either of them get mauled by Redneck Sasquatch. Next to him, Pidge crouches low. Her bayard sparks to life, glow illuminating flushed cheeks and kiss-plush lips.

They’re hit with a bright blast of light. Keith throws up his arm but it’s too late, and he’s blinded. He holds his defensive stance and tries to blink his vision back.

“What the hell are ya’ll doin’ out here? This is my private property!”

As his eyes adjust to the light, it clarifies into two points - headlights. A loud motor revs and growls. Keith can just make out the darker outline of what looks like a 4-wheeler with a man atop it. He can’t see the expression on the man’s face, but the anger in his shout and the slender shadow of a shotgun make his facial features pretty unnecessary.

Pidge gets her words back first, but he swears he hears a slight twang to her voice that, should they make it out of this alive, he was definitely going to tease her for.

“Sir, we are so sorry, we did not mean any harm, you see, it’s just that we were out here lookin’ for, ah, uh…”

The man gives a contemptuous snort. “Lookin’ for what? Ain’t nothin’ but pine and cattle for a’hunnerd acres.” He turns his head towards Keith. “Nah, the only thing ya’ll’re lookin’ for was a real private place. Thinkin’ you could get some all the way out in the woods, huh boy?”

Keith tries to stammer out some sort of response, but he’s completely blindsided. He looks from the rancher, to the wrinkled blanket below his feet, to Pidge, wild hair mussed from a long night of humidity. It does look a lot like what the rancher was suggesting.

“No, that’s not-” Keith starts. “We weren’t doing anything!” He clenches his fists to keep himself from reaching for his knife. He’s been launched from one potential fight into another, and his body is still ready to go. Reason tells him that the last thing he needs to do is beat up some stranger in the deep woods of Florida, but instinct doesn’t like the way the man is staring the two of them down.

“We were looking for the Swamp Ape!” Pidge shouts.

Just like before, the entire forest goes quiet. Even the thrum of the 4-wheeler’s motor seems muted.

“The what?”

“The Swamp Ape,” Pidge repeats, sounding defensive.

A bark of laughter echoes around them. The rancher lowers his gun.

“Where you two from?” he asks.

“Cape Canaveral,” she says.

“You two came all the way out here from Canaveral lookin’ for that damn ape?” The man hoots and dissolves into great gasping bouts of laughter.

Keith takes a breath, stance relaxing. They were going to be all right. He sees Pidge deactivate her bayard.

“Yes Sir, we did.”

It takes three or four more staggering breaths before the man can speak again. “Girl, there ain’t been a sightin’ this far north in years. You gotta go down to the Everglades if you wanna catch a whiff a’ him.”

Pidge visibly deflates, shoulders sagging. The expression on her face as she turns to Keith is pure apology. He shrugs.

The rancher lets them pack up their things and escorts them back to the property line. He watches with an appreciative eye as Pidge uses her bayard to mend the cut barbed wire, then issues about as stern of a warning as he can muster.

“I figure ya’ll wastin’ your time out here for nothin’ is punishment enough.”

…

The drive back is quiet. Despite the chug of the A/C, the air feels thick. Keith stares out the window, but sneaks glances at Pidge when he thinks her attention is fixed on the road. He’d kissed her. She’d kissed him. Somehow, that discovery feels more monumental than 1,000 confirmed conspiracy theories.

He takes another chance at a glance, and finds her looking at him.

“I’d understand if you don’t want to go on anymore cryptid hunts,” she says in a quiet voice. “This was a total bust.”

He swallows hard and reaches out to fiddle with the air vent. It’s suddenly hotter than an afternoon in July. He shakes his head.

“I thought you said you wanted to do this kind of stuff together forever. I was starting to get pretty set on the idea.”

Pidge’s smile is soft. Keith assembles every last bit of courage that hasn’t been drained from the night’s events, and leans over to take the hand resting in her lap. Her fingers curl around his.

“You’re by far the best thing to come out of Florida,” he says.

If she thinks she can cover up how wide her eyes get, or the color that rushes to her cheeks with a sarcastic sounding, “Keith Kogane, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” well, she’s wrong.

She holds his hand the rest of the drive home, not even letting go when she has to swerve around a pack of armadillos crossing the middle of the road.

…

3 AM has come and gone by the time Pidge navigates the car into the driveway. The Holt family home is dark but for a single stove top light in the kitchen, which allows Matt, the only one still awake, to give them a once-over. He sets aside the jar of peanut butter and spoon in hand and lets out a low whistle.

“No luck, huh?” he says.

Keith feels the mirth radiating from Matt as he takes in their matching sweat-drenched clothes and mud-flaked faces. He circles the kitchen island and plucks a small twig out of Pidge's hair.

“Three armadillos, an annoyed rancher, and a flock of mosquitoes,” Pidge mumbles.

“Not exactly the monsters you were looking for, then,” Matt says. “You’da had better luck coming out to the bar with me and Shiro and Coran. We ran into something inhuman tonight - dunno what it was, but Coran swore up and down that it wasn't an alien.”

Matt launches into a descriptive but somewhat slurred story about, from what Keith could gather in between the large clumps of peanut butter Matt starts eating again, Coran’s close encounter of the Texan kind. Keith's too tired to protest or be offended at Matt's descriptions of the tourist.

Keith and Pidge yawn in unison. He can feel sleep creeping up on him, and if he doesn’t go upstairs and shower soon, he’s going to fall asleep in the middle of the kitchen, coated in a thick layer of sweat and bug spray.

“Eh, well, you’ll have better luck next time,” Matt says. He tries to twirl his peanut butter spoon between his fingers, but it drops with a loud clunk. His eyes narrow as he shoots the spoon an accusing glare, then shrugs and scoops out some peanut butter with his finger instead.

“But just think,” Matt continues. “Maybe the real cryptid was the friends you made along the way”

Pidge glances at Keith. She bites her bottom lip, then looks away. Keith feels warm again. He, too, suddenly finds it hard to look at her.

Matt laughs. He looks like he’s about to pat Keith on the back, but reconsiders a moment later. Keith is pretty sure the stench coming from him and Pidge is potent enough to put the Swamp Ape to shame.

“I call first dibs on the shower,” Pidge announces.

She wraps his hand in hers and gives it a quick squeeze, then hurries upstairs before he can protest her shower dibs. He watches her climb up until she’s out of sight.

When Keith turns back, he meets Matt’s piercing stare. For all that Matt had been acting like he’d had a bit too much at the bars that night, the look he gives Keith now is both sober and sobering.

“Any theories on why you guys didn’t manage to find the Swamp Ape?” he asks. “Maybe a little too occupied with something else?”

After everything Keith has faced that night - mosquitoes, wild armadillos, unpredictable property owners - nothing chills his blood so much as the very Big Brother expression on Matt’s face.

“Apparently we were too far north for a good sighting,” Keith says quickly, “and if we wanted to actually track it down we’d have to go to the Everglades.”

“Next time, then,” Matt says. Keith shivers.

“Yeah, hopefully.”

“Maybe I’ll come along.”

“Yeah, sure thing, definitely,” Keith hedges. “Well, I’m exhausted soooo I’m just going to go upstairs now.”

Matt wishes him a ‘good night’ that sounds a lot like ‘I’d better not catch you doing anything with my sister’. Keith does his best to walk upstairs in a calm, collected manner. He’s so focused on avoiding a premature death that he nearly jumps out of his skin when Pidge swings up the door to her room and steps into the hallway.

She’s bundled in a towel, pajamas in hand, and her hair cascades down across her bare shoulders. All thoughts of Matt and dying vacate.

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” she says quietly.

“Don’t take too long. The only cryptid rarer than a Clean Pidge is a Pidge Shower that’s less than 45 minutes.”

Rolling her eyes, Pidge leans in and presses a light kiss on his lips.

“You’re lucky that Blushing Keith is my favorite cryptid,” she shoots back.

Stunned, he doesn’t manage his reply until she’s almost shut the bathroom door behind her.

“Well, you’re mine!” he says.

Keith counts it as a success when he hears a soft yelp and a drawn out “Stoooooop,” from the other side of the door.