Keith is halted in his tracks again by Lance’s sudden stop.
“Lance. Dude. Come on.”
Lance isn’t listening even a little. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, furrowed as they are, and his dark eyes flit rapidly back and forth, scanning the hustle and bustle of the giant crowd of the market they’re in.
Keith tries tugging Lance’s hand again. It does nothing. Lance always suddenly grows a ridiculous amount of muscle when he’s being stubborn.
“Lance,” Keith tries again. “What’s up? If you want to go to a stall you can say so, you know. You don’t have to just look around until I guess what you’re thinking.”
Lance doesn’t take the bait, which is worrying. Usually Keith has no trouble riling him up even playfully.
Lance mumbles something, standing on his tiptoes and leaning to try and look over the crowd. (Fat chance. The Megel people are tall as all hell. Even Hunk barely passes their shoulders.)
“What? You’re mumbling.”
“I think she’s lost.”
Keith blinks.
“Okay, that cleared up exactly nothing.”
Lance finally looks over at him, and Keith’s earlier judgement was correct. Lance is biting his lip. He looks upset, anxious.
“The little girl. I think she’s lost.”
“What little girl?”
“I’ve been seeing this little girl walking around every few minutes. She looks scared. She keeps walking up to people and running away when she sees their faces. I think she’s crying. I haven’t seen her in a while, but I have a bad feeling.”
That sobers Keith up quickly. Unbidden, a memory he hasn’t touched in a decade floats up to the forefront of his mind; blurry around the edges, like an old home video: him and his Pa, at a flea market in west Texas. Keith couldn’t have been more than three. He remembers holding his Pa’s hand, as he always did, his tiny palm wrapped tightly around his father’s calloused finger. It had been so loud that the noise had coalesced into one constant swelling sound, like the constant background noise of the desert.
He’d let go of Pa’s hand for a millisecond. Just — just for a second, as he’d waddled over to someone’s kiosk, awed at the shining jewellery and glittering stones. The old woman manning that kiosk had been amused by him, spinning him a tale he doesn’t remember about a brooch and the ancient princess it had belonged to. He’d wanted to keep it, he remembers, and when he asked if he could have it she had told him he could as long as his parents paid for it.
The terror had come so quickly.
He’d looked over immediately and realised he couldn’t see his Pa at all. He’d even climbed on the top of the kiosk to try and see better, but all he saw was a sea of baseball caps and cowboy hats, and no sign of his father’s messy black hair or broad shoulders. He remembers how quickly the tears came, how they’d blurred his vision until the massive crowd was a smudge of colours and shapes. His chest had felt so tight that he’d struggled to breathe.
He doesn’t remember how he found his Pa. He thinks his Pa must have found him.
But he remembers that fear in startling clarity, the galloping of his heart, the first time he’d ever really thought I am all alone.
“There she is!” Lance cries, and that’s all the warning Keith gets before he’s yanked in a random direction. He barely manages to keep himself upright, balancing only by his hand clenched tightly in Lance’s.
Seconds later they’re stopped abruptly when Lance lets go of his hand to brace them on his knees, bending down to the little girl’s height. She looks at him distrustfully, wary of both a stranger and a stranger who is so clearly foreign.
“Hey, kiddo.” The words are delayed by a fraction of a second, meaning they’re translated — Lance isn’t speaking English.
By the instant look of surprise and then familiarity that rushes through the girl’s features, Lance is speaking her native tongue. Where the hell Lance had time to learn Megeli, Keith doesn’t know.
(Except yes he does, because he’s stayed up with Lance before diplomatic missions, unable to sleep with all his nerves — diplomatic missions are not his strong suit. Keith has caught Lance, though, on several occasions, quietly teaching himself a few key phrases in the language of whatever people they’re visiting. He does it if he can on rescue missions, too, small phrases like his name and his purpose, and “we are not here to hurt you”. Comforting words, soft words. An active proof that the person coming to save you cares enough about you to learn your language so you can hang on to whatever familiarity you can, in your most frightening moment, without the just-a-second-too-long delay of the translators. Keith got a little choked up, when he first saw it; Lance’s purple eyebags and lost beauty sleep, all so he has an off-chance of comforting whomever may need it. He still feels in intense affection bubbling up in his chest when he thinks about it.)
“Where is your home?”
The phrase is a little klunky, kind of a strange thing to ask — Keith can’t imagine that Lance is fluent, or anything, they only learnt about this mission yesterday so Lance can’t have had much time to memorize many phrases — but it drives the point across.
The little girl bursts into tears, flinging herself into Lance.
“I can’t find my mama,” she wails, sobs wracking her tiny frame. Lance wraps his arms around her immediately, unhesitatingly, pressing her head to his shoulder and standing carefully once he’s got her secured.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here to help. You know Voltron?”
It takes her a moment to gather herself, maybe to place the name, but she nods.
“I am part of Voltron.” He makes sure she’s supported properly, balanced on his hip, then uses his other hand to point at Keith. “Him, too. We can help.”
The little girl contemplates them for a moment. Keith tries to make himself look as helpful and non-scary as possible, but only really succeeds in making himself look constipated and dumb.
The little girl giggles. “He looks silly.”
Lance laughs too, bright and loud and obnoxious, and it takes up all the air in the room and Keith wants to breathe in the sound like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever inhaled.
“He does look silly. I think it’s the hair, hm? Very dorky.”
Lance’s words are no longer delayed, he’s back to English, but the little girl is unphased. She wipes her tears with her hands, and then on Lance’s flightsuit.
Lance doesn’t seem to mind.
“Can we find my mama now?”
“Of course, kiddo. How about you sit on my shoulders? I’m not very tall on this planet, so it might help you see better.”
The little girl lights up.
“Can I stand on your shoulders?“
Lance snorts. “Absolutely not, pequeña. That’s a great way to fall on your head.”
The little girls pouts, but offers no further complaint as Lance lifts her by the armpits over his head and onto his shoulders. He plants on arms across her knees once she’s situated, and then reaches over to curl his free hand around Keith’s, beaming at him.
“Can’t forget Shiro’s rule,” he says, winking.
Keith swallows, face heating up as he entwines their fingers together, even though they’ve held hands a million times before.
That’s Shiro’s version of the get-along-pants, you see. Everyone has to do it. If you’re bickering for longer than what is acceptable (a standard known only to Shiro, who’s patience flounders between a level so awe-inspiring that Buddha would be ashamed, and shorter than even Keith’s fuse, depending on how long it’s been since he’s been in the same room as Slav), then boom! Guess who’s holding hands for the next several hours. Keith and Lance are a special case — since they spend inordinate amounts of time, and Keith is quoting here, “doing goddamn somersaults on my last nerve”, for every time they argue they have to hold hands for ten missions in a row.
Lance did the math. Based on all the arguing they did in their first few months in space, they’ve wracked up a handholding debt of about 54 straight years.
So it’s become normal for them, now, to hold hands all the time. Keith has pretty much gotten used to it — he leaves his room, sees Lance, and neither of them even blink before linking hands and moving on. It shouldn’t be a Thing. It isn’t a Thing.
But sometimes, it really is.
(Sometimes, like when Lance’s brown eyes are amused and mischievous and looking to Keith like he’s in on the joke, or when Lance is tugging Keith along to whatever dorky thing has attracted his attention, or when Lance is swinging their arms back and forth when he gets bored, or when he makes Keith twirl him around and Keith does without question, because as much as it makes his heart pound he will take any opportunity to have Lance twirled and dizzy pulled back against his chest, or or or —)
“What’s your name, buddy?” Lance asks, yanking Keith back into focus.
He has a funny way of doing that, Lance. Of dragging every inch of Keith’s attention on him.
“Gehma,” the girl says, appearing to be playing bongos with Lance’s head. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Lance. And this is Keith.”
Keith raises his free hand as Lance introduces him, wiggling his fingers in an awkward half-wave. She imitates him, the way kids do with the world around them in general.
“Those are silly names. Do all of you have silly names?”
“Probably, by your standards,” Keith says, cracking a grin.
He loves kids. They’re hilarious. He’ll forever laugh at the time a random child walked up to Shiro at Walmart one day and told him he would look better bald with long nose hair. Keith laughed until he was hunched over, crying in the produce section.
Gehma continues to chatter on, asking a myriad of questions and making out-of-pocket observations about people. She also frequently yanks on Lance’s hair, who winces but allows it. At one point they even stop for snacks, because they’ve all been in the sun for a few hours and also because Keith’s stomach growls so loud that several people turn to stare, so. Food time.
“What does you mama look like, Gehma? It’s hard to see over everyone’s shoulders, but Keith and I may be able to help a little, at least. Do you remember what she was wearing?”
Gehma rattles off a description, half-helpful and half-information that would only ever be notable to a kid (“And she makes an excellent monster impression, so watch out for that.”). Keith keeps on high alert, though, looking for pink braids and a blue tunic that Gehma mentioned.
“Mama!” Gehma yells, after another twenty minutes of aimless wandering. She lunges forward so abruptly she and Lance start toppling forward. Keith rushes forward to plant on hand on the back of Gehma’s shirt and one hand on Lance’s chest, yanking them upright. He reaches up to help lift Gehma down, who takes off in a sprint the second her little feet hit the ground, into the waiting arms of a woman who looks very, very relieved.
“Oh, baby! Oh, Gehma, my girl, my little monster —” Every word is punctuated by a kiss, Gehma’s mother’s fluttering hands frequently patting random areas, making sure her kid is alive in one piece. Gehma herself has gone quiet, all the fear catching up to her, reminding her how scared she was without her mama.
It’s a lot for a little kid to handle.
“Thank you,” Gehma’s mama says, once she’s satisfied that her kid’s okay. “I couldn’t — I turned around for one second and she was — I was so scared —”
“It’s okay,” Keith interrupts softly, surprising himself a little. “Uh, yeah. Happens to the best of us. Not that I would know. I mean. Yeah. But it’s cool. I’m glad we found you.” He’s bright red by the end of it, and lowkey hoping something blows up so he has a reason to exit the scenario immediately.
Lance’s quiet laughter is not helping. It’s making Keith redder.
God, he’s going to find some way to blame this on Shiro and then yell at him later, for his own sanity.
“Thank you, paladin,” the mother says again, and this time she sounds amused.
“All good,” Keith chokes out. Lance squeezes Keith’s hand, nodding.
“Yeah! That’s what we’re here for. Stay with your mama now, okay, Gehma? Don’t let go of her hand.”
Gehma promises to be more careful, and then she and her mother are off. Keith watches them go with a fond, semi-wistful smile.
He misses his Pa.
“I miss my mom,” Lance says quietly, voicing exactly what Keith is thinking.
“Me too. Uh, my dad. Not your mom. Not that I wouldn’t miss her if I didn’t know her! I’m sure she’s great. But, I don’t know her? So. I don’t. Miss her. But —”
Lord above, someone put him out of his fucking misery. God. Is it impossible for him to, like, speak like a normal person?
At least the word vomit that just came spewing out of his mouth had one benefit, he supposes. The horrible sad look has dropped from Lance’s face, replaced with the pinched expression of someone trying desperately not to laugh.
Keith sighs. “Go ahead.”
That’s all the permission Lance needs. One second he’s shaking every so slightly as he tries to keep himself together, the next he’s collapsed onto Keith’s shoulder, laughing himself sick.
“Jerk,” Keith mutters, but it’s far to soft to have any impact.
“You’re such a loser,” Lance says fondly. It takes him a few minutes for the giggles to vanish completely, but eventually the do, and he steps out of Keith immediate space and starts to pull him along in a random direction.
Keith doesn’t miss him being so close.
He doesn’t.
(They’re still holding hands, for fuck’s sake. When did he get so greedy? When did he need Lance so close to him, all the time?)
“We should meet back up with the others,” Lance says, swinging their arms together. “It’s been a few hours, I’m sure everyone else is done shopping. Ooooh, maybe we’ll be the first ones back, and we can go for a swim! What do you think?”
Keith smiles, whipped as all hell, Lance’s endless enthusiasm and love and affection and joy just making every part of him feel all fond and squishy.
“Sure, Lance. Whatever you want.”
The worst part is he means it. Lance could ask if Keith wanted to go skateboarding on an active volcano, and Keith would say yes without a second thought. (He would still have the wherewithal to complain, thankfully. He’s not that far gone yet.) But as he looks at Lance, who’s beaming, dodging elbows of random passers-by and pointing out every little stall that he thinks Keith would like (“Hey, Keith, check this out! It’s like little knives but for your nails! That’s right up your alley, Freddy Krueger.”)…
Keith can’t say he minds.