“Lance, if those are my socks, you’re going to meet God tonight.”
Lance pauses just outside the common room door, glancing down at his feet (that are most definitely clad in Pidge’s gigantic knitted socks), then back to Pidge.
“I’m freezing!” he defends. “This castle is always subzero, and I’m anaemic! I needed them!”
Pidge scowls. “I know they’re warm! That’s why I wanted to wear them this morning, but couldn’t, because somebody stole them!”
Lance pouts, big brown eyes getting even bigger and bottom lip stuck out. “Aw, but Pidge —”
“No buts! You made those socks for me! Make your own! Give ‘em!”
Lance huffs as he peels them off — revealing another pair of socks, only they’re normal and not fuzzy and soft — and throws them at her.
Pidge is correct — Lance is the worst clothes thief in the whole castle. In the universe, probably. Hell, he’s not even wearing a stitch of his own clothing right now — he’s wearing a long, thick skirt of Allura’s over a pair of Keith’s leggings, one of Hunk’s hoodies thrown over his shoulder. Keith can’t see due to the aforementioned giant hoodie, but he would bet his knife that under the hoodie is layered at least four various sweaters and shirts from other members of the team.
“You could just wear your own clothes, you know,” Shiro says, exasperatedly fond. “Lord knows you have more hoodies than the rest of the universe combined.”
“It’s not the same,” Lance insists. He looks mournfully at Pidge, who rolls her eyes at him. “And now I’m going to freeze to death.”
“Good,” she mutters, aggressively jamming the keys on her laptop. “Karma.”
Hunk flicks her on the ear.
“Be nice,” he admonishes.
“Thank you,” Lance says primly.
“If Lance dies, who is going to get so stressed about the state of your room that they’ll clean if for you?” Hunk continues, teasing grin on his face.
Lance mouth drops in indignation. “How dare — insolence! Defamation! False accusations! I am being mocked in my own home!” He turns to Coran, dramatically incensed and enraged. “Dad!” he says, which is something he only calls Coran when he wants to get his way. “Pidge and Hunk are bullying me!”
“I heard, dear,” Coran says, amused. “How rude of them.”
“Yeah!” Lance says. He gestures wildly towards the duo in question. “They should be — punished!”
“I see. Pidge? Hunk? Do you deserve to be punished?”
Pidge and Hunk look up from their projects to bat their eyelashes, expressions as innocent as possible.
Keith quickly hides a laugh as a cough. Luckily, Lance is too caught up in dramatics to notice.
“Why, of course not, dearest father,” Hunk says. “No bullying remarks ever crossed my lips.”
“Nor have they crossed mine, Papa,” Pidge agrees, putting on a silly Victorian accent. “Why, I am appalled at the very accusation!”
“I certainly heard no count of defamation,” Allura comments, looking up for the first time in what has to have been an hour. She’s been carefully painting Shiro’s prosthetic, covering it in a myriad of flowers and vines. Shiro keeps looking down at it and smiling. “Shiro? Did you hear anything?”
“Not a thing,” Shiro says. He looks over at Lance, barely suppressing a smirk. “Sorry, kiddo!”
“Betrayed!” Lance whines. “Unloved! By my very family, my comrades in arms! I have been shot, abandoned, left to rot. Unto no minds doth my very self cross, nor the hearts or sentiments of my closest loves. Instead I am left to freeze, to perish, as frost grows from my fingertips —”
“C’mere, Mercutio,” Keith teases, interrupting Lance’s soliloquy. He pats the cushion next to him, lifting up his arm so Lance knows what Keith is implying. “You can tuck your feet under my thighs, if you want.”
“Finally!” Lance cries, stumbling over to Keith. “Someone loves me, in this cold and weary hellscape of treason!”
Lance settles in with a relish, gleefully shoving his toes under Keith’s thigh — how do they feel like ice bricks, he’s wearing at least two normal pairs of socks and Keith’s sweatpants aren’t that thin — and plastering himself to Keith’s side. He rests his head on Keith’s shoulder, squiggling around until he’s comfortable and can see everyone else.
“Keith, you are the only valid person in this room,” he says, very seriously. (Well, as seriously as he can with amusement making his eyes sparkle.)
“Oh, how the turntables,” Hunk mutters.
Keith smiles. It is kind of strange, he supposes.
“Imagine trying to explain this to us three years ago,” he whispers to Lance. Lance laughs.
“I don’t think past me would even begin to take you seriously,” he agrees.
Privately, Keith thinks that past him probably wouldn’t have all that much trouble. He’d be a little shocked, sure, but Keith’s always been soft for the kind ones, and always had a thing for the cocky loudmouths. Lance is a lucky mix of exactly Keith’s type.
“Hey, Lance,” Hunk says after a while. “Genuinely asking — why do you always steal all our clothes? You never did at the Garrison. Or, well, you did, but not this much.”
Lance hums, reaching over to grab Keith’s free hand and fidgeting with his fingers. It takes him a long moment to answer — long enough that everyone else stops what their doing, looking over at him curiously.
“Hundreds of years ago,” he says finally, voice husky and quiet, “in the time of bad spirits and changelings, there lived a woman with her small child and husband. The woman loved her husband deeply, and he her, and it saddened her every time he left, but times were tight — he was a fisherman in a time of great recession, and had to leave often and for long periods of time to get enough for them to eat and sell.
“The woman was hardy, though, and fended well for herself and her baby even without her husband. She worked any job she could with the babe strapped to her back, keeping her mind busy so the loneliness wouldn’t plague her too deeply. Every morning she held for several moments her husband’s waistcoat, that he’d left behind for fear of ruining it out at sea. It did not hold the warmth of her husband, nor even the smell of him after so long, but he’d had the coat so long that she felt it carried a part of him in it, and that part was enough to carry her through the day.
“One day, while she was gathering the dried laundry from the lines, she heard a rustling inside the house. She called out, hopeful that her husband had returned early, but there was no response. Hesitantly, careful of the babe on her back, she crept in through the bedroom window, shrouding herself in shadows so as to remain hidden.
“She was smart to be so cautious, for a fairy had snuck in — and was standing gleefully in the kitchen! The wretched thing crouched by the hearth, rubbing its hands together, waiting for her and her babe to come in through the door.
“Now the woman knew she could not stay hidden forever. Eventually her back would tire, or the babe would wake, or even the fairy would grow bored of waiting and search for her — regardless, she would be found. And the woman was no witch, so she knew no spells for herself, no charms to protect herself and the child. She had only herself, her wits, and the laundry she had gathered. The woman was not ignorant to magic, either. She knew of the power that lay dusted over every single thing; the spirit that resided in living and non-living things alike.
“But the woman was young, and unpracticed. What say she of the powers that be? She did not know how to summon them. She did not know how she could outwit or out-charm a fairy. She did not know even if it was possible. In truth she was afraid, and longed for comfort as deeply as safety. She tightened her hands on her husband’s waistcoat, the softness of the wool soothing her mind, and wrapped it carefully around her and the babe. The memory of her husband and his love bolstered her spirit and cleared her mind. She could not fight the fairy, but perhaps she could reason with it. Fairies were wicked, but they were weak to games and bets.
“With her husband’s coat wrapped around her, she stepped out of the shadows, striding forward with confidence she did not feel to the kitchen, where the fairy was crouched.
“But the fairy did not stir.
“She looked at it strangely, having expected it to react immediately to the sounds of her footsteps, but it did not move. It only scowled deeply at the door, thin lips curled and porcelain-white skin purple in rage.
“‘Horrible humans!’ it screeched, banging its gnarled fists on the floor. ‘Anticipated my tricks, and fled from the house! Bah! I have waited for hours; I shall wait no longer. I will return tomorrow at the set of the sun, and descend upon them then.’ And then the fairy ran from the house, disappearing into the darkness of the forest.
“The woman was shocked. She had made no effort to conceal herself, after the shadows, and yet the fairy had not noticed her. She realized clearly that her husband’s spirit, caught in the threads of his coat, had protected her and her babe, and the fairy could not see through it. She resolved to stay wrapped up in the coat until the fairy grew bored of her home and left her in peace.
“For weeks, the woman kept her and her infant wrapped in the coat. It was with her when she slept, and when she worked, and when she ate. She kept herself secure in the heaviness of the worn wool, and over time the fairy did grow bored of waiting, coming to the house less and less until it did not come at all. Still she wore the coat, as wearing it brought her strength, brought her comfort.
“When her husband finally returned from sea, she ran to him, embracing him tightly and settling in his warmth, his scent. He carried the security of the waistcoat tenfold, and she had touched him only for minutes.
“When she told him of the fairy and the waistcoat, he was glowing in his pride of her. ‘You are as bright as any of the stars,’ he told her, cupping her face gently. ‘Fairies are evil, wretched creatures, who have been blinded to love. By wearing my waistcoat you shrouded yourself in a spirit the fairy could not see, and so it could not harm you. Your faith and love outwitted the bitter heart of the fairy.’”
No one speaks for several minutes after Lance finishes, struck silent by the captivating stillness in the room, the magic present from the story.
“That’s the story my Nana would tell me when she was teaching me how to sew, how to knit,” Lance says, breaking the silence. “She told me not to make the stitches too tight or there wouldn’t be room for love to settle in the clothing. And it just — it makes me feel safer, I guess. To be wearing other people’s clothes.”
“That’s beautiful,” Shiro says, smiling softly. Lance smiles back.
“Your Nana?” Pidge questions. “I would’ve thought you’d call her Abuela.”
“Well,” Lance says, in a startlingly good Scottish accent. “The McClain half ‘a me family had to come from somewhere, eh, lass?”
“I didn’t know you were Scottish,” Keith says quietly. It does make sense — McClain is a very Scottish name, now that he thinks of it — but somehow he’d never considered it.
“His mom’s side is,” Hunk chimes in. “That’s why he’s so freckly.”
Lance chuckles. “Yep. Only my Nana was born there, though. She fled to Cuba to escape my shithead grandfather when she was pregnant with my mom. She grabbed her passport and her purse and hauled ass to the airport in the middle of the night, and chose the first and cheapest flight available, which on that particular day was to Cuba. Lucky for her it ended up working, and now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“She sounds awesome,” Pidge says.
“She is. She taught me how to shoot, too.”
“I’d like to meet her, when we get to Earth,” Allura declares.
“Oh, she’ll love you, ‘Llura. Badass leader of an intergalactic revolution? You’re the coolest thing she can conceptualise.”
Allura looks pleased at the compliment.
“She’ll love all of you, in fact,” Lance continues. “Almost as much as she loves me. I’m her favourite.”
“You’re everyone’s favourite,” Coran says, and no one can really disagree.
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