Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kleptomania: an irresistible, irrational urge to steal in the absence of any economic motive.

Jeremiah ran his hand over the usual shelf blindly. His fingers came back empty, outside a grey coating of dust. He settled for the next most likely location of what he was searching for, patting his pockets. Nope, not there. As a final thought, he checked the key bowl on the chest, but once again came up with nothing.

“Keith!” he called to the ceiling, no louder than his normal speaking voice, knowing how easily the boy was spooked.

“Uh-huh?” The five-year-old appeared at the top of the stars, one hand clutching the railing, the other fiddling around in his pocket. He didn’t meet his father’s eye, but Jeremiah knew that wasn’t necessarily a guilt thing- just another Keith thing.

“Have you seen my pocket knife?” Jeremiah asked. “The one with lots of little tools that flick open?”

Keith’s gaze met his for a moment, his eyes a fraction wider than normal, before he turned his head away again. Now that was a sign of guilt. The boy puffed his cheeks, shaking his head firmly.

“No?” Jeremiah asked, raising a brow in question- only to be met with another fervent shake of the head. He tutted. “That’s a shame, because I really badly need it for work, and I’m leaving in a few minutes. Can you maybe come over here and help me look for it?”

“…Yeah, Pop. I’ll help.” Keith awkwardly hobbled down the stairs, legs still a little too short to put each foot on a new step, resulting in an uncomfortable fumbling and switching to give each leg equal work. He jumped the final two, landing in a thud that shook the whole structure enough to make the chime hanging in front of the window jingle. He then stood at the ready in front of Jeremiah, a little too close, his head tipped back so far it had to be uncomfortable in order to make eye contact with his father.

The boy gave the gap-toothed smile he’d had since he nabbed a skateboard from some older children and managed a ten-yard getaway before going over a bump and crashing on the concrete. He still had the band-aid over his chin- the wound ought to have closed by now, but Keith wouldn’t let him take it off, even though it was greying a bit from dust and grime and was curling around the edges.

“I’ll check around the couches. You do the rest. Okay?” Jeremiah instructed.

Again came the chicken nod, before Keith toddled off, hesitantly heading in the direction of the TV. Jeremiah only halfheartedly dug his hand between the pillows of the couch, keeping an eye on Keith, who was putting a bit more effort than him into pretending to be searching for the tool.

He feigned looking under the couch to spy on Keith, who was inching towards his burrow under the TV counter. Quick as a woodpecker, he shot his hand out to the bundle of blankets and assorted collectibles of all natures, before bursting off to the bookcase and, in what he probably thought was a really subtle move, planted the multi-tool before snatching it up again. “Found it!” he announced, holding it as high as he could to show it off, even going so far as to stand on the worn, tearing toes of his muddy boots. His head tipped to the side as he smiled wide.

Jeremiah straightened up slowly, back clicking as he did, then motioned for the boy to bring it over. “Good job, Keith,” he praised, rewarding him with a grin.

Keith slapped it into his palm like he was giving a high-five.

Jeremiah closed his fingers around the tool. “You know, I’m really glad you found it. It was careless of me to lose it- someone could accidentally sit on it and get hurt, or worse.” He looked into his son’s innocent, dark blue eyes. “I don’t want you ever playing with it, okay? If a tool snaps back suddenly it could take your fingers right off. I know it looks cool and it’s got lots of parts to figure out, but it’s dangerous for a kid your age to have. So I want you to promise me that you’ll never, ever play with it. Can you promise that to me?”

“Yeah, Pop. I promise.”

Jeremiah grinned in relief, giving his son a light noogie. “Atta boy. I’ll get you something just as good, but safer to play with, ‘kay?”

Keith began to fiddle with his hands, staring at them intensely. “…I like that it’s cold. I like how it won’t move, then moves on its own. And the click when the tools fit back in.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Jeremiah promised as he pocketed the tool, before kissing Keith on the forehead goodbye. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

That evening, he brought home a large nail clipper, with a little rubber putty forced into the sharp part so the lever still had full mobility without risking Keith getting pinched by it. Keith loved it the way only he could love random everyday things. He’d never been interested in anything originally designed to be a toy, leaving Jeremiah to figure something out based on what Keith found interesting lately. Keith never got rid of anything, and steadily his collection of oddities had grown.

Concealed in the burrow, Jeremiah knew there was a plastic Easter egg that popped into two halves when it was squashed; an assortment of polished, smooth and rough rocks, including a bit of space rock with tiny craters; a string of white fairy lights on a bare copper wire; a slinky that had fallen out of McGill’s tractor somewhere (it still worked without it so Jeremiah assumed it wasn’t that important); a makeup brush; a silicone spatula that Keith liked to chew on; and Keith’s dried leaf collection in a wooden bowl. What else was in there was a mystery, and he knew that both he and the neighbours would be missing those mystery things soon.

It was a bad habit of Keith’s that he couldn’t quite break- if the boy’s curiosity was piqued by something, he took it home, regardless of whether he was allowed to or if it had an owner or not, and the only way Jeremiah could return it without being faced with a lot of tears and screaming, was to replace it with something similar. Keith's trust in him had only recently grown to the point where a promise was enough to satisfy him tor the time being.

He managed to happen upon Lilo and Stitch while surfing channels, and left it on softly, with subtitles to back up his hearing, so Keith could be lulled by the soft sound coming from above him rather than disturbed. Keith was bundled up cosily in the blankets, wrapped in the heaviest one like he was a burrito, while playing with a string of beads that Jeremiah would probably have to return to a disgruntled neighbour soon, since he didn’t recognize it at all. Keith pushed the beads along the rope like he was counting on a one-stringed abacus, fully occupied in whatever version of the world his young mind saw.

Most nights went like this, although sometimes Keith would invite him into the burrow (he didn’t fit but he still stuck his head and arms inside to play with the ‘toys,’ too), or Keith would bring a blanket out with him and worm his way into Jeremiah’s lap so they could watch a movie cuddled up together.

It wasn’t how most families did things, but it was how their family did things. To be perfectly honest, Keith turned out fairly normal and easy to look after, in consideration of his mother’s background.

He knew that by the time Keith started going to school, the snatching would have to be put to a halt, as would the obsession with his collectables- if only to save the boy from being bullied. Keith had been pretty sheltered so far, and there was a lot he had to learn about how to avoid the cruelty that went on outside.

But hey- they had time.

Chapter Text

“Hey there!” Brent bit out on impulse when he spied a hand tucking a granola bar deep into the pocket of a red hoodie.

The unkempt, overgrown black hair parted to reveal a cold, dagger gaze. “Yeah?” The boy’s voice was casual, but his expression spoke a threat- a ridiculous one, since the boy was short enough to fit under the lip of the counter without ducking.

“I didn’t see you pay for that, young man.” Brent crossed his arms, raising his brows expectantly at the boy- for him to own up about his shoplifting, or at least put back what he took.

“That makes sense.” Keith – Brent recognized him after a few moments of pondering; the boy never quite picked up Jeremiah’s appearance, probably taking more to the mystery mother – breezed past the cashier’s counter like he didn’t have any unaccounted-for convenience store property on him. He didn’t even flinch at getting caught, or show a trace of regret at committing a crime. “Since I didn’t pay for it.”

Nine years old and already throwing his future away. Brent bet he’d catch the kid swiping cigarettes off the shelf behind him before his thirteenth birthday. It was a real shame such a good man couldn’t raise an equally good kid.

Brent hurried around the counter to block the exit- rather belatedly realizing that his weight would cause the door to slide open, giving the boy a broader chance of escape. “Now wait just a moment, Keith,” he ordered, holding his hand out in front of the boy’s chest to shove back or catch if necessary. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Keith firmly stared at his shoulder with a look only justified if all the evil in the world was resting on it. “I think I’ll go outside once you make way.” Brent’s eyes caught on Keith’s fingers wiggling at his side like he was a cowboy getting ready to draw his gun. Was that the problem? Too many cartoons? Was he dealing with a delusional kid who was convinced he was the protagonist of the world, and everyone who didn’t let him have every little thing he wanted was an evil mastermind plotting against him?

“Well tough luck- you’re not going anywhere until you pay up or put back what you took.” The boy’s lack of eye contact was beginning to unnerve Brent. He could feel rage boiling up like an acid in his stomach, creeping up to his head. His arm wanted to do something rash and forceful, and he only just managed to keep from hitting the boy, grabbing his chin and forcing it up instead. Keith’s eyes just lazily drifted to the side, which only frustrated Brent more. “And if you’re not going to do either, I’ll have the police sort it out for us.”

“Sounds g-“

“Police?” Miss Hutchinson, cat-footed as ever (the old gossip really knew how to disappear to all the senses), piped up as she poked her head around an aisle. She was a little taller than the rows of shelves, so he should have been able to see her- which meant she must have come in with the goal of snooping, ducking around secretively. “What is that I hear about the police? Has there been a robbery?”

“Caught one in the act.” Brent switched his grip to Keith’s wrist, holding the boy’s arm up and wiggling it. “Red-handed.”

Miss Hutchinson fiddled for the chord around her neck, before lifting her glasses up by them. She fixed them on her nose while stepping towards the two. “Keith? Keith Padgett?”

“I don’t know what Jeremiah’s teaching the boy, Miss Hutch,” Brent tutted, giving the boy’s arm a bit of a tug, just to show off a little. He caught a criminal, after all- up North he would have gotten a mention in the papers, at least. He may as well cash in a bit on the glory.

Miss Hutchinson’s brow furrowed. Her lips pursed. “…I don’t believe Jeremiah has been teaching young Keith anything in a while.”

“Eh?” Brent, grunted, confused.

“Didn’t you hear ‘bout the accident? Jeremiah passed away on duty at least two months ago.”

Of course. Brent didn’t know how it could have slipped his mind- the whole town had been invited to the eulogy. They had all, after all, either been rescued or had someone close to them be rescued by the man at least once. Jeremiah never stood back on anything, always running head-first into any situation where someone needed help.

Maybe that was why Keith was acting up- rebellion powered by grief, and the lack of a good, present male role model. Even before, Keith had never been much of a talker- his father had probably been his only friend.

That didn’t excuse anything, though. “Then who do we call about- this?” He pointedly looked down at Keith. “The mom’s never been around- who’s the guardian? Do we know ‘em?”

Miss Hutchinson raised her shoulders, humming an ‘I don’t know.’ She crouched in front of Keith and asked in a saccharine voice, “Keith, dear, who’s looking after you at the moment?”

The boy leaned back at the intrusion to his personal bubble, gaze on her pointy shoes. “’ve been looking after myself, ma’am.”

She shook her head at the boy, with a simmering frustration Brent could empathise with. “No, Keith, I mean whose house are you living in right now?”

“My dad’s.”

Her smile morphed into something nasty for an instant, but she recovered it just as quickly. “And who’s living with you?” she slowly said, annunciating each word separately like she was speaking to a foreigner.

Keith’s head tipped down, his fingers slipping into his pocket. The plastic of the granola bar crunched at the same time they heard the gurgling growl of a near-empty stomach. The room was startled into silence for a minute.

Then, almost inaudibly, Keith murmured, “…I’m on my own.”

“My God,” Brent breathed, a different sickly feeling welling up in the pit of his gut. “Did- has anyone taken Keith in since his father passed?”

“We’re all fools,” Miss Hutchinson sighed. “Thanking Jeremiah for all the good he’s done, but not even sparing a thought about what he needed us to do."

Brent shook his head, hand plastered against his forehead as he stared down at the starving two-months-orphaned boy at his side. At the tragedy that their town had allowed to let happen, simply by their own inaction. “…What have we done?”

Chapter Text

Jozi really wanted a sweetie.

She had lived with the Hartleys for three months, one week and six days, and in that time the house had seen dessert only twice- and the second time she didn't even get any, because supposedly she 'had been naughty.'

(The bland hallway walls looked ten times better with her drawings on them, and anyone could fight her on that.)

There was also a limit on snacking from the fruit bowl, and the only candy in the house was in a jar that stood high up on the fridge, which only came down when someone got a reward for good behaviour- doing all their chores, getting a B or higher on a report card, managing to get through a semester without ending up in the office...

The impossible, basically.

There was that one time, though, that Keith got a sweetie - a round green one, wrapped in shiny paper so it looked like a bow tie, that he'd said tasted like cream soda - for telling on Amber, who had gone into the pool without her floaties. Amber had since changed homes, so pushing her into the pool and cashing in on the reward wasn't an option, but Jozi was incredibly sugar-deprived, and determined to find a way.

"Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven..."

 Which lead to her pressing her ear against the second door in the hall, trying to wrap her head around why someone was practicing their counting during spring break. Foregoing the 'No Girls Allowed' sign taped to the door, she closed her hand around the round, cold doorknob, and invited herself in.

On an ordinary day, that was usually when there was a yell about learning how to knock, followed by something being thrown at her. But this was obviously not an ordinary day, because instead, the strange counting simply continued without a hitch.

"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen..."

 At twelve, Keith was the oldest kid in the house, five years older than Jozi- but with the way he acted, he may as well have been three hundred years older. She didn't like him very much: he frowned when he was supposed to smile, and had refused to sneak her some of the dessert she had missed out on, even though she had asked very nicely. He didn't play games, either- instead he spent most of his time in his room, studying, which drove her mad because she knew he was just doing it so he could get away with all the sweeties.

The room was as much of a mess as it could be with Keith's limited possessions. The closet doors were wide open and empty, while clothes poured out of the suitcase that was halfway shoved under his bed, and the desk Keith hunched over had books and papers carelessly shoved to one end, threatening to fall off. Most of his stationery, as well as some towels and jackets, were scattered over the carpet already.

She skipped to his side, standing real close, so she was practically breathing in his ear - she knew how much he hated it - and stared as equally hard at him as he did at the sandglass he had made space for on his desk. Black sand was spilling down from the top half in a thin line, gathering in a cone shape at the bottom, as Keith continued to count.

"What are you doing?" Jozi queried. According to her, there was only one reason why the hourglass was fascinating- and that was that it managed to be fascinating to the unimpressionable Keith. Otherwise, it was the same as any other boring sandglass, running and running until it would eventually run out. She thought of herself as clever for knowing hourglasses better than the older boy, and the sense of pride drove her to prod more. "What are you doing?" she repeated after getting no answer.

 The only change that let her know that Keith was, in fact, not deaf to her words, and simply chose to ignore her, was that his volume kicked up a notch so he could hear himself above her. "...Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine..." The eternal frown dug deeper into his skin.

She wouldn't stand for being ignored. Jozi firmly planted her hands on both sides of the sandglass, leaning over it, staring Keith in the eyelids (because he would stubbornly not look up) and asked, once more, "What are you doing?"

At that exact moment, two other things happened: the hourglass ran empty, and Keith breathed out, "Sixty," then shut his mouth and slumped back in his chair. His eyes slowly, emptily drifted to her, like she was an inanimate object his gaze just happened to drift to. "Counting how much time the sandglass measures," he answered with a monotone voice.

 "I thought Mr Hartley said we weren't allowed to touch his collection," Jozi chastised, remembering their foster father's strict words on the first day she arrived. Three shelves in the living room were dedicated to sandglasses big and small; frameless, wood and stone; running on sand or water and oil or magnets. He had made it very clear that there was little worse that could be done in the house, than causing so much as a scratch on one of them.

There was a squeaky sound that made Jozi shudder in disgust when she realized it was Keith grating his teeth. "Yeah, well, I'm not touching it, am I?" His fists were clenching on the table, knuckles turning white in some places and red in others.

Jozi rolled her eyes at the typical Keith response. He always spoke like that when he was trying to dodge trouble, and people got so frustrated with him that they gave up and let him get away with whatever he had done. "Well you must've to get it in your room."

"Maybe I just found it here," Keith challenged in return. It wasn't just his fists clenching anymore- his entire body was shaking like he was struggling to hold back a beast.

It didn't stop Jozi, though. "You must've touched it when you turned it around!"

Like he'd been wound up too far, Keith suddenly snapped. Quick as a lightning strike, he grabbed the sandglass with both hands and slammed it on the empty end, careless about its fragile materials which thankfully held strong. In a sharp contrast to his bold move, the sand peacefully poured down again. "One, two, three, f-"

"Hey, you touched it now!" Jozi pointed at him accusingly.

"No I didn't. Seven, eight, nine-"

"Yes you did! I saw!" Jozi found herself bursting from excitement, unable to hold still. She'd been convinced she'd have to set up a scenario to win a sweetie, but instead one was handed to her on a silver platter. She hopped up and down, squealing. "You broke a rule and I'm gonna tell!"

"Don't you dare," Keith warned, his voice dangerously low and his head tipped forward so he glared at her from under his heavy brows. She shrugged it off, skipping out the room as casually as she walked in, wondering what colour candy she should pick. Her favourite colour was purple, but she hated grapes, so maybe she would take a blue bubblegum one instead.

"Jozi, don't you dare!" Keith growled, his voice's proximity to her making her jump and burst into a sprint.

"Haha! You're in trouble!" she taunted back at him, continuing to jog down the hall.

"Jozi, I'm gonna put it back! Just for God's sake don't tell them!"

She just kept on laughing, launching herself at the stair railing so she could slide down to the bottom extra quick. She paused, however, when she realized that the footsteps were getting further rather than closer.

Keith disappeared in his room, then came out a few moments later, with something yellow in his hands.

Jozi recognized that something yellow. It sent a pang through her heart, and her eyes were burning before she could help it. "Mr Quackers!" She was back at the door in an instant, ripping the stuffed duck from his filthy grasp. She squeezed him tight to her heart, and was disappointed to hear only a very faint quack back. The battery was near dead.

"I... I'm sorry."

She looked up at the taller boy, scowling at the very late apology that she would never accept.

"I took it the night I got here," Keith explained.

She shoved him as hard as she could, but the hurt showed more on his face than on his body. At least he felt something, though. "They told me Rufus ate him!" She'd been traumatized at the loss, horrified that her best friend had supposedly met his end between the teeth of a particularly nasty Doberman.

Keith just stared at his feet. "Well he's still alive and in one piece. That's at least good news, right?"

It was good news, but it wasn't enough for what he had done. Mr Quackers should have been there with her all along, through all the chores, during that dessert she missed, and at night during thunderstorms. She shouldn't have had to question whether he was still alive in the first place. That was all Keith's fault. "He's the only thing I had left from my family and you took him from me!"

"But I'm giving it back-"

"I cried for hours and you knew it, and the whole time you were snuggling with him in secret and didn't even think about giving him back! But now you do, because now it's all about you not getting into trouble. You don't care about anyone but yourself!"

The older boy's hands clenched in his hair in exasperation. "I didn't know it was that important to you!" Of course he didn't. Keith could never understand anything. There was an unspoken rule in every foster home she'd been to, that they would never ever try to take anything from each other. Because they all knew how little they had and how any tiny, seemingly meaningless thing could be the last reminder of happier times.

Jozi squeezed Mr Quackers even tighter and it let out a string of pitifully faint quacks as the dam walls broke. "You're a horrible person and you're stinky and it's a good thing you're never getting a forever home because you'll probably steal from them, too!" Her tears blurred her vision and she nearly tripped on her way down the stairs.

Keith's bags were packed within the day, and thrown roughly into the back of the social worker's car. He didn't say goodbye to anyone- didn't even look out the window as they drove off.

The sweetie tasted far more bitter than Jozi had expected.

Chapter Text

Shiro groaned a little at himself in the mirror.

Why wouldn't he? It took a lot of time to get the dress shirt's buttons through the tiny holes that he was certain were a manufacturing error. He'd put on the teal tie and the matching pants, and combed his hair, and pulled on his socks and the black shoes that pinched his toes. But the matching blazer - the one thing that made the difference between 'devilishly handsome guest of honour' and 'drunk, overpaid douche-bag' - was nowhere to be found.

"What's the matter?" Adam called from the kitchen. He was always hours ahead of the clock, ready to go before Shiro even got in the shower. Before they'd started carpooling, forcing him to wait for the slower-by-comparison-but-actually-quite-punctual Shiro, he would show up at events before they'd even finished setting out the chairs. As it was, he was taking advantage of the waiting time to make preparations for the next day's breakfast.

Shiro glanced at his open closet once more, as if the blazer would miraculously appear in plain sight after three thorough searches. "Did you send my jacket to the cleaner's?" he called back.

"Don't know. Which one?"

"The one you told me to wear tonight?"

He could practically hear Adam's eyes roll as he sighed. "Come on, Takashi. By this point you should know, if something's missing, check-"

"-check with Keith first, I know, I know," Shiro grumbled, slumping on the bed. He really didn't want to go through the same exhausting talk all over again, but it wasn't like Adam gave him much of a choice. "I just worry he'll think I'm accusing him of stealing."

Adam hummed. "Makes sense. He is stealing."

"You know what I mean," Shiro exasperatedly chided. He exhaled air trapped at the bottom of his lungs, fingers pressed against a pain behind his temple that beat along with his pulse. He stood up, aiming for the box of ibuprofen that'd had a permanent place on their bathroom counter ever since they semi-adopted Keith. "He gets so defensive about it- like there's nothing wrong about it until we point it out. That's how his world works." He snapped a tablet free from the foil and dropped it in a glass from the cabinet. A few drops of water later and he was swirling the water around, watching the tablet dissolve.

"But he's not living in his world. He's living in the real world." A fair point, Shiro had to admit. "If he'd done what he's doing in our home anywhere else, he'd be in juvenile hall by now. You can't keep isolating him from that reality. If he doesn't stop right now, soon he's going to steal from someone who won't keep quiet about it."

Shiro forced the slightly bitter, dusty-tasting medicine down with one gulp before rinsing out the glass and setting it back in the cabinet. "It's just that it took so much work to get him to trust us to the point that he does- I'm almost certain we're close to a breakthrough and I don't want him to close up again by blaming him for something that doesn't matter too much. Keith knows right from wrong better than most kids his age, but when it comes to taking small things, he just- just doesn't understand. And I can't make him."

He closed the cabinet door, just to be met with his own face reflected back at him. The bags under his eyes weren't too heavy, but he'd definitely seen better days.

Everything Adam had to say about Keith, was what Shiro also thought at one point but forced down. He knew the conversation he was caught up in was both between Adam and him, and him and his reflection.

"He stole my car," had not been a very tactful introduction of Keith to Adam, Shiro had to admit. But there was little else to talk about outside Keith's excellent scores in the simulator and his situation as an orphan. Shiro could relate somewhat- after his parents' accident when he was a toddler, he was raised by his grandfather, who lived to see Shiro's graduation from the Garrison's flight school, but not much longer. He knew it had been a lot more traumatic for Keith- Shiro was too young to understand when it happened to him, and Keith didn't, as far as Shiro knew, have any family left that cared enough to take him in.

He wanted the gifted boy to have what he'd had, even if that meant Shiro would have to play the 'grandfather' in this scenario.

It was just unfortunate that, unlike Shiro, Adam didn't even try to believe that Keith's swipes would be limited to small, manageable, mostly unimportant things outside of that single scenario of grand theft auto. Shiro feared that Adam's sceptical gaze and silver-counting was the final rift between them and Keith, and that if his partner didn't accept Keith with his flaws as the complete package, they'd never get to properly working on those flaws.

"Ask him if he borrowed it," Adam advised. "Then you're not implying he'd done something bad."

Shiro shook his head, though he knew Adam couldn't see it. "No, no, can't do that. He's smart enough to know why we're asking him and not somebody else. Sugar-coating the vocabulary isn't enough. I think I'll meet up with Keith in a few minutes as I am, and just casually bring up that I lost it. It'll 'appear' in here within the hour."

"Y'know what? You know how to work with this kid better than I do. So if you think that'll work- be my guest." He could tell Adam was frustrated that his more direct plan didn't make the cut- it hardly ever did. But Adam was right. Shiro knew how to navigate the minefield that was Keith's explosive personality best. It was only natural that he was the one to know what to do, and he shouldn't have to feel sorry for his plans being the best suited ones. This wasn't a playful game where he'd let up a bit so Adam would think they were competing neck-in-neck- there was a fragile boy's future at stake.

He was at the front door before he knew it. Opening it, he looked back at the kitchen, where Adam was straightening the egg box and bread. "Maybe stay out of sight of the door for a while? Just so Keith can come in and out without knowing he's been caught."

He heard a deep sigh as Adam leaned against the counter, his back to Shiro. "You do a lot for that kid, Takashi," he said, and though the words could be seen as a praise, the tone spoke otherwise. "Too much."

Shiro frowned, confused at the reaction. "It's not much. It's just hanging out in the bedroom or the officer's lounge for a few min-"

"He meddles with every part of our lives, Shiro," Adam interrupted, and Shiro winced at the use of his casual name. Adam never used it when they were alone.

He could see his partner's shoulders tense as his head dropped, as if in surrender. Shiro closed the door in favour of approaching him, but froze when Adam spoke again.

"Keith's juice boxes in the fridge," Adam murmured. "Keith's homework corner on the dining table. Keith's doodles on the back of my work documents. Keith's pillow fort all over the living suite. Keith's blanket nest in the bathtub. 'Oh, we can't go on the anniversary dinner date we reserved this time last year- Keith got sent to the office and needs to be coddled for the rest of the night. While we're at it, let's move every future date to a place swarming with kids so our third wheel can tag along.'" His voice was escalating, growing louder and more hysterical. He spun around, his cold gaze catching Shiro's.

It felt like more than just the tiles of the kitchen stood between them.

"Do I even have to bring up the amount of times he's barged into the bathroom without knocking? How he used you to manipulate me into giving him slack in class, which almost got me fired? Hey, where's Keith now? Oh I don't know, why don't you put your hand up my shirt- he's bound to magically appear then!" He slammed his hands on the counter, hard enough to make the dishes inside it clank in complaint, before marching to their bedroom as if demonstrating a drill to the students.

Shiro felt a heavy guilt rest on his heart as he trailed along. Their relationship had been tense ever since it wasn't just him and Adam anymore. It was true that Keith was taking up space, but it was a space Shiro had allowed him to. Neither Keith nor Adam were to blame for any of the discomfort either had to go through. The combination of his and Adam's points of view on the matter were probably sending mixed messages to the boy, too, which would only hamper his progress. "I just need you to hold out for a few more months, Adam. I'm sure I'm close to getting through to him. Just please... a few more months."

Adam's hands scrunched up into fists before he grabbed his own jacket from where he'd laid it out on the bed. "You can coddle him all you want, Shiro." His voice was like acid as he shrugged on his jacket. "But keep that little brat away from me. If you think we're going to make him a part of this family before you've even popped the question, you can forget it. He's not our baby. He's a random fourteen-year-old you decided to make a charity case out of. And I'm not going to waste any more energy on him than I absolutely have to."

A sudden, loud slamming sound hit Shiro's headache harder than the front door hit the frame. For a breath he worried about going out in such strong wind without a jacket, until he realized with a start that the front door had definitely been closed when they left the room. Cold dripped down his spine. "Oh no..." His eyes met Adam's, which were completely unperturbed. "Please tell me Keith wasn't inside the entire time."

Adam sighed boredly. "Alright. Keith wasn't inside the entire time."

Shiro didn't waste a moment to be annoyed at his partner's response, dodging past instead and sprinting to the living room.

Instantly he noticed that one couch was out of place. Instead of being parallel to the wall, it was almost diagonal, and over the most displaced armrest laid his teal jacket. There was a little yellow sticky note on the breast pocket. Carefully, like it would bite, he inched towards it to make out the chicken-scratch writing.

Sorry.

Chapter Text

There had always been something dangerous and feral about Keith's aura, but it became especially deadly after the Kerberos failure.

Everyone knew that Takashi Shirogane's position within the Garrison was what got Keith in to begin with- and what kept him in despite regular disciplinary incidences that in any other case would have resulted in expulsion. But there were a lot of rumours surrounding just why Shiro took such an interest in the boy. The most common story was that Keith was a distant relative of Shiro's, and that Shiro's family was nagging him to power the boy through the world's greatest flight school. Hunk personally believed that Shiro, being a goodhearted man in privileged circumstances, had been looking for a charity case for some time. If that was the case, he probably got a lot more than he bargained for.

Keith was a challenging case, that was for sure. He punched people often- though, having overheard some of the preceding conversations, Hunk had to admit they sometimes deserved it at least a little, although he was a firm believer that a peaceful solution should always be chosen above a violent (albeit more satisfying) one. When the Kerberos disaster got milked into a new simulation scenario for the students to perfect and for the instructors to lecture on, Keith hacked into the computers and corrupted the code so they never even got a shot at it (until it mysteriously came back online after a security breach not long after Keith left). And maybe Hunk was just more of a background observer than the rest of his class, but he was starting to pick up on things disappearing from where they belonged, and reappearing with Keith.

Particularly, things belonging to Hunk's roommate Lance.

The boy was an exchange student from Cuba who occasionally flitted back into a Spanish accent, and after he had finished unpacking, it looked more like his suitcase had simply exploded. He just had so. Much. Stuff. Photos and posters; strings and fairy lights; tourist trap souvenirs; several memory boxes he had just shoved under his bed... and shoes and jeans galore. The boy had shipped his entire room out to the States, it seemed.

That meant there was no shortage of a mess in their dorm, and they both often got into trouble for the chaos that was clearly restricted to Lance's side of the washi tape. It also meant that Lance didn't have a simple mental checklist of possessions to skim through at the end of each day, so he didn't really pick up on an absence among the hundreds and hundreds of presences.

But Hunk knew, at the very least, about every tacky knickknack that had found a home on the shelf above Lance's bed. So when he noticed a ring in the dust where Lance's Vegas Santa snow globe used to be, and saw a clone of the atrocity in Keith's palm just a few hours later, as he sat on the staircase without a thought to the people trying to get around him, watching the sandstorm coat a very bling Saint Nicholas with a layer of off-white, he was able to put two and two together.

Hunk was almost certain that Keith had no clue about the rivalry Lance had invented between them. Yet, somehow he seemed to have targeted his and Lance's room as a prime location for stealing, and Hunk could see no other reason why. They certainly weren't the most well-off students at the posh Garrison, nor had they done anything else to warrant Keith targeting them- or rather, targeting Lance, since Hunk never found something of his own to be unaccounted for.

So when Lance simultaneously stuck his head under his bed and asked, "Hunk, have you seen my green bomber jacket? The one with the white fleece hoodie?" he knew.

Keith never went for the expensive or important stuff. There wasn't a scratch on Lance's laptop, his phone wouldn't budge from the nightstand unless Lance was the one who budged it, and the pile of super-important textbooks on his desk remained untouched even though Lance's entire future could be nerfed by the disappearance of a single one. No, he'd rather take snowglobes, the second pillow that Lance never used, one of a scattered army of chapsticks (that Hunk was only glad were diminishing in numbers, because he'd nearly broken his neck slipping on them a couple of times), an occasional face mask sachet that Lance actually did notice disappear but blamed on Hunk, and - thank the heavens - Lance's light-up sneakers. Also, the stuff tended to reappear within a few days or weeks, like Keith lost interest in them and couldn't think of any better way to dispose of them.

Hunk slipped out the room as quietly as he could, which was a shockingly easy task while Lance was occupied with turning his room upside down and chatting away about how the jacket used to be his brother's and how he passed it down to Lance when he got accepted to the Garrison. He figured that it was during these moments of distraction that the room became one belonging emptier.

As he entered the open courtyard, Hunk scarcely wondered for a moment how on Earth he would locate Keith, when his eyesight was interrupted by the toes of two heavy military boots. He tipped his head back, following the legs up to where their owner sat on the low branch of one of the few trees that survived in the arid region. Keith was staring intently at a pen in his hand, clicking it as fast as the mechanism allowed. Hunk scrutinized it for a few seconds, and eventually relaxed when he realized that neither he nor Lance owned any purple stationery and that someone else was, for once, the unfortunate victim. "Oh, hey there, Keith. Just the man I was looking for, actually."

The clicking paused for a moment as Keith glanced down to acknowledge him, expression empty, before he returned to what he was doing without even the usual grunt as a verbal response.

Hunk sighed as he realized that he had his work cut out for him. Keith had never been an easy person to speak to, let alone reason with. He decided to skip the formalities and get straight to business. "Listen, man, you've got to give Lance his jacket back."

That certainly evoked some sort of response. Keith's thumb froze on the top of the pen as his eyebrows hid behind his fringe. "What?"

"Lance's jacket," Hunk repeated, finding himself gesturing the shape and purpose of it. "Army green? Front zipper? White hoodie?" The elaboration didn't bring a look of realization on Keith's face, and for the first time Hunk started to doubt himself. Maybe someone else took it. Maybe Lance had just been his usual, forgetful self and had already found it among the rest of his mess. Hunk didn't like the guilty feeling that welled up in his gut. His mouth moved to apologize, but somewhere in the brain-to-voice translating process it converted into an, "I know you have it." Instantly he wanted to slap himself.

And there was the cold, feral glare that Hunk recognized from the moment before every fight Keith had ever gotten into. Keith's free hand slid down the branch towards his side, and Hunk wouldn't have been surprised if the boy pulled out a knife on him. "Did you... see me take it?" the defiant sixteen-year-old asked slowly, like the movement of a big cat stalking its prey, getting ready to strike.

In turn, Hunk felt like a cornered impala- small, terrified and helplessly trapped. He shifted his weight, reminding himself that his legs were not rooted to the ground, despite how they felt, and that an escape was still possible. This was the perfect moment to apologize and run.

"No, but I've been seeing you with a lot of Lance's stuff lately."

Darn brain-to-mouth filter. Do your job and make me stop saying stupid things that bring me closer to death, will you?

There was an odd change to Keith's expression. It wasn't entirely unwelcome to see anything other than the laser glare, but the sudden mood swing made Hunk feel uncertain in a way that had him almost wishing for the more certain threat to be back. At least he knew where he stood before.

The hand moved away from Keith's side, thankfully still empty of any weapon. The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly as he looked back at the pen, clicking it in an unrecognizable rhythm. "Oh, Akeakamai... Are you calling me a thief?"

Hunk ran cold at the use of his first name, until he remembered that he had never formally introduced himself to Keith, so all the boy knew was the name he responded to on roll call. He wasn't trying to be patronizing or sound like the Garrison officers- he was just unaware that Hunk preferred his nickname.

He didn't know how, but he had the gut feeling that this Keith - cocky, gas-lighting and psychotically playful - was far more dangerous than feral Keith. Maybe not to Hunk's physical well-being, but definitely to his sanity. "I'm not calling you anything," Hunk carefully said, taking it one word at a time and watching Keith's face carefully to make sure he didn't cross any line. "I'm just saying, as someone who knows Lance, and knows what of the garbage in our room he actually uses and what he doesn't, that it would be a good idea if it was returned to its rightful owner before he notices it's really not in his room anymore and reports it to the office."

Like he had been hoping for a game but Hunk didn't want to play, Keith's smirk disappeared, to be replaced by a disgusted frown. He glared down at Hunk silently for a few moments, making him wish there was a step stool or something so they could be on the same level. As it was, he felt like a lowly peasant being looked down on by a king. "Well you can tell Lance to check in the laundry this Friday." He said the name with so much venom that Hunk wondered whether the rivalry wasn't perhaps mutual, after all. "Maybe he just threw it in the dirty pile without knowing about it."

It was a very clever, practiced way of undoing the crime without actually confessing, Hunk noticed. He felt himself being even more worried, knowing that this was probably routine for Keith if he'd mastered such spin talk. Hunk was just glad that his part in all of it was over, and he didn't waste another second risking getting roped into it any more than he could get out of. He gave a curt nod. "Thank you. I'll tell him that."

Keith gave a two-fingered salute before shutting an invisible wall between him and Hunk, returning to clicking his pen in a resolute way that left Hunk knowing there would be no further exchanges of words.

It wasn't the last time that Keith took something of Lance's, but it was the last time he took something important. It was also the last time he ever returned anything. Hunk feared that Keith had started relying on him to warn Keith whether he'd taken something important or not, as a signal for when to return something, and couldn't shake off the feeling that he'd become a partner in crime as a result. And he felt dirty. Soon he wasn't just checking that all his belongings were in place, but also that no-one else's things had appeared in his room- not because he thought Keith might plant something, but because Hunk half-expected he himself had begun to steal without noticing.

He'd forgotten what it was like to be able to relax, until the day Keith got expelled.

After that, Keith was the only thing that vanished.

Chapter Text

"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. You have the right to a fair trial..."

Officer Murray hated these sorts of cases.

He'd joined the police force to help people- to save them from the dangers of the world. But more often than not, it was the very people he'd intended to help who he ended up handcuffing and shipping to the station.

The kid was just stealing socks, for Pete's sake. And by the looks of his stretched-out clothes that were unraveling at the seams, and how sickly his joints stuck out from his malnourished limbs, he needed everything he could get his hands on.

The policeman sighed deeply in surrender to his conscience, easing up on the hold. "Y'know what? I'm feeling mighty generous today, so I'm gonna let this one slide."

Keith's head twisted around uncomfortably, in a way that reminded him of a snapping animal trying to defend its back. The young man shot him a glare. "I'm sensing a 'but' somewhere in there."

"I do have conditions- that's right. My conditions are that you get a job." When he saw the look of protest, he raised a finger before the boy could utter a word. "And before you tell me that nobody around here would make you an offer, I also have the condition that you take the job I've got for you. I noticed you've got some custom modifications on that speeder of yours- and by the race you gave me, seems like quality work got done on it. Work you can't afford, judging by the looks of you right now. So I reckon you did it yourself."

The boy scoffed, but the sound was forced through his teeth, making it come across like an aborted growl. A lot of the boy's look and behaviour was animalistic, Murray realized, and on top of that, he twitched a lot and stared through Murray like he was a pane of glass. His time on the streets had probably sent his mental health on a downwards spiral, and Murray had caught him just in time- or maybe just a little too late. "Well, you 'reckon' right," Keith grumbled after blowing a lock of his overgrown fringe out his face.

Murray stepped back to give the young man room to straighten up, and he dug in the pocket behind his badge for the key to the handcuffs, which he belatedly felt very ashamed of subjecting Keith to. Socks. He was just stealing socks. "So here's what I've got for you," he began to explain as he wriggled the key into the tiny keyhole. "My brother-in-law owns a one-man garage not too far from here, and he could use an extra set of able hands. He doesn't get all that expensive business, but I'm sure you know how to make a minimum wage do what you need it to. Certainly an improvement from getting no pay at all." The first half of the cuff came free. He watched the boy subconsciously rub the freed wrist, as if to check that the metal bond was indeed gone. "And if you're up for it, he may or may not be involved in dirt biking races out in the back field, and can get you your chance on the track, but you didn't hear it from me. Been told they make good money out there, and they only drive half as good as you fly. Extrapolate your skills a bit, and I think you've got yourself a living."

The boy chuckled lightly as the second cuff dropped away, dodging eye contact by staring down at his hands. Murray crossed his arms in impatience, awaiting some sort of thank you, or at least a confirmation that he'd take the job that Murray had practically served to him on a silver platter. When Keith tipped his head back, his gaze once again missing Murray's eyes to stare up at the sky instead, the laughing didn't cease- in fact Murray could swear it grew a touch louder. There was something maniacal about it that had Murray almost reaching for the cuffs again- up until that point the boy had not seemed particularly unstable or in need of being restrained, but by freeing him, Murray felt like he'd just picked the wrong answer on a serial killer's game show.

Keith's head dropped back down, and Murray instantly regretted wishing for eye contact so badly, because as soon as three seconds into it, it felt suffocating. His laughter broke off into a cross between a hum and a sigh, and he watched Murray intently, like Keith was the one who had asked a question and was expecting an answer. Or, like he had just dropped a mouse into a maze and was waiting for it to start running.

"Alright, now I feel bad," Keith said after what was definitely too long of a silence but that only Murray had found awkward, apparently. And his smile looked like it was fetched from another moment of the day and had time traveled to land between them, out of context and unsettling.

"...Feel bad for what?" Officer Murray carefully, slowly asked, half expecting his words to trigger a mob attack or a booby trap. His eyes surveyed the environment as fast as they could before jumping back to Keith, in case the boy would pull out a concealed weapon at the first sign of the cop's hesitation. He'd never felt so uncertain about anything since he was first handed a badge and a baton.

"I feel bad," Keith offhandedly said, starting his sentence from the beginning as he shoved his hands into his ripped pockets, "about taking your watch."

"What?"  Murray's hand flew to his empty wrist.

He'd scarcely looked back up at the boy before his watch was being dangled in front of his face, free to take back- or so it would seem. He snatched it quickly before the boy could get the idea of taunting the officer with it, then instantly felt a sour guilt in his gut as he realized the boy's grip had been too light to have had any intention of putting up a fight over it.

"And your wallet," Keith continued, taking his other hand out his pocket to casually place the wrapped-up leather into the stunned owner's palm. Murray's hand didn't even have enough time to touch his now-flat pocket and confirm the truth, before a third item joined the pile. "Your keys..." The ring usually hooked to his belt, which held the tools to open his van, the station, the gun safe and his locker (and which he would most certainly get fired over if he ever lost it) clinked as they were dropped on top of his wallet. "...And your moustache."

Murray nearly reached up to touch his facial hair, but the logical part of his mind just barely managed to catch his hand before he could make a fool out of himself. The playful prank reminded him that this was just a teenager he was dealing with, and the impression of the unstable maniac dissolved into that of an outcast, socially awkward boy who was just trying to make things work. He could feel his own posture relaxing as he found himself firmly slot into the right sort of mindset he needed to work with the boy, on his level, and make the sort of difference that he'd dreamed of when he first got into his career. "Nice try, kiddo. Almost got me with that last one," he half-praised, half-chided as he nudged the boy's shoulder, with a familiarity that reminded him of interacting with his nephews. "So. Let me know how you did it." He planted his hands on his hips, leaning in curiously, eager to absorb ever last bit of the boy's street-smarts. As they always said at the station, the best way to think like a criminal is to learn from a criminal.

"Simple," Keith shrugged, as he casually leaned against the cop car like he hadn't been in a similar position against his will just five minutes before. The smile on his face was smaller and more natural-looking, responding well to being treated with the warmth of an uncle rather than the cold facade of a police officer. "While you thought you were roughing me up, I was roughing you up. And when you would have sat down in the driver's and checked and double-checked your pockets for your missing keys, you would have given me enough chance to work my cuffs to the front, kick you out and take the friendly company car for a spin, only for it to be found half submerged in the lake with no footprints or scent trail leading away from the scene because I decided to take a swim downriver."

"Golly." Murray scratched at his moustache. "Maybe I should double-think letting my brother-in-law have your business, and just take you in as an investigator at the station. Always helpful to have people who've been on the inside hanging around."

Keith shook his head. "No thanks. I'll take the garage job. I do more than enough investigating on my own time."

Murray wasn't born yesterday. He knew why people who called themselves 'investigators' came to their city, which was bang smack in the middle of the desert, their closest neighbour none other than a space-travel-orientated military facility. "You one of them conspiracy theorists looking for signs of aliens in the desert, or digging for trouble with the Garrison?"

"A little bit of both, I guess." Keith halfheartedly raised his hands in an 'I dunno' gesture.

He shook his head fondly. If the Garrison had to deal with half as much as Officer Murray had, they had their work cut out for them. "He starts up shop at eight, but he shows up at seven, just by the way," he advised as he stuck his keys and wallet back in his pocket and reattached his watch to his wrist. "That might be the best time to catch him, after he's had his coffee and rolled up his sleeves but before he's gotten under a car."

Keith nodded, holding out a hand to shake. "Thank you, officer..." he trailed off at the absence of a name to put to the face.

"Murray," he finished for him, as he took the hand and gave it two firm shakes.

"Officer Murray." Keith smiled a bit as he backed away, giving a two-fingered salute just before turning back to the street.

"Stay out of trouble, kid," Murray said his own goodbye, as he opened his car door and stepped in with one foot. "Well, I'm off. There's nastier people in this city I need to keep my eye out for." He sat on his seat and slammed the door shut, and was just about to put the key in the ignition when he was interrupted by the call of his name.

"Officer Murray?"

He looked up, to see the young man back at his open window. "Hm?" he asked.

Keith gave his devil's grin again as he dangled something glinting and metal in front of his face. "Where are you going without your watch?"

Murray on instinct checked his wrist once more, to find it was indeed gone. The boy must have worked it off during the short handshake. "Dang..."

The young man chuckled as the officer snatched it back. "Gotta learn to stay on your toes," he advised the frustrated cop, who was shaking his head at himself.

"Forget the police, forget the garage- just become a magician, kid, and you're sorted for life."

Chapter Text

"It appears we have a missing persons alert. Three students from the Galaxy Garrison, Arizona, reportedly snuck out amidst the chaos of an emergency drill on Monday, and have not been seen since. Locals are advised to stay on the lookout, and anyone who has any information regarding their whereabouts must contact the police immediately."

*       *       *

"The three students from Galaxy Garrison who snuck out last Monday have been missing for nine days, and for the first time, police have found a clue to their whereabouts. Today they stumbled upon an unlisted house at the edge of the Sonoran desert, where they discovered the cellphone of the missing Leandro 'Lance' Sanchez-McClain, and the diary of Kathryn Holt, who we now know was registered under the alias Pidge Gunderson at the Galaxy Garrison. No evidence of the third missing student, Akeakamai 'Hunk' Galuvao, has been found on site, however police believe that he is indeed with his classmates and simply left no trace behind."

 *       *       *

"More news on the missing Galaxy Garrison students. It has been fourteen days and normally this is the point where families start to suspect that their loved ones may no longer be alive, especially with the consideration that the nearby desert the students are suspected to be lost in, is impossible to survive in for so long without prior planning. The last known location of the students, a house at the edge of the Sonoran desert, has been announced as a crime scene, with the media being barred from the territory. The police did not comment on any further evidence they may have uncovered in this house."

 *       *       *

"Our top story today: the police have revealed everything they have learned on their investigation of the three missing Galaxy Garrison students, and it looks grim. The inhabitant of the house that is the last known location of the three students, has been discovered to be Keith Padgett, who has been previously convicted for a long list of crimes, including shoplifting, mugging, threatening, assault, hijacking, vandalism of public property, the unlawful wielding of a knife, and unlicensed use of explosives. He has also on numerous occasions been reported for unusual behaviour in public areas that may be the cause of narcotics or failing mental health. The families of the missing students are worried about what the intentions of this man were, when he drew the students into his house. Padgett, who hasn't been seen since the disappearance of the students, has been added to the list of people the police and public are searching for. However, citizens are advised to be cautious and not confront him, as he may be carrying a weapon."

 *       *       *

"In other news, more backstory to the disappearance of three Galaxy Garrison students has been clarified. One of the students, Kathryn Holt, the daughter and sister of two of the three missing crew members of the Kerberos disaster, had attended the Galaxy Garrison under a false name in the hopes of learning confidential military details on the crash of the spacecraft. Police report that Keith Padgett, the prime suspect for the kidnapping of the three students, had also attended the Galaxy Garrison before being expelled before Holt's enrollment, due to his similar obsession with the Kerberos mission leading to him attacking and permanently injuring a military officer. Police suspect that Padgett may have made contact with Holt online and lured her and her flight team to his house with the promise of disclosing information he claims to have discovered on the crash. His house shows indication of a struggle and police believe that Padgett, who has shown himself capable of knocking unconscious over six grown fighters in a past offence, easily overpowered, tied up and gagged the students. His speeder was found abandoned in the desert, which police are using as the new starting location for the search."

*       *       *

"Yesterday we spoke to family of the missing Galaxy Garrison students, and today we have the privilege of speaking to an acquaintance of Keith Padgett for the first time. This person is Ferdinant Murray, a police officer who had made a personal mission out of reintroducing Padgett to society after offering him a job at his brother-in-law's garage. Officer Murray, what can you say about the demeanour of Keith Padgett? Would you say he is unstable and dangerous?"

"Well I think people have been looking at that boy from the wrong angle since the start of the incident. From the moment his name came up, the media and the families didn't want to hear anything that would make him out as maybe not being a murderer. Keith's committed crimes before, true, but he's been doing it for the sake of self defense. That doesn't excuse the crimes, for sure not, but it does justify it a little. I don't believe that he'd ever harm anyone for the sake of harming them. And I don't believe he's kidnapped those three kids or done anything else to them that people are whispering about."

"People have constantly called police on this young man for behaving irrationally and antisocially, comparing him to someone whose vision of reality is distorted by drugs or insanity. What do you make of that?"

"I think it's a showcase of a failure of our society, blaming people with different mindsets when the truth is we don't don't even bother to try to understand them. The first time I spoke with the boy I was also thrown off guard by his unusual mannerisms, until I realized that none of it was gonna hurt me; just confuse me a bit, and that does no harm. And you've gotta keep in mind that this was when he was still living on the streets and stealing scraps. Once he had a salary and a home, you should have seen the transformation. He was looking after himself, managing his aggression well, and putting his heart and soul into every car and bike and speeder that came through the doors of that garage. I'd never seen anyone so at peace with so little. That's an awkward kid who's grateful for any bit of help; not a madman silently plotting a murder."

"What do you think of the evidence of a struggle and kidnapping that has been uncovered in Padgett's house?"

"It's all thumb-sucked. I think everyone has settled on the idea that all four the missing people are dead by this point, and now that they're free to point fingers they just want somebody to blame. That cabin has no cellular or internet access to contact Miss Holt through, the 'struggle' was limited to a single stack of books that was knocked over - you'd probably find a similar sight in my house, too - and apparently a coil of rope in a drawer means you tie people up. No, ma'am, this is all a fabricated crime to have a reason to hate a vulnerable young man. At this point they could still all be alive, and have agreed on disappearing from the grid together. Never in my life have I seen such a cruddy, mismanaged and hasty investigation of a crime scene like what this boy's home was subjected to. I'm not gonna believe Keith Padgett is a murderer until you give me some real, cold hard evidence."

 *       *       *

"Officer Ferdinant Murray's account on Keith Padgett, the suspect for the kidnapping of three Galaxy Garrison students, has started a trend of people from his past giving their own personal accounts on the young man's antisocial personality. One man reported that while he was a convenience store clerk, Keith would from a young age shoplift candy and collectables, and whenever confronted he would push a shelf over, causing damage to products. Accounts by past foster families state that he stole money, sold small possessions to thrift stores, taunted younger foster siblings by breaking their toys or pushing them into pools, and often broke expensive items important to the parents or even spray-painted the walls of their homes, as well as harassing all the females in the house by lifting up their skirts. He is even guilty of causing a Galaxy Garrison officer to lose an eye, according to the account of a current officer at the military base, who also claims that Padgett, while attending the flight school, broke into people's dorms and ransacked them, smoked on the grounds, and seemed to enjoy being feared by the broader student body."

*       *       *

"Police have recently uncovered evidence that leads us to believe that the three missing Galaxy Garrison students are, in fact, dead. A series of explosions were spotted shortly after the emergency drill at the Galaxy Garrison during which the students reportedly snuck out. What seems to be explosive devices under construction, as well as large amounts of fuel, have been uncovered at the house of the leading suspect for the kidnapping of the students, Keith Padgett, who already has a criminal record for unlicensed use of explosives. Half a mile away from where his speeder had been abandoned in the desert, a recently collapsed cave has been found. There was presumably a cave-in due to the explosions, and it is believed that the students and Padgett are buried beneath the rubble. Sonar scans of the area show no spaces large enough to shelter in, thus it is assumed that they were crushed to death by falling debris. Despite that, experts are on the scene, digging tirelessly in the hopes of recovering their bodies. As it is impossible to convict someone post-mortem, Padgett has not been fully investigated nor officially deemed guilty of murder-suicide, however the public considers it to be so."

*       *       *

"It has been two months since three students from the Galaxy Garrison disappeared, and we are on the scene of the symbolic funeral. No bodies have been found to date, so there are no coffins to be seen, however four picture frames stand on pedestals in front of the crowd, to be honoured and mourned. There is, however, a massive rift in this ceremony, as Keith Padgett, the alleged kidnapper and murderer of the missing students, is being bidden a final goodbye side-by-side with his apparent victims. Already his frame has been knocked over purposefully several times by angry, grieving family of the students, and there have been several verbal threats to remove and destroy the picture. At the far back, isolated from the rest of the crowd, are the only two people who claim to be attending the funeral for Padgett's sake and no-one else's. They are Officer Ferdinant Murray, who has previously vouched for Padgett's innocence, and Mr Joseph Anderson, his brother-in-law and the last employer of Padgett. Although they have actively defended the young man before, they refused to comment today."

*       *       *

"The Galaxy Garrison has requested to take over the search of their three missing students after police have announced they are dropping the case due to an accepted conclusion that the students and their kidnapper perished in an explosion and subsequent cave collapse caused by the kidnapper. The Garrison has announced the excavation will carry on, while they will also continue the search throughout the desert, and will not stop until all four missing people have been accounted for."

*       *       *

"We have nothing to report on the investigation of the missing Galaxy Garrison students."

Chapter Text

Lance was enjoying getting to know his new little family.

His biological family was huge and all packed into one home, so there had never been little enough going on to truly pick up on the tiny details and nuances of every single life contained within the walls. He hadn’t even known his sister Veronica was lesbian and dating the blonde girl who seemed to always be in their home, until they announced their engagement. And there was something slow about familiarizing yourself with someone you grew up with- you learn about them at the same pace that they learn about themselves.

But to be thrown head-first into close proximity with near-strangers who had complete personalities and full histories, was intense. New facts never stopped coming, and Lance could feel himself beginning to lose track of who broke their leg falling off the roof on two separate occasions; who loved peanuts and who was allergic to them; who was an eldest, a youngest or an only child; and who could most likely be found where if he lost them at the Space Mall. It was getting to a point where he was considering nabbing one of the nice sturdy notebooks from the Castle library so he could document every minuscule but important detail about the other Paladins and the two Alteans.

His companions’ schedules on free days were one of the first things Lance learned off by heart; probably because his own schedule mainly consisted of bothering the others at whatever they were doing. He wouldn’t waste a precious second of sweet, sweet pestering by needing to think about where to head next.

Hunk was always in his workshop in the Yellow Lion's hangar, except for the hour before mealtimes, when he’d be in the kitchen, putting his heart and soul into making questionable alien ingredients taste like they weren’t potentially poisonous. Pidge cycled through several nooks and crannies in the hallways, vents or control room at predictable enough intervals and the same general pattern, so Lance was able to roughly estimate her position at any given time of day.

Shiro, Allura and Coran? They gathered together in the control room often. But otherwise, Shiro would be walking the hallways, working in his personal corner of the greenhouse, or staring at star maps. Allura would spend quality time with the mice in the lounge, or read in the library. And Coran, who was the hardest of the five to track, could be at any point in the castle at any time, armed with an alien broom or an alien feather duster or another alien, slightly disturbing-looking counterpart of human domestic cleaning apparatus. Lance learned pretty soon that all he needed to do was sit on the floor, and Coran would eventually trip over him.

Last but not least was Keith, who was even worse than Coran, because not only would Lance not know where Keith was, he also wouldn’t know what Keith was doing. He had his fixed training regime, in the morning, the afternoon, and the evening; and Lance was pretty sure Keith woke up in the middle of the night to put in an extra hour that Shiro wouldn’t have allowed during his waking hours. Lance had only caught Keith once, but he had a feeling that was only because the Red Paladin took care to not be found there at odd hours by anyone again- lest he be dragged back into his room and told to give it (and himself) a rest.

But, outside of training, and that one attempt to go to the pool, Keith just... vanished. Like a proper cryptid. Lance could see the article in one of those cheaply printed conspiracy theory tabloids already: the fabled mulleted hermit, attracted by sharp objects, only ever found in large rooms with weapons laid out to appease him, and visible only every sixth hour.

It was really disappointing. Keith was by far the most fun to annoy- and at the same time, put up with Lance the longest. Those two facts alone would have easily made him Lance’s go-to for some conversation- ahem, if Lance only knew where to go-to. He could always take advantage of the known parts of Keith’s schedule and 'conveniently' be in training room the same time as Keith (without actually training, of course- no way in heck was Lance training during downtime). But his mama had taught him that while nice boys don’t pick on anyone, smart boys don’t pick on anyone holding something sharp.

Plus, Pidge and Hunk always gave him a strange look whenever it started looking like a regular thing for Lance to lounge around the training room while Keith was working up a sweat. What did they know, though?

So when everyone else had officially chased Lance off for the day, he set off on a mission to, once and for all, find the den of the mulleted hermit.

He did not, though, expect to stumble upon an actual den.

Lance had been partially exploring the Castle, partially searching for the Red Paladin, for half an hour when he heard the chirrup of one of the mice, as well as the soft sound of something lightweight being dragged along the smooth metal floor. He looked over his shoulder to find the skinny green mouse with the red eyes, walking backwards as it pulled a miniature hairbrush along by his teeth. It paused to look at him and blinked once in acknowledgement, before continuing on its way.

Curious, Lance followed along. He squinted at the brush, wondering whether Allura had it made just for the mice, when he noticed the tell-tale bright orange hairs caught in the bristles. “Moustache brush!” Lance mused incredulously. He’d always wondered just how Coran managed to keep his handlebar moustache looking so fleek. Branching off from his original mission, he wondered whether his side quest would lead him to a gold mine of moustache care products. He’d look good in a moustache. Or maybe a soul patch.

The mouse took a left turn at a closed door, and stood up against it; its tiny, knocking fists sending little pangs echoing through the hallway. There was scurrying on the other side, but even after a moment of pause the door didn’t open. The green mouse was clearly grumpy about being locked out, and turned its sharp nose up at Lance, giving him a demanding look.

“Alright, alright,” Lance muttered, hands up placatingly. He took a big step forward, into the door’s sensory region, and it slid open easily. The mouse didn’t waste a moment before bounding in, the brush skidding along with it.

That would have been that, except that the interior of the room caught his eye. It was a random, large-ish storage closet on the third floor of the castle, a good distance from the bedrooms, hangars or usual living spaces. Rooms that far away from the centre of activity usually went unused, so Lance was especially curious about the fact that it was unlocked, as well as the recent renovations to it.

The shelves had been emptied, the contents stacked in a corner, so their frames could be used to aid in holding up a giant pillow ford. A lasagna of bedspreads covered the floor, making everything cushy like it was all mattress. Blankets had been rolled up and used to build soft, low walls, like a giant nest.

It was a strange sight.

But it was undeniably cosy-looking.

The first thing that Lance figured, was that he’d stumbled upon Pidge’s final, night-time destination- a place where she could leave the lights on throughout sleeping hours and do coding or research or whatever else pidgeons did on computers, without risking Shiro noticing and repeating his ‘eight hours of sleep’ lecture for the umpteenth time. An idea came to Lance’s mind, and he followed through on it, kicking off his shoes and stepping onto the nest. Pidge had been meaner than she needed to be when she (quite literally) kicked him out the vent earlier that day, so it was only right he return the favour and usurp her pillow throne. Taking a leap of faith, he threw himself in the softest-looking direction.

And had his air knocked out of him like he’d been kicked in the gut.

He didn’t even lift his head- just groaned in pain with his face buried in a pillow, wondering what he had done to deserve this cruel fate, as his hand reached under his stomach to find the pea that was disturbing the princess’ sleep. It turned out to be a pair of green headphones.

That made Lance resent Pidge all the more. Sure, they had been hers on Earth, but she used them for absolutely nothing on the Castleship. He, however, did- as part of his nightly routine, to fall asleep to soothing music. Or at least he had, until they mysteriously disappeared about a week before. “Oh, now it’s on!” Lance announced to a practically empty room, drawing only the attention of the mice, who, by the glances they shared with one another, were probably concerned for his health. “Somebody’s getting all their pillows farted on!”

As he clambered up to his knees, he felt his hand land on another lump. He drew it close to him, only to learn it was a pointy shoe. There was only one person in the entire Castleship who wore heels, and that was none other than the princess herself. “Oh, so they’re having girls’ nights up here in secret,” Lance grumbled, very bitter at the prospect that they might have indulged in face masks and manicures without him. Then he uncovered a rust-coloured strip of cloth, and realized with a start that it was Hunk’s headband. “Traitor,” he gritted.

Then followed the discovery of a ripped purple tank top- likely the one Shiro had worn when they found him. A spice shaker. Some pebbles. Lance’s Las Vegas Santa snow globe - I thought I left this behind on Earth?! - and at least two of the identical tailed coats Coran wore every day. More and more stolen things were found buried in the nooks and crannies of the blanket nest and Lance was starting to get a feeling it would never end.

The mice were sitting on a neat little pile of small stolen things, all bunched up beneath them. When he found a hand weight from the training room, he realized that though the mice were contributing to the hoard, there was no way they had brought some of the heaviest things to the room- let alone set up the tons of bedding. No, they were only accomplices to the real thief.

And it was when Lance’s hand came out holding the wrapped hilt of a sheathed dagger, that he immediately knew whose domain he was in. Because that room would have been discovered a long time ago, and not by Lance, if Keith’s knife had been as 'missing' as everything else in the room was.

He hardly had time to think about how ashamed he would have felt to get caught digging through the room, or if he'd have had to live with the knowledge that he stank up Keith’s pillow ford – yes it was entirely different when it was Pidge, because Pidge wasn’t buff and a knife thrower and both Lance’s muse and misery, sometimes at the same time – before fate decided to play a mean game on Lance, and the door whooshed open.

Seconds of motionless silence passed between the boy standing at the door, a green bomber jacket in his hands, and the boy crouched in a tent of pillows, his hands all over someone else’s belongings. Not that they belonged to Keith, either, but still.

At that moment, Lance understood the meaning of silence breaking. Because something certainly snapped in the air when Keith’s mouth opened.

“GET OUT!” he roared, throwing the first thing at his disposal. Lance had scarcely managed to wrestle his own jacket out of his vision before a pillow, a boot and a towel came hurtling his way as Keith stalked into the room. The mice scattered at the chaos, disappearing somewhere under all the mess.

Lance braced for impact as Keith rushed at him, red faced and looking ready to kill. He knew Keith better than that, though, but still expected the full force of a charging Red Paladin. Instead, the bedding behind him sank roughly as Keith stepped clean over him. “Get out, get out, get out!” Keith continued to scream until the syllables blurred together into a nonsense growl, repeatedly shoving an unmoving Lance out of the nest and towards the door.

“Hey man, why do you have all this stuff up here?” Lance asked curiously, despite the openly unfriendly behaviour of his fellow Paladin. It was a little hard to be terrified of someone who he’d spent months learning to blindly trust with a sword on his neck. Once sparring had gotten him to shake off the instinct that Keith charging at him with a weapon and an angry face meant danger, it was very hard to imagine it was serious when Keith was unarmed.

“It’s mine!” Keith managed to claim between his grunts of rage. His hands landed on Lance’s spine and shoved so hard they popped a crick that had been bothering him all day.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Lance shrugged, raising both hands up innocently.

That comment made Keith pause for a few moments, almost like he was so used to being accused, he had no clue what to do if he wasn't.

Lance latched onto the chance to reason his way out of the violence. “I’m just wondering why you keep everything up here, y’know. And not in your room.”

Keith was frozen for a few seconds longer, before his hands left Lance’s back. He firmly looked at a panel on the wall. “Shiro checks my room,” he muttered, then immediately gave an alarmed glance at the Blue Paladin, as if he’d realized he’d said something wrong and was worried about how Lance would react. Lance, however, hardly understood the response, and was trying to figure how Shiro connected to the disjointed dots. Probably finding no trace of judgement, Keith scowled and turned with renewed interest at the wall again, his hands cupping over his ears like there was a loud noise nearby. “Go away, Lance. You’re not supposed to be here.”

The voice was so firm and resolute that Lance found himself halfway standing already. It was when he thought it all over that he hesitated, and noticed his jacket trampled under Keith’s sock-clad feet. He reached out at the green material, but Keith flinched violently when he tugged it. “Keith, can I at least have my jacket b-”

“Go away!” Keith yelled once more, pushing Lance roughly. There was more pain in how heartless it had felt, than in tumbling over the wall of the nest with the force.

The next thing Lance knew, the door slid shut before him, his desaturated reflection staring back at him. But still all he could see was Keith’s face, his mind replaying it all from the moment he stormed in until he’d all but rolled Lance out the room. The Red Paladin hadn’t at all looked like he did during sparring, or even that one time when he accidentally charged a disguised Lance on a mission. Those were some of the few times when Keith made eye contact- and, like he could cast a trance on his opponent with a look alone, it made them freeze up, their stance only half guarded.

But once he’d stepped inside the room, for the most part Keith had kept his gaze anywhere but on Lance. His face also never turned that red, unless they were bickering and Lance brought up the tiny Arusian warrior that Keith had nearly picked a fight with. Not to mention his usually firm-set lips had been slightly parted and trembling.

Keith hadn’t been angry- he’d been embarrassed.

Lance thought of the room in its entirety. He hadn’t made any pillow forts for himself since elementary school- anything thereafter was mainly as a practical joke, or because he was lending a hand to his niece and nephew. Even Lance, who many people called childish (they’d be totally wrong, though. He was super mature. The maturest. Mister mature), considered himself to be too old for it. Keith’s fort was clearly no fun little joke, though. Based on the sheer size and thought put into it, it was meant to last quite a while.

He wondered whether Keith needed to sleep low and under a canopy among a lot of pillows as a sort of comfort thing, and if he was embarrassed because Lance had invaded his privacy and discovered his secret. Lance could sympathize. He’d been a sickly child himself, staying with his parents longer than usual in case of late-night medical crises, and had never really transitioned to sleeping alone in his own bed. Without background noise and a teddy to hug, he might as well have been an insomniac.

There was also the matter of some of everyone’s belongings being hidden among the blankets, but even that Lance figured had a valid story behind it. There was no malicious reason to steal from the others - though the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to use the accusing word steal - that he could actually see Keith doing. He wasn’t a prankster who would hide important things just to see people panic and fruitlessly search for them- that was more Pidge’s forte. Nor was he selling them for money to spend on things he wanted. It wasn’t even a case of taking something because he desired to own it, or he would have gone for the amazing portable Altean tech that was in high supply in the castle. No, outside pillow fort materials, Keith seemed to go for things well-loved but miss-able (at least as far as he knew) by the fellow residents.

With just a short amount of pondering, Lance became very aware that though Keith was technically committing a crime by taking other people’s things (Does Earth law even apply in space, though? he thought), when it came to what was actually relevant to Lance at that moment, he himself was the one in the wrong. There was a bitter taste on his tongue at the thought of someone mocking him for the three alien plushies he’d managed to gather during their two months in space. No, leaving Keith to wallow in worry that Lance thought badly of him for what he’d found, just won’t do.

And so, within a few minutes, Lance was back at the door with a gift to appease the mullet. Ever since he’d learned that the seven-foot beast Laika was just a space dog on steroids, he’d been curious about what the species was meant to look like. Eventually he stumbled upon a loaf-sized yupper plushie at an alien carnival, and couldn’t resist using up all his GAC (and some of Pidge’s, and Hunk’s) to win it. It looked like a scruffy purple Labrador with tusks, but he figured it had been cute-ified. He remembered very clearly how Keith had stared at it on the pod trip back, reminding him of socially awkward dog lovers who were struggling to talk themselves up about asking the owner if they could pet a puppy. Now knowing Keith’s secret, he wondered whether Keith hadn’t maybe been itching to take it for himself.

Keith hadn’t bothered to lock the door since throwing Lance out the room, and it slid open for Lance without hesitation.

He’d expected to receive a one-man ambush, or at least to find Keith standing, chest heaving like it had when the door shut. Instead, the Red Paladin was sitting in the middle of the nest, curled up in the smallest possible ball with his head on his knees, the space mice’s paws patting his toes to comfort him. “...Keith?” Lance gently called, hoping for either permission to step into the room, or a demand for him to leave. But instead, Keith gave no acknowledgement that he even knew Lance was there. The Blue Paladin inched in until the door shut behind him, and still there was no response.

Disturbing as little of the nest as he could, Lance set the toy down in front of the Keith ball. Then he stepped back to give the Red Paladin space, holding his breath in case the sound of it might mask any reaction of Keith’s.

He thought he might suffocate before Keith’s arms shifted. Moving so slowly it might have been hard to spot if he wasn’t looking right at him, Keith’s hands reached out of the tangled pile to scoop up the plushie, and as quick as a snake bite, swamped it with his body in a tight hug.

The straight line of Keith’s shoulders softened a bit, and Lance took it as a sign that he had permission to stay. So he plopped down beside Keith, legs crossed, making sure to leave a hair’s space between them. Keith was so particular about when he was okay with being touched, and when not. Lance wasn’t about to take a chance when he was one wrong word away from getting kicked out the room again.

The Keith ball unfurled slightly; just enough for Lance to actually see the yupper between the tangle of arms and legs. Keith’s head dipped forward for a moment, and it took until he started speaking for Lance to realize he meant to gesture at the mice. “They take people’s stuff a lot,” Keith murmured, words slow and completely flat. The way he spoke, reminded Lance of how his body felt after battle upon battle- just completely exhausted and fully done with the day, unable to do more than the bare minimum to get to the end of it. It wasn’t that Keith's voice didn't carry emotion- the extra expression needed for everyday communication, was just too tiring. “They don’t often want anything,” Keith continued, and when he lifted his head out his cocoon, just up to the nose, his eyes were looking down at the mice, who in turn stared up at him, clearly concerned. His lashes looked twice as long when his eyes were lidded like that. “But when they do, they just take it. Without planning it, without even thinking about it. They’ll just think something’s nice, and the next thing they know they’re walking away with it in their hand.”

Lance had caught on long before Keith's blunder, so he didn’t point it out, too afraid that Keith would clam up again. It was rare that Keith explained himself or the goings-on of his mind- if pretending that he was talking about somebody else made him brave enough to speak, then that was fine with Lance.

Keith sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “They know it’s not right, and they know it makes people angry. And they don't want people to be angry with them. But they don’t want to stop. They thought of stopping is... scary.”

Then followed a few seconds of silence, during which Lance waited for more. But it seemed Keith was content to leave it at that. “Why?” Lance gently coaxed, ducking down a bit to see Keith’s eyes better. That turned out to be a bad move, because Keith’s head retreated back into his arms. Lance felt sorry to see it disappear.

“They don’t know how to get things otherwise,” Keith whispered, voice cracking in a way that made Lance worry he was about to cry. He’d never seen Keith cry. There was something that felt so wrong about the thought. Keith was the brave one. The one who didn’t risk flinching in a fight. Who stayed out in the open when everyone else hid from the chaos and damage going on around them. For Keith to be broken down enough to cry, meant that the world had to be ending, at the very least. “They can’t remember the last time they owned something, that they didn’t just take. Sometimes they take things and people allow it. But... they can’t remember ever asking for something. Or... being given something without needing to ask.”

Lance looked around at the stolen things scattered around them. Technically the pillows and blankets were stolen, too- from the Alteans. Outside the knife, there was a real absence of anything that definitely, without argument, belonged to Keith, and it wasn’t just because you can't steal what already belongs to you. Of all of them, Keith had the least things of his own to hoard in a burrow. He hadn’t traded Earth belongings with the other Paladins- hardly had anything to trade. Aliens they saved considered him too unapproachable to bring gifts of thanks to. He didn’t even go up to Coran to ask for some money like the rest of them when they were dropped off at the Space Mall. Really all he owned on board the ship was a knife, a change of clothes, the Red Paladin suit, and his bayard.

Lance thought of all the birthdays he'd had where he'd received presents from his friends and family. The amount of times he’d woken up in his childhood home with one more blanket than he’d gone to sleep with. How easily and comfortably he and his siblings popped into each other’s rooms with a quick, “Can I borrow this?” without needing to stay long enough to hear an answer.

It was no secret among the Paladins that Keith was... an orphan. But Lance had never really thought much about what that meant, besides just ‘has no parents.’ He wondered whether he’d have ever had the guts to ask for anything, if he hadn’t grown up knowing that the people who raised him were willing to give.

Keith came out of his tortoise shell again, freeing a hand to stroke the tuft of fur on top of the fattest mouse’s head with a single finger. "Most of all they like to take things from people they care about. They like to tell themselves it was a gift from those people, because getting a gift means they care about them, too.”

And if that didn’t just break Lance’s heart into a million pieces. The sad, resolved little smile on Keith’s face didn’t help either, as the boy melancholically played with the mouse’s fur. “You like gifts, don’t you, boy?” he whispered down to it, scratching behind one of its ears, as his other arm clutched the yupper tighter. “Yeah… gifts are the best.” Lance’s heart sprinted a mile when Keith leaned ever so slightly towards him. It would have been unnoticeable had they been any further apart; but as it was, it caused them to be pressed up together from the shoulder to the elbow. Lance thought back to any occasions where they were that close outside training and arguing. And he could only come up with that time they had to climb up the elevator shaft (which had inevitably lead to arguing), and the bonding moment that never happened.

“…You’re right,” Lance finally decided to say, after thinking long and hard about Keith's words.

That made Keith look directly at Lance, eye contact and all, with a puzzled look on his face. And as usual, the gaze froze Lance up in a trance. It took a mental struggle to tear away from it and find his words again. “It’s not fair that the mice feel scared about asking for something. They’re as much a part of this weird little space family as the rest of us, and they should feel like it. We all ought to work on showing just how much we care about them, so there isn’t even a reason to question it.”

With his words said and done, he dared to look into Keith’s intense eyes again, and was pleasantly surprised to be met with one of Keith’s rare, genuinely happy smiles ever-so-gently poking at the corners of his mouth. His brow was smooth and his floppy fringe fell across one eye as he tilted his head slightly. Their mean, rough, fiery Red paladin looked… cute. “I think the mice would like that,” Keith murmured.

Lance had hoped that he would have time to think about how to explain to the team about Keith's feelings and how he uniquely interpreted things. But when an angry Pidge stormed around that night, demanding that whoever had taken some sort of fancy wires from her room, had to hand them back immediately, he realized time was a luxury he just didn't have. And so he found himself gathering the rest of the residents in the lounge while Keith was training. He felt guilty about outing Keith's closely-guarded secret to the whole team, but also knew that an intervention was needed, or the current way of handling conflict could rip the team apart. So as much as he could, he kept the explanations about Keith's eccentricities to a bare minimum, praying on the inside that they'd understand.

Shiro's eyes had quickly lit up in understanding and dare Lance say recognition, and nodded along to his explanations. A similar look on Hunk’s face soon followed, and both took Lance for his word. Honestly it was beginning to feel like 'Pidge is actually a girl' all over again, with him once again being on the outs until the last possible moment.

So he was actually grateful that Allura, Pidge and Coran had needed more explaining to realize that yes it is serious and no it isn't just something that someone could stop doing by being told so.

“It’s called kleptomania,” Shiro explained, rubbing his flesh hand against his temple in his usual wise-beyond-his-years fashion. “There’s no one cause for it, but it’s when people start compulsively stealing- normally small things with little to no financial value. He’s very defensive about it and I’ve had a hard time getting him to talk about what makes him do it, but thanks to Lance we now know why.”

Pidge was frowning up a storm, like her brain was having trouble wrapping around it all. That concerned Lance, because she was the smart one out of all of them by far. If she had trouble believing it, would the Alteans? “So Keith’s in emotional pain because he thinks we don’t love him as much as he loves us? And he steals our things because pretending they’re gifts helps him believe we care?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” Lance nodded, and Pidge fell quiet, boring a hole through her hands which were folded on her lap.

“Well that rather reminds me of Raeln, doesn’t it, Princess?” Coran commented, while (of course) twirling his moustache. “Remember how completely disoriented she’d been when her new pack didn’t trade scents?”

“It’s not the same, Coran,” Allura had sternly retorted, crossing her arms. “Keith is a human. It’s not in his instincts- his brain just decided to make unique but similar rules.”

"But still. We can't have history repeating itself, can we?"

“Who’s Raeln?” Hunk quizzed.

Allura sighed a little childishly. “She was my classmate, and also in my diplomacy camp. We did everything right and she single-handedly made us fail.”

“Now now, Princess. Old grudges aside,” the ever-proper Altean gentleman said, patting Allura on her shoulder. “Allura and Raeln were tutored together in a school exclusive to nobility. Raeln was from the Galra Empire, then just a kingdom. A duchess, I think she was. And when it came time for the traditional pentaphoeb of diplomacy duty – it’s not just for royalty; even the lowest class of Alteans were trained to be excellent diplomats and uphold our planet’s reputation – she and five classmates were assigned to travel together. They got along smashingly; good enough for Raeln to start considering them pack. However through all their studying of the cultures they visited, her Altean company failed to recognize principle parts of Galran culture - namely, the importance of scenting to establish that pack relations are requited – and Raeln failed to realize miscommunication was the reason for her predicament, not a lack of care. She’d fallen feral and started stealing their belongings to introduce their scents to her room, which she rarely left otherwise. The elders had been so furious that the graduates made such cultural blunders without even leaving the ship, they failed them all the moment they found out!” The story, foreign to the audience, was apparently meant to register as an ‘embarrassing childhood story,’ because Coran was doubled over and wiping tears out of his eyes while Allura just pouted with glowing cheeks.

Hunk just scratched his head, clearly as befuddled as the rest of the humans were. “Scents? Pack? I thought Galra were… well, like all of us.”

Without a word, Pidge suddenly pushed herself onto her feet, drawing everyone’s attention as she headed towards the door. Lance frowned at that. “Hey, where are you going? We’ve got a Lion Family crisis over here!”

“I know,” Pidge said over her shoulder. “And I’m gonna do something about it. If it takes a box wrapped up in a bow to beat it into his head that he's one of us, then bring it on. I have like, five identical books on how the Lions work. I should think I can spare at least one of them. He'd like it.” She looked between all the frozen stares aimed towards her. "Well what are you all waiting around for? All there is to take from this is that Keith is sick and the cure is presents. Simple as that. So let's get to work."

Allura seemed to catch the same bug, because her eyes practically shone as she shot out her seat. “I have a small box of cut gemstones that are wonderful to fiddle with. They’re not worth much nowadays, though they are still beautiful.”

"Say, what kind of cookies do you think Keith would like the most?” Hunk asked the crowd. “Chocolate chip, or plain sugar? I’ve been meaning to whip up a batch based on this Altean recipe I found that seems to be the real deal...”

“Rather recently I happened upon an electromagnetic building blocks set in storage,” Coran pondered. “It’s meant for Altean children to teach them the basics of zero-gravity construction, but it’s good fun no matter your age and I think it might just be a good hobby for Number Four to take up.”

“Coran, do we have any containers suitable for displaying living plants in? One of my altacaulus rubrulaminae saplings has just started budding, and I think it might be a good gift...”

“We’ll have to space them out to keep it from being too sudden, though. Or if his birthday’s close, that’s a good time to give him a present each. When’s his birthday, by the way?”

A chatty crowd, eager to help their teammate, walked out the room without a pause in their discussions. Lance just watched them until the door slid shut behind them. He’d imagined many outcomes to the intervention, some good, some bad. At the most he'd hoped they would keep in mind not to get too mad if something went missing. But that they’d all jump to work on showing Keith just how much he belonged in the family, was an unexpected but welcome surprise.

Keith’s hoarding room grew fuller over the months.

It was beyond his control, though. He wasn't taking things as much anymore- in fact, he’d even given back most of what had been in the room when Lance stumbled upon it, and had taken to nabbing Lance's jacket whenever he got the whim to, instead. They'd made a game out of it, with Lance leaving it unattended on purpose but in increasingly difficult places to find. Keith, nonetheless, found it anyway.

What was newly cluttering up the room, were in part self-chosen belongings, but mostly gifts. Random trinkets bought at the Space Mall; stones or bottles of sand from the planets they’d landed on; even some clothes or other belongings that had become a bit too worn for use, but were too sentimental to throw out- Keith had permission to call it all his own, even if he wasn’t the original owner. And ever since Coran instated official pocket money for day trips, Keith didn’t feel hesitant about standing in line and receiving his handful anymore, or about spending it on whatever he liked. There was no argument that, though Keith couldn't be called 'cured' of kleptomania so simply, he was doing better than ever.

And when Lance opened his own room’s door to be met with the sight of a brand new Blue Lion plushie sitting on his bed, he knew just how much it meant.

Chapter Text

Things had been rather off-kilter ever since the video was broadcasted.

But what else could be expected, when a person you believed to be long-dead was suddenly revealed to be alive? It wasn't exactly a resurrection, seeing as he hadn't been dead in the first place, but a part of her heart that had dimmed to nothingness long ago, had suddenly woken up again, and her spirit was definitely more alive than before.

Not to mention the whole space and aliens and invasion ordeals, the news of which on their own were enough to turn lives around.

Rosa, like most of the relatives of the missing students who could work well with their hands, had settled into some duties on site at the Garrison, both to do her part to help and so she'd be one of the first to learn about new developments of her son's mission. If she wasn't in the kitchen, cooking up massive pots of food to feed the other staff, there was always something to pick or tend to in the greenhouse. She was grateful for the work- buzzing hands helped keep her mind still.

It was one of the many things she'd passed on to Lance, she was afraid.

She scrubbed harder against the crusty burned food at the bottom of the pot. "Don't think, Rosa," she muttered to herself in her mother tongue. "Don't think, or you won't stop thinking, and thinking isn't going to make things any better. All it's going to do is make it harder to wait, and waiting is the only thing that will help, so you can't let it become hard to do."

Rosa wasn't left to her own for very long, though, before an officer came in to escort the volunteers to an armoured room in preparation for an attack. A few hours of nervously waiting to hear about the fate of the planet - of itching to have something to do, something to clean - followed, and the families received the invitation to come outside and meet the heroes only seconds after the doors unlocked.

Keeping her updated had never exactly been high priority for the military personnel, but in her time at the Garrison she'd caught onto every drop of gossip that had trickled down. The record-breaking expedition pilot, Takashi Shirogane, had been abducted by aliens, as well as the father-son crew, the Holts. A year later, Shirogane had managed to escape, and crash landed on Earth with news of an alien fleet seeking a weapon hidden on Earth. Lance, Pidge and Hunk had stolen him from the military, and they'd found the weapon - a special, magical spaceship that was one counterpart out of five that could form an even bigger and greater weapon - and proceeded to draw the fleet away from Earth in it before making an escape. Then they met the last two remaining members of the species that had created the ship. That was when they became defenders of the universe- intergalactic soldiers up against a tyrranical alien empire that conquered and drained whole worlds with as little an ill conscience as if they had swatted a fly.

That all had been discussed, over and over again, with various sources who delivered more or less the same story.

But something that had never been talked about again, was that young man Keith Padgett, who'd gone missing the same time as her son and his friends. The one who had been declared the teens' murderer, and had been the target of all their grieving hatred until the video was broadcasted. Rosa hadn't even cared to think about how contradictory the general opinion of the young man's guilt was to the newly discovered truth- his name had simply disappeared from her recurring thoughts, to be replaced by that of her living, breathing, brave soldier of a son.

There wasn't a word about what could have happened to Padgett.

Not a word was spoken to remind people his name had been cleared.

And Rosa should have honestly thought about it. She should have thought about it- mulled it over in her mind, let it plague her, like she let every other little thing. Because then she would have known what to say, what to think, when the face that she'd seen on TV constantly, with the word MURDERER printed on the banner beneath it, heaved himself out of a freshly landed pod, and, with a smile, held up a hand to help Lance out.

There was too little time to think about anything other than how tall her boy had gotten, and how his shoulders had broadened while his middle had wasted away to nearly nothing, and how there was a little nick in his left brow that she really hoped was a shaving accident and not a scar brought home from the battlefield. And even that was granted less than a few seconds to take in, because once Lance's eyes landed on his family, his deep blues pooled up with water, which ran carefreely down his cheeks in typical Lance expressiveness that she was glad hadn't changed since the rest of his body followed his head into the clouds.

"Guys!" Lance cried out, nearly tripping over the platform as he scrambled towards them. Sylvio and Nadia, the slippery little rascals, broke free from their father's shocked hands and reached him first, and Lance almost collapsed under the force of the two jumping into his grasp. Circulation finally returned to Rosa's feet, and she found herself sprinting to meet her son, racing against old legs and young legs alike to have the honour of the third hug. Her arms wrapped around the bit of him that was still exposed and she felt a weight fall against her back almost instantly after, knocking her breath out. Her eyes grew wet and she had no control over the tears flowing out. This heavy weight from all sides - this chaotic mess of bodies and limbs, tangled together in the middle of the spaceport tarmac - was her family- all of it, whole and complete again, with nobody studying in another country or out in space fighting evil or missing and presumably dead anymore.

Somewhere in the middle of the pile, there was a muffled but insistent voice, and they spent a minute trying to detangle without completely letting go of each other. Lance was heartily laughing by the time they fully exposed him to fresh air again. That sent a pang through her heart- she'd always hated airplanes and office buildings because of how they just recycled the same plastic air for hours, let alone spaceships. And her poor baby must have hardly had a breath of something real in ages, cooped up in all manners of ships, sometimes light years away from nature and its gift of fresh oxygen.

"It's good to see you all again," Lance huffed, grinning from ear to ear. "It's- I can't tell you guys how much I've missed you. So much has happened and I can't wait to tell you..." His eyes shifted between all of them, lingering long enough to take in the differences and the similarities from when he'd last seen them all. When his gaze met Rosa's, he quickly glanced at Ricardo, and back at her again. Nervousness seemed to tinge his expression. "I, uh..." he cleared his throat, standing up from the pile, the rest of them following. "I guess I have to start with the most important thing." He turned away from them, bringing Rosa's attention back to the man who had gotten out of the same pod as Lance, and had apparently shadowed him all the way. And the habitual spike of hatred twisted Rosa's heart. As she glanced at the rest of their family, their expressions were marred by the same feelings.

Lance's hand reached out towards the young man, the criminal, the murderer, and to everyone's shock, the hand was gently taken. Shyly, in a way that did not suit someone with such a horrible record, he allowed Lance to pull up up to his side, and up to the family. "This is Keith." Rosa noticed for the first time the matching armour, except red in substitution to blue, and finally her mind started filling in puzzle pieces. The man who had disappeared and not been accounted for, fit neatly into the place of the fifth pilot that had never been named.

She wasn't given nearly enough time to process her feelings with her facts, before Lance dropped just a teeny weeny morsel into the pot of alphabet soup that was her mind.

"He's my fiancé."

So.

That happened.

At some point Rosa had been escorted into a chair without registering it, and something cold was being dabbed against his forehead while someone clutched her cramping hands in her lap. But she could hardly see or hear anything as the words played back in her mind over and over again.

He's my fiancé.

He's my fiancé.

My fiancé.

Between that, her mind was plagued with involuntary thoughts, one as irrational as the other, that she had to manually dismiss with logic and newly-garnered facts. My son's marrying a murderer, was one of the first that had made her lose the feelings in her legs, followed shortly by a counteracting, Now you're just being short of lights, Rosa. Your son's alive and so are the other children, so this man is not a murderer. The silly part of her kept fighting. He still has police records. What if he is still planning on killing my boy? And her sense of reason stayed strong. If the news was wrong about this one thing, they could be wrong about everything. No use worrying about the unknown and making it harder to wait for it to become known, Rosa.

Finally she managed to grasp onto all the fragments of her mind and pull them together into something still messy, but capable of working with. And she saw her dear husband tending to her with concern in his eyes, and her son clutching onto her hands while his mouth overflowed with apologies and insistencies.

Her future son-in-law had disappeared at some point. Apparently once all the other volunteering civilians had stopped watching or participating in the family meetings and had noticed Keith, all heck had broken loose and it had taken the three no-longer-missing cadets and the highly respected Shirogane to talk reason into the crowd and hold them back from mobbing the boy. Just like her, the news broadcasters had loosened some screws in their minds- enough that even being halted in their tracks by the very living murder victims they were avenging, was hardly enough to make them question their judgement.

Her hands quickly slipped out of Lance's so she could clasp his instead, and she tried her best to portray all earnesty when she looked a shocked Lance in the eye. "Where is the boy?" she pleaded, though by the stretch of Lance's eyes she worried it came across as demanding.

"I swear, Mama, he's a good person. Papa told me what people have been saying and it's not true. Keith is amazing and the best friend and boyfriend in the universe and he couldn't hurt a fly unless that fly really really deserved it in which case it doesn't have to be a fly it could be another human but please forget that because that would only make you freak out more and you shouldn't have to worry because he's saved my life so many times that I've lost count. Mama, he's not a murderer, and he's not the reason I haven't been able to come back to you guys, I made my own decision- in fact if it weren't for him I wouldn't even be-"

"I know," she firmly said, putting her son's word vomit to rest. He looked ready to question that, so she acted faster. "You can and will tell me all about it later, but right now I need to give Keith a proper welcome into the family."

Lance was stunned for a few moments, before his face broke into the biggest, brightest and sparkliest smile she'd ever seen of him. "Well, come on!" he said, grabbing Ricardo's hand as well as hers and pulling her out of her seat so fast that she saw black spots dancing in front of her eyes. He walked backwards in his chosen direction so he could keep looking at them, and keep smiling, and keep shaking his head like he could hardly believe it was for real.

Which, she realized, was how she felt, too. Things had stopped feeling real ever since Lance was declared dead, and they'd only just started feeling real again, when that statement was overturned. And she knew from personal experience - from her wedding day; from her eldest child Marco's birth; from the day Lance's acceptance letter arrived - that good news felt unreal for much longer than bad news did.

Lance lead them away from the tarmac and the crowds to a patch of grass in the shade of the hangars, where with crossed arms and a dipped head, Keith was quietly speaking to an older man. Lance stopped them a respectful distance away, and Rosa took the moment to look over their appearances.

Keith looked much younger in person than he had in the purposefully unflattering photos the news had used- and that had been three years before. Gone was the pedophilic internet creeper, to be replaced by someone Rosa wouldn't have been surprised to hear had been in the same class as Lance (which she learned later that day, had been true- specifically that he'd been the 'stupid mullethead' Lance had complained about over the phone in the early days after leaving home, until Veronica teased him for having a crush and he never mentioned him again). Like Lance, Keith was sleight but sturdy, perhaps a little stronger at the waist and weaker at the shoulders. And if he'd been her son, she would have taken a pair of scissors to that overgrown hair and the fringe brushing his eyes already.

Speaking of which...

"Is that his father?" Rosa quietly asked Lance, leaning towards his ear so only he'd catch her voice. The man didn't look much like Keith, but coming from a mixed-race family she'd quickly learned not to judge based on such things. She recognized him from a few quiet passings in the Garrison hallways, which meant he must have done volunteering there, too.

"What?" Lance's head did a three-sixty, like he couldn't find who Rosa was talking about, before settling on the man with Keith. "Oh- no that's Officer Murray," Lance explained. "Keith has a lot of good to say about him- he helped him out a lot at a time that Keith was pretty much alone. I'm glad he decided to stick around the area, too. After what happened earlier with the crowd, Keith needs someone who's just happy to see he's back."

"Where is Keith's family, then?" As soon as the words left Rosa's mouth, she regretted it, recognizing that the answer had been buried in Lance's words.

Lance's face crumpled, his extra-strong empathy probably causing him to share Keith's pain, and his gaze fell to the ground. His hand fidgeted with a silver ring on his hand- his left hand, the sappier side of Rosa's mind noticed. "Well you see... we're Keith's family."

Rosa's heart panged in understanding, and she reached out to her husband's comforting hand. Knowing her all too well, in an instant he'd found it without looking. And together, they watched the scene before them with fresh eyes.

Neither of the two had noticed their audience, which allowed them to steal a moment that would have otherwise gone unseen- Keith taking the smallest of steps forward, to rest his forehead against the officer's chest. Murray looked shocked at the behaviour, his arms and shoulders pulling back like he was afraid to touch and shatter the delicate moment before him. Then he settled into it, finding his own place in the scene as his arms wrapped around the boy's shoulders to hug him. Keith's arms stayed at his sides, but they weren't stiff- he was happy where he was.

Rosa felt a knowing smile cross her face. "Well... I can't say we're his only family."

Keith and Officer Murray - Fred, he insisted they call him - agreed to dinner with Lance's family on condition that Shiro could come, too. The retired Paladin had been oddly quiet since landing on Earth, but a sort of life that they hadn't seen in his eyes all day, had come back when Keith explained exactly why he had to come. "It's a family dinner," Keith had insisted.

And it had taken a lot of reminding on Lance's part that they were already fourteen, people, Mama- two of us are going to have to sit on bean bags already, to keep her from inviting the rest of Team Voltron and company, once learning how close they'd all become. "We'll all have our own Voltron dinner some other time," Lance promised, giving Sylvio a noogie, "and there are weeks' worth of bedtime stories about fighting aliens to tell."

And so Rosa found herself in the kitchen, preparing food for fourteen, with her daughters and daughter-in-law to help, her future son-in-law to hesitantly offer to help with everything that didn't seem too difficult (and to almost cut his fingers off while chopping carrots, despite apparently being the swordsman of the team, leading to being banned from setting foot on the kitchen tiles), and her youngest son to not help at all as he chatted away about silly little details while picking half-prepared food out of the bowls. He was particularly making work of the bowl of dough that was destined to become his all-time favourite cookies for dessert- if it could survive until then, that was.

"Come on, you've got to try this!" Lance insisted in a hissing whisper the moment Rosa turned her back and leaned over an oven rack. But she'd had four children, and if she could hear the beginnings of a baby's cry from the other side of the house, she could hear a young man leaning over a nearby counter and trying to be subtle as he pressed a pinch of cookie dough against his fiancé lips.

Being a mother also increased the strength of her peripheral vision immensely, and she was able to subtly watch Keith push Lance's hand away as she pretended to wait for the thermometer reading to settle. "You know that me and taking things doesn't turn out good," Keith warned, his voice also low. "And... I don't want to get into your mom's bad books."

"Keithy boy, you're not a member of this family until you've gotten into my mom's bad books." Lance threw an arm around Keith's shoulder, as casually as if they were the best of friends- which Rosa was beginning to realize was true. And she loved that about them- she was a firm believer that a foundation of friendship made a romance all the stronger and longer-lasting. Lance's eagerness to please had always lead to his feelings being played with, and a lot of messy broken hearts. She was glad that he'd learned the best way to not crash and burn after a pretentious phase, was not to have that phase at all, and be his goofy, playful self around his partner without a care in the world. And from what she could tell, Keith saw and loved him as he really was.

Some more quiet bickering between the two lovers was eventually resolved with Lance tapping his lips for a quick kiss. Keith obliged, and had halfway leaned in before Lance popped a ball of dough into his surprised mouth instead.

Keith seemed hesitant to chew at first, looking around like he was trying to find a respectable way to spit it out. But then his jaw moved, and he seemed to ponder over the taste a bit before his eyes lit up. "Dang..." he murmured, mouth still full. "That is good!"

It seemed the charms of their legendary family recipe broke through whatever scrupulousness had kept Keith from digging in, as he shamelessly pinched out a bit to treat himself. They kept picking at the dough as they - mostly Lance - chatted away. From what Rosa had gathered from Lance thus far, Keith hadn't had anything near a normal childhood, so to see him getting the chance to be harmlessly naughty without a fear, warmed something in her heart.

That didn't mean she was about to treat him differently than she would any child of hers in her kitchen- in fact, quite the contrary. She threw the dishrag over her shoulder like it was a rifle, planting her hands on her hips. "Well since you boys like to get started on something before it's ready for you, why don't you wash up for the night so long?"

"Ay, Mama!" Lance yipped. "Marco, Lisa and the sobrinos all showered less than an hour ago- the water will still be cold!"

"Sounds fair to me," Rosa shrugged, innocently picking up a ladle to stir a pot full of stew.

Lance took offense to being punished for a few seconds, before he caught her eye and came to an understanding. He grinned gratefully at her, before leaning over to Keith, who had the look of a deer who had gotten caught in the headlights but wound up being petted rather than run over- terror fading away, to be replaced by absolute befuddlement. Lance snickered at the expression, before he took Keith's hand and planted a wet one on his cheek. "Well I guess that makes you Keith Padgett-Sanchez-McClain."

 Bonus:

Little baby Yorak - "Keith, hon. We're gonna call him Keith" - was absolutely precious.

He had his mother's big eyes and long lashes, curved nose that tipped up at the end, and slightly shorter left pinkie. At the same time, he had his father's pale skin, firmly set mouth, and wedding ring.

Krolia chuckled at the sight of the gummy youngster in her arms, nibbling the golden circlet like it was the tastiest treat in the world.

Jeremiah, on the other hand, didn't seem to find it quite as amusing. "Nonono!" He quickly snatched it from the baby's mouth. "Little thief... You can choke on that!"

"Choke?" Krolia felt her brow furrow, as it often did when she learned something new and odd about her husband's species. She cursed herself for not doing more research before they procreated. "Galra babies are fond of chewing on small objects, and they always take good care to spit them out. Do humans not have that instinct?"

Her mate wiped his sleeve over his brow, which was perspirating from the stress of new parenthood. He already had a few more wrinkles than usual, and kept talking about 'greying hairs'- which was very confusing for her, as she hadn't noticed a single grey hair on him. "No, actually. Choking is a common way how human babies die- so much that we put warning labels on everything. Later they like to chew things when they're teething, but then we give them bigger things that they can't fit all the way into their mouth."

Krolia chewed on her lip as she mulled over the new information, and what it meant for Keith. "Well then if Keith's instincts are halfway between a human's and a Galra's, we might have a problem." She frowned down at the baby, but couldn't keep the expression for very long as the tiny hands came up to pat her nose. It turned out to just be a lure, though, because soon he'd grasped one of her earrings with both hands. They were a special sort- Altean-made, and had been passed down her family for several generations. No-one dared to wear it in the middle of the war, though, but on Earth she had the luxury to do with her appearance what she wanted. They levitated about an inch beneath the studs, and when Keith fought to draw it near, it only hovered back to its place as if drawn by a powerful magnet, not tugging at her lobes in the least. "You like those, don't you? You think they're pretty?" She smiled down at him, turning her head so Keith could more easily reach it.

Jeremiah started sweating anew.

"Galra babies are notorious for being curious and gathering and experimenting with any objects that interest them," Krolia explained. "They also have a strong sense of pack and rely on scents to let them know where they are and who they're with, which is why they should always have a safe space with controlled scents of their packmates."

"So that's what..." Jeremiah nodded towards the nest she'd built on their large shared bed, and she felt guilt mellow in her gut when she realized she wasn't the only one dealing with an unfamiliar species, and had taken for granted that he understood everything as it happened (honestly she really should have been able to tell there were communication issues when he was shocked that she'd laid an egg). At the same time, she felt a strong rush of adoring love for the man, who had let her go through with all her species' quirks without once letting her know when it was inconveniencing him.

She gazed up at him, deep into his eyes - something she hadn't really been able to do with anyone else, feeling too many judgments and walls and alarms denying her permission when she did - and wondered whether she should just fully come clean. Was there ever any better time, place and person to?

Krolia patted the couch beside her, and he willingly took a seat. She half-passed Keith to him, so they got to share the weight as they both admired their precious little creation. It was easier to look down at Keith and say it, so she kept her gaze low. "It should actually continue into adulthood," she admitted.

"What should?" Jeremiah's voice seemed confused, and she felt the need to glance up at his face, but she knew if she did, her voice would shut down.

"Pack bonds and scent gathering," she elaborated. "It's part of how Galra evolved to be- we are a very communal and affectionate species. However in a nation of soldiers, that sort of behaviour is considered unprofessional, even among the rebels, and we're quickly corrected before our training starts. The coldness of the war isn't the natural Galra way, and it makes so many of us unhappy to fear our own instincts. I remember how my first squadron leader 'cured' me of my love for shells by burning them all before my eyes." Speaking the memory out loud, brought it back to life- a cruel, sharp grin that opened to taunt her as each individual shell was thrown into the pit; her favourite, a holographic Trilox shell she'd picked up and sanded herself, one of the first to blacken, then go grey, then crumble into an unidentifiable pile of ashes.

A hand clutched around hers, dragging her back to reality. She only realized then that she was shaking, and that two tears had escaped her eyes. Jeremiah's hand cupped her cheek, a thumb brushing away one tear, and he looked at her with so much love in his eyes- more than she'd ever received from any nurses or squadron leaders or co-pilots she had been forced to call 'pack.' She tucked her head into the nook of his neck, clutching their baby tight between them. "I want better than that for Keith," she whispered. "I want him to feel free to collect and to scent and to be amazed by the small things in the world." She played with her mate's fingers until she managed to slip his ring off, and passed it back to Keith before the man had even noticed what she'd done. The baby happily presumed chewing like he hadn't been interrupted in the first place.

That time, Jeremiah smiled, though still cautiously.

"It's going to take more effort than looking after an ordinary human or Galra child," Krolia continued. "But I'm willing to put that effort in, if it means Keith will be the happiest child in the world."

Her mate huffed as if she'd said something humorous. "So we're gonna have to keep an eye on him at all times and make sure he doesn't eat anything poisonous or choke on anything?"

Krolia didn't quite understand why that had to be voiced out loud, feeling that it should have been obvious by that point. "Yes," she answered shortly, not sure what else to say.

He pressed her tighter to his chest in response, kissing the top of her head. He hesitated there, breathing in the smell of her hair in a way that made that locked-away side of her - the part that longed for cozy nests and cuddle piles with a pack - hum in delight. "What about you?" Jeremiah asked.

She shifted to get comfortable, careful not to move Keith too much, whose eyes had started to fall close, the ring still loosely clutched in his fingers- though she knew his grip would grow unbelievably strong, were she to try and pry it from him in his sleep. "What about me?" she queried.

"Are you going to try to find your old instincts again, now that you're no longer in Zarkon's army?"

"I'll see if I can." She followed Keith's example, closing her eyes and feeling sleep come much faster than she'd ever remembered it being. A smile poked at the corners of her mouth at the knowledge that it was because she'd never quite been so at peace as she was in her mate's arms. "I do miss collecting seashells."

"Tired, huh? I wonder what the time is..." As he spoke, Jeremiah wrestled his watch arm free to check- only to find his wrist empty. "Wait a sec- where's my watch?"

She smiled lazily, vaguely waving her hand at the mess of a nest, with its countless layers and folds and crannies. "Sssomewhere over... there."

"Krolia!"