Dreams Born in Solitude - PVB (2024)

Chapter Text

Alright, so real talk, Georgia wasn’t that bad. The barbecue was amazing and the people were really nice and Lance really loved going to sleep where it was quiet and he could see the stars. If he had to spend five damn months on set, he got pretty lucky with Macon.

But still.

He is so happy to be back in LA.

The weather. The traffic. The people. The bodegas where he can walk in and speak rapid-fire Spanish to a man he’s known since birth. The beach, just a few miles away, gorgeous in March. f*ck, he even missed the smog.

He’s never loved this stupid city more.

His mother practically kidnaps him when he first touches down; what was supposed to be a quick reconnecting dinner turns into five days at his parents’ home. His mom’s never been separated from him for this long, cause he’s never had a shoot last this long. She’s more protective of him than any of his siblings, a deadly combination of being the youngest of four and also a working adult since he got cast in ‘Garrison Varsity’ at 14. He lets her fuss over him for five days (because it genuinely feels epic to lay in bed until noon and eat arroz con pollo and garlic knots for every meal), but he finally extricates himself and heads home. He’s got to resettle into his life again.

Principal shooting is done, but there’s still a ton of work to do. Promo for the stupid movie. New and old advertising contracts. Talking with Hunk about new scripts, next steps (maybe getting back into TV, for something steady?) Meetings about all of the above.

He’s thrilled when Hunk tells him they’ve cleared a day for him to volunteer at St. Cecilia’s. Sometimes they send a pap along, get some shots of him volunteering to strategically release whenever his Twitter mentions are getting low. Today he’s had a ton of press so he goes alone, which Lance vastly prefers. It’s not like he works on the floor like he used to; he got mobbed one too many times for the hospital to allow that. Nowadays he works in the back office doing data entry, super boring stuff. It’s cool; he still gets to volunteer, still feels like a normal human, plus he loves the admin staff. They’ve all known him for years, and they have no qualms about roasting him no matter how famous he may be. For a group of old white ladies, they are savage.

He gets off at five – like a regular working stiff! – and is in desperate need of some coffee, because Hunk said they’re going to go over potential scripts tonight and he needs some energy from happy bean juice. There are no Starbucks anywhere in the area, so he ducks into a gas station for whatever cold brew/canned coffee/whatever they have. While he browses through their iced coffee selection, he takes a well-deserved self-roast. Because he was honestly such a diva just now that he mentally complained about not being able to find an adequate Starbucks. Move over, Kim, Lance McClain is officially the new LA stereotype. But like seriously, how are there no Starbucks around here? He thought it was legally required by the city of LA to be only fifty feet away from a Starbucks at any given moment.

Wow, that dude’s hair looks really familiar.

Lance turns, tilts his head, and oh sh*t, that’s Keith, poking listlessly at pre-packaged salads, all purple eyes and thick black hair, just like in Lance’s memories.

Keith turns to look at a different salad and he’s – he’s pregnant. That’s – that’s a baby belly, right there under his oversized black hoodie.

Lance’s heart skips a beat. And then several.

Keith looks up, his eyes tired, and sees Lance. His whole body snaps to attention. His eyes go wide, his face freezes, it’s like he’s seen a f*cking ghost. He takes a step towards the door, like he’s going to run away, and no. f*ck that.

“Keith,” Lance calls.

Keith immediately snaps his head around, checking to make sure nobody heard, which is probably a good idea because this is very dramatic and would be on the front page of every tabloid but Lance literally doesn’t care that he’s Lance McClain right now. He walks over to Keith, who stands frozen. He’s pregnant. Oh Jesus, he’s pregnant. They didn’t wear a condom. Lance remembers that, like it happened five minutes ago, like they’re still in that hotel room. He didn’t wear a condom.

“Keith,” he says, when he’s closer.

“Shut up,” he hisses.

“No, you shut up, what is happening? Why are you pregnant? Is that my baby?”

Keith’s hand whips out like a snake, grabbing Lance’s arm and tugging, hard. He hauls them to the bathroom, around the corner from the fridges stacked with Gatorade and Red Bull. He pushes Lance into the single toilet bathroom and locks the door behind them.

“We’re not doing this in a f*cking gas station, are you crazy?”

“Doing what? Talking about you being pregnant? Like, really pregnant? Is it mine? Did I get you pregnant?”

“What are you doing here,” Keith moans. “What are you doing in this gas station, what are you doing on this side of town, f*ck – “

“Keith!” Lance doesn’t recognize his own voice; it rips from him. “Tell me the truth, please!”

Keith stares at him, wildly, like he’s stuck in the choice between fight or flight. His belly pushes at the pocket of his hoodie. For an insane moment, Lance thinks it’s reaching for him.

“sh*t,” Keith says. “Uh. Yeah. f*ck. Yeah, it’s yours.”

Lance’s heart thumps. Oh. Oh, God. He knew, but now he knows.

How weird, to be in the exact moment when your life changes irrevocably.

The initial rush of emotions is so strong, and Lance feels like his brain is awash in a sea of white static, trying to recalibrate. He stares at Keith for an embarrassing length of time, watching his handsome face get redder and redder.

The first emotion to return is bafflement.

“What? Oh, Jesus. What? Were you…when were you going to tell me?”

Keith says nothing, his face twisted.

Lance can’t even compute. “What - how…long has it been? August, that’s like…”

“Twenty-nine weeks,” Keith replies.

“Twenty-nine, that’s – f*ck, that’s almost done. That’s – sh*t, sh*t, that’s like here.”

“Two months.”

“Two months? f*ck, f*ck, oh my God, I’m gonna be a dad in two f*cking months – “

“Stop freaking out,” Keith orders. “It’s not tomorrow. Two months. That’s a while.”

“It’s two months! Christ on a cracker, oh my God – “

They’re still in a bathroom. That face rises to the fore, suddenly. It smells stale, a bit dirty. They’re locked in a gas station bathroom, Lance and his baby mama.

Keith’s arms are crossed over his chest. His eyes are tired again, and shifty. He’s barely making eye contact. “What are you doing here?” He asks.

“The…the movie’s done. Shooting. We’re done.”

“I know that, what are you doing here? In this gas station?”

“Getting a coffee? Why are you so hung up on that? So you can…so you could hide my baby from me, never tell me?”

Keith ducks his head. His hands make an aborted motion to his belly and stop.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lance says. He’s not sure he wants an answer right now; the worst answer is too awful to contemplate. “Were you ever gonna tell me? You had my number…”

“Can we not do this here?” Keith says. He leans against the sink. “In a bathroom?”

“Where else would we do it?”

“Not in a f*cking bathroom!”

Lance blinks, leans back away from Keith’s vitriol. “Okay. Jeez. Where?”

Keith has no answer. He brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. He looks like he’ll fall over at any moment. “My place is closest,” he says. His voice is thick, like he’s about to cry.

“Okay.”

“Can you call a car?”

“It’ll maybe be a bit suspicious, getting a black car to a gas station. Where’s your bike parked?”

Keith huffs. “At home.”

“What, you didn’t ride it today?”

“I can’t ride it,” he says clearly, and Lance’s stomach drops. “I took the bus. So unless you want ‘Lance McClain rides LA 460 Bus’ on People magazine, you’ll call a f*cking car.”

“Okay,” Lance whispers. He pulls out his phone and flicks to Uber. He feels like crying. It’s so f*cked. It’s so, so f*cked.

Keith drops onto the toilet seat. He runs his hands through his hair again, grabbing at the roots. The silence is thick and oppressive.

After five minutes, Lance clears his throat. “It’s here. Uh, we’ll have to be quick.”

Keith nods and gets to his feet. He pulls his hood up over his head. Lance finds sunglasses stuffed in his pocket and puts those on. It’s a terrible disguise; if anyone looks twice, they’ll figure him out.

For a weird moment, he wants to hold Keith’s hand when they head out of the bathroom. He doesn’t. He doesn’t think it’ll go well.

They all but run out of the gas station and throw themselves into the idling car. The driver either doesn’t recognize Lance or doesn’t care; he just asks for the address, which Keith gives, and they drive in silence. Lance can’t stop staring, much as he’s trying to hide it. Keith’s belly is much more obvious when he’s sitting; it takes up his lap, curving outward like a perfect circle. Lance doesn’t want to take his eyes off it. Keith doesn’t notice; he’s looking out the window, sitting stiffly, rigid and unfeeling.

Lance spent one night with Keith, two months texting him, five months pining for him. But he doesn’t know him. They’re strangers to each other. They have no relation to each other besides one night, a handful of texts and some lack of planning. And in two months there’ll be a human in the world made of both of them. God.

Hunk texts him, asking when he’s available tonight, and all Lance can stay is ‘Can’t tonight, call you later.’ The car is taking them to a run-down neighborhood in southeast, making Lance a little nervous. There’s graffiti and busted streetlights and dudes on the block looking shifty. The car pulls up in front of a nice enough house, which makes Lance excited, until Keith doesn’t go to the front door. He goes around the side, to a little cast-iron door tucked down a few stone steps.

“Here?”

“Here,” Keith says. Lance can tell the cloth-covered bundle on the landing is a motorcycle, so yeah, here.

“What, underground? Does it have windows?”

“It has windows,” Keith replies. His voice is tight. “It’s a basem*nt apartment, not a prison. Not all of us are rich movie stars.”

Inside, it’s dark. It’s small, and it’s dark. The living room/kitchen is a bit cramped, mismatched furniture and a lumpy couch. Keith makes a beeline for the kitchen, dumping his keys on the counter and pulling out a pitcher of water. Lance looks around, a strange sense of displacement filling him. It’s not a bad apartment, but it feels very lonely. There aren’t many personal touches, just a few pictures on the walls too far away to see. The tiny windows let in squares of golden, afternoon light.

Keith drinks water with his back turned. It’s perfectly warm inside here but he doesn’t take his hoodie off. Lance has so much to say and no idea how to say it. He feels like he’s drowning. How do you talk through seven months of a new human life, one that you created but you weren’t ever going to know about?

“How are you?” is what he says.

Keith waits to answer. When he turns around his face is very blank. “Um, okay.”

“Like, healthy?”

“Yeah.”

“The…the baby?”

“Healthy, yeah.”

f*ck, what if the answer had been no? And then, the thought jumps straight into his head and out his mouth – “What is it? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s a girl,” Keith says softly.

“A girl,” Lance repeats, and sh*t, he’s crying now. Oh, God, a daughter.

“Why are you crying?”

“Cause I’m having a daughter, and I didn’t know about it till right now! sh*t!”

“Don’t be mad about it.”

“How could I not be?” Lance starts pacing, legs carrying him whether he wants to or not. “f*ck, Keith, my whole life just got changed and I didn’t know while you’ve been in this little apartment, like I was gonna have a baby just walking around LA and never know – “

“You don’t need to do anything, I don’t need your money. We’re fine.”

“We’re fine, he says! We’re fine! Oh, my God – “

He turns around, takes a deep breath, clenches his eyes shut. He wants to rant and scream and yell and demand answers. But this isn’t the Keith of his fuzzy memories, with his whip-tight body and hard eyes, straddling a motorcycle across LA. This Keith has a distended belly and slumped shoulders and exhausted eyes. He can’t tell at this Keith, not when he’s carrying Lance’s child and looking like he’s crumbling from the weight of her.

Lance takes a deep breath and sits down on a lumpy couch. It sinks in the middle like quicksand. Keith sits heavily in the other armchair, which has a strange floral pattern. He looks at Lance, face a complete mask. Lance can’t get anything from him.

“What has your family said? About this?” Lance asks.

Keith’s brows crunch together. “Uh. Nothing.”

“Nothing? You haven’t told them? About you being pregnant or about it being mine?”

“Nothing, because I don’t have a family. I never met my dad and my mom gave me up for adoption when I was a toddler. I don’t remember her.”

“So who adopted you?”

“Nobody.” Keith’s face stays hard but his hands tremble at his sides. “I aged out of the foster care system. I have a foster brother, but he doesn’t know it’s yours.”

Lance doesn’t even know where to begin with that. Keith’s…what, an orphan? Abandoned? And he never got adopted? Spent his whole childhood with no real parents? And he didn’t tell the one person he has that it was Lance who knocked him up? Why, because he’s ashamed of Lance? He doesn’t want Lance to be the father? Clearly not, if he didn’t tell Lance and never was going to.

Why didn’t he tell Lance? And why didn’t he abort it? None of this makes sense, none of it explains why someone who seems so miserable and put-out to be having a baby didn’t choose to abort. What is Keith getting out of this, if he didn’t want Lance’s money or fame? Is it the family he never had? f*ck, he can’t think, his head hurts and his heart’s heavy.

Lance gears up to ask one of the many questions he still has, but Keith beats him to it.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

“Hungry? Oh, yeah, okay, hungry. Okay.” Lance pulls out his phone, boots up Uber Eats. “What do you want? We can do Chinese, we can do Mexican, we can – “

“No need.” Keith plants his hands on the arms of his chair and stands up. “I’ve got stir-fry in the freezer.”

“Oh. Okay.” Lance sits there, phone still in hand. Keith pulls out a large pan, fires up a burner. “Uh, do you want help – ?”

“I got it.”

Damn. Lance tires not to feel so stung. It’s just…this guy is pregnant because of Lance. Lance should be feeding him, right? Should be providing for his boyfriend/baby mama, right? He hates just sitting there while Keith pours frozen orange chicken in a pan, so he walks around.

The first place he goes are the pictures, stacked on the narrow strip of wall between the fridge and the hallway. The top one is Keith, baby-faced and sullen, with a handsome black-haired man with a beaming smile. Keith is in a black graduation cap and gown; the guy is in formal dress from the military, but Lance can’t tell which branch.

“Your…foster brother?” He guesses.

Keith nods, poking at the little frozen sauce cubes with his spatula. Lance thinks that’ll be the end of it and his heart sinks a little because sh*t, Keith must really hate him, when Keith adds,

“Shiro.”

“Shiro?” Lance repeats, immediately committing it to memory. He’s hoarding personal information about Keith like they’re nuggets of gold. Foster brother. Shiro. Got it.

Next picture has Shiro and Keith again – Keith a little older, and Shiro jarringly missing an arm. His shirt sleeve is pinned back, covering the stump of it. There’s a third person in the picture, a handsome brown-skinned man with glasses on the other side of Keith. They’re all in front of a Christmas tree, twinkling lights leaving blurred spots on the film.

“Who’s this?” Lance asks. He might be pushing his luck here, but Keith says,

“Adam. Shiro’s boyfriend.”

“Okay.” Adam. Boyfriend of foster brother. “Shiro is…missing an arm?”

“Lost it in combat. He flew Black Hawks for the Air Force. He was shot down over Afghanistan.”

“Oh my God,” Lance says softly. “That’s awful.”

Keith nods. “But at least he didn’t die.”

Yeah, that’s a victory. Lance has no idea what to say to that. This seems to be a recurring theme of his night.

He looks at the last picture and does a double-take, because Keith’s visibly pregnant in this. He’s wearing a very attractive, tight grey Henley, with his bump curving out underneath the fabric. He’s actually smiling, looking one second away from a laugh, and that might have something to do with the other person in the picture, a short young human with brown hair and massive round glasses, equally pregnant and also laughing. They both look like the original intent was to take a more serious, posed photo but it fell apart before they could get there, leaving just the candid joy on their face.

“Who’s this?” Lance says and tries not to feel jealous of this very close friend of Keith’s who knows him and hangs out with him and takes pictures with him.

“That’s Pidge,” he replies, and his voice is so fond and exasperated that Lance’s heart clenches in misery. He wants Keith to talk about him that way.

“They seem cool,” he says.

“Yeah, she is. We met at the doctor’s office. She’s two weeks ahead of me. In pregnancy.”

“That’s really funny,” Lance says, and sh*t, where did his conversation skills go? He’s charmed interviewers in every country, how come his responses to Keith sound like the passive-aggressive comments of a suburban soccer mom? “You guys…take pictures together?”

He winces once the words are out of his mouth, and Keith gives him a look as he dumps stir-fry into two bowls. “Sometimes, I guess. Her mom wanted us to do some dumb pose where our bellies touched or some sh*t. We couldn’t take it, so that’s what came out instead.”

“That’s awesome. I’m really glad you have someone to do this with, a friend, you know?” Which is true; as jealous as he is of everyone who’s been with Keith these last months, he’s glad Keith has people. He’s glad this daughter has people, since he wasn’t there for them.

Keith blushes, a pretty red stain on his face. “Uh…yeah,” he replies, and hands Lance a bowl.

“Thank you,” Lance says sincerely, trying to catch and hold Keith’s eye contact. Keith gives it for about two seconds and then ducks away, plopping back down in the same armchair as before to eat. Lance feels heartache in every fiber of his being, forlorn and lost like he’s been unmoored. He wants to shake Keith, beg him, Aren’t you hurting? This massive thing, this life-changing thing we did together, aren’t you hurting? Isn’t there anything I can do for you, like one good hug from you could do for me?

Maybe this is penance for something. Maybe he’s got to atone. Problem is, he’s not sure what he’s atoning for, and he’s only got two months to do it.

When they finish the most awkward meal of Lance’s life (which is saying something – he was sat between Taylor Swift and Kanye West right after the VMA’s, that was a f*cking mess), they both sit in silence for minutes. Lance darts his eyes around, having a tough time meeting Keith’s penetrating stare for too long. Keith looks at Lance like he’s trying to x-ray him.

“What are you doing here?” He finally says.

“You keep asking me that,” Lance says, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s like you forget I normally live in LA.”

“I mean, what are you doing in my apartment?”

“You invited me in!”

“You followed me home! You’re still here! You know about the baby, you know she’s healthy, what more do you want?”

“What more do I want?” He repeats in disbelief. “What more do I want? That’s my baby that you f*cking hid, I want a lot more than dinner and some half-ass answers!”

“Your baby is fine,” Keith grits out. “I’m taking care of her. You can go back to your Hollywood life and leave us alone.”

Lance’s panic spikes so quickly he feels like he might vomit. Leave them alone? Never see Keith, his baby again? “Hell no,” he says. “No way. No, I’m staying right f*cking here.”

“What?”

“That’s right,” Lance says, and it feels truer as he says it. “I am not leaving this apartment. I live here now.”

Keith’s face is tight with fury. “You can’t do that.”

“I’m not leaving, so you can try to kick me out and I’ll come back.” It’s insane, he knows it’s insane, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else. He’s already lost Keith once, he looks like he’s going to run away, he’ll leave and never call Lance and he’ll loose them. If he stays right here until they figure something out together, he’ll keep them together, he’ll get a chance to make this right. “I know where you live, buddy, I’ll see you again.”

Keith’s eyes are shooting sparks, fists clenched and body tight. “Asshole,” he spits, and then levers himself up, storms off to a side room and slams the door. The sound echoes through the tiny, dark apartment.

Well, sh*t.

Lance sits on the couch like a statue, like he’s forgotten how to use his muscles. His heart still hammers a mile a minute, making him queasy from misplaced adrenaline. It’s the first time he’s been alone since he saw Keith in that gas station, hours ago.

The adrenaline catches up to him in waves, realizations hitting him one after the other. Baby. Father. Keith. Seven months. Daughter. Unmarried, not dating, don’t even like each other. His baby mama hates him. He has a baby mama, and he hates Lance. In two months, he’s gonna have a baby with a man who hates him.

He hands his head and cries.

He tries to keep it down, keep Keith from hearing – God, how embarrassing would that be – but he can’t really help it. It’s necessary, a catharsis that’s neither happy nor sad, just overwhelmed. Like monsoon season, when the rains come through and drown everything in a rush of water, making oil shine rainbows on the streets and clearing out the pollen and dust and smug, a miasma of sh*t before the clean petrichor of afterwards – that’s Lance, sobbing on Keith’s couch in the kitchen light.

f*ck, what is he gonna tell his mom?

After an embarrassing but necessary cry, Lance finally takes a clean breath and rubs his gritty eyes. His face is puffy and swollen and his nose is disgusting. He hobbles pitifully to the tiny bathroom, where he splashes some water on his face and dries it off with a towel. He looks around at the sparse toiletries – toothbrush, toothpaste, floss and that’s it – and thinks, sh*t, I need toiletries. He can’t exactly camp out without basic necessities. He’ll have to figure that out tomorrow.

He kicks off his shoes, puts his phone in battery save mode, and curls up under the lone couch blanket to watch some TV. He figures Keith will have to surface at some point – guy’s gotta brush his teeth, right? – but apparently not. Two hours of 24 and Lance admits defeat. He’s not seeing Keith tonight.

Time to snoop.

The kitchen is worryingly bare for the person who is tasked with feeding Lance’s unborn child – there’s only decaf coffee, ketchup and pickles in the fridge. Apparently that stir fry was all Keith had to eat, which probably explains what he was doing in the gas station (but who gets a salad in a gas station?) The living room still has a solitary strand of Christmas lights hung up by the tiny windows, though they’re not plugged in. Lance is feeling emotional so he plugs them in, and the cheery rainbow lights go a long way to calming his angst. The linen closet is mostly bare, just cleaning supplies, and the bathroom has Irish Spring and Suave shampoo and nothing else. Keith is a man of simple tastes.

There’s one last door he hasn’t opened, and when he does, it takes his breath away.

It’s the nursery.

A big window sheds filtered moonlight on a totally different room than the rest of the apartment. A solid wood crib rests in the corner next to a dressing table. A car seat sits in the corner, next to a stack of diapers and Walmart baby onesies. Packs of bottles and pacifiers are stacked neatly in the open closet, next to a bookshelf still in its box. Clearly it’s not finished – no sheets on the crib mattress, nothing really put away – but Lance can see the room this will be. There’s a tub of paint on the floor, what looks like a sunny yellow, and little stick-on wall decals of flowers and horses still in the packaging. Everything’s second-hand, scratches on the changing table and scuffs on the car seat, but it’s all here. It’s all lovingly assembled, ready to be deployed. Keith, for all the rancor of today, is actively preparing for the baby in the best way he can.

Some part of him really wants to have this baby. Lance’s baby.

And he had no help from Lance, no help from any parents. On his own, Keith got all this ready, made sure the baby had a room of her own, a car seat and crib and everything. He’s done amazing, really. Lance, in all his high and mighty ways, was criticizing this tiny apartment, when it’s clear Keith is here for the baby’s room. He’s living in this tiny, dark little apartment with no windows anywhere else, because this one room is a perfect baby’s room. And he found it on his salary, which for a mechanic can’t be great. Could Lance have done half as well, if he were in Keith’s shoes?

His sleep on the couch that night is restless and fitful.

When his alarm goes off at 5:30 the next morning, Keith doesn’t remember at first why he’s so damn tired. His body aches like he’s run a marathon and he wants to melt into the bed.

Then it all comes crashing back, every memory of last night, and he thinks, sh*t.

He hauls himself out of bed as quickly as he can, pushing the blankets off like an animal fighting off a net, and tiptoes to the door. The stupid, squeaky springs make an awful sound when he eases it open and he freezes, holding his breath like he’s waiting to get caught.

Nothing happens. He pokes his head out and looks at the living room.

Lance is still there, a long, motionless lump on the couch, wrapped in Keith’s one spare blanket that he must’ve taken from the closet. His hair is staticky and mussed, face slack. Keith heard him tossing and turning all night; f*ck, Keith heard him crying last night. Looks like he finally got some sleep.

God. Lance McClain is sleeping on his couch.

Keith shuts the door like Lance’s face is burning him, drops to the bed and puts his head in his hands. His room is so f*cking dark and it scares him, so he flips the bedside lamp on. The baby wakes up from the adrenaline and starts thumping, little pops against his navel. “Shut up,” he grumbles, rubbing a hand against her.

Did that really just happen? Keith goes into the same sh*tty gas station he always stops in and Lance is there, staring right at his belly? He knew Lance was back (had a good cry about it) but figured he’d never come to South LA, would stay in Hollywood far away from him like their first 21 years sharing the city and never meeting each other. And that’s dumb, he knows that now, they met for the first time (only time) in southeast, on Keith’s turf. Of course Lance would be there at the exact moment Keith is, and of course he’d be furious, and of course Keith would act like an asshole. How could that reunion go any other way?

Except Lance is…staying? Refusing to leave? Keith’s not sure what to make of it, what’s happening. This boy that he’s only seen in magazine pictures for seven months ̶ that face was steadfast, petrified but determined, last night on Keith’s crappy armchair saying he’s not going. Keith gets why he’s pissed – what a life-changing thing, of course he’s pissed about it – but why is he trying to stay, why won’t he go home? He was so distraught he cried last night, but even that wasn’t enough? Keith’s tiny, carefully constructed world has been blown apart by Lance like a hurricane, and he’s still being buffeted by the winds, unable to see for the storm. He has no game plan, no clue how to handle this.

So he reverts to his ingrained default – he avoids.

He forgoes a shower cause it’ll definitely wake Lance up, instead just washing his face and brushing his teeth as quickly as he can. He grabs a protein bar and an apple for breakfast and is about to run out the door when he realizes Lance won’t know where he’s going. He’s going to work, it should be obvious, but apparently Lance McClain has zero chill, and he might show up at the shop and blow their whole cover.

He grabs a Sharpie and a bright orange Chinese takeout menu, writes in big blocky letters ‘I am at work. Stay here. Do not come find me. – Keith’ and sticks it to the fridge with one of his two magnets.

Nailed it. 10/10 communication. Their baby won’t be f*cked up at all.

He thought work would be good, a distraction from all of it. Stupid banter and bullsh*t, normally incredibly distracting. Problem is, Keith’s major project is waiting for parts from Japan, and the only other bikes he has are little fixers the owners could probably do themselves. So his brain is completely free to worry about Lance – what he’s doing, who he’s telling, plans he’s making, things he’s discovering in Keith’s apartment. And keeping Lance a secret wasn’t hard when he was across the country, but now he’s here and he’s in Keith’s house and Keith’s having his baby in, like, two months and his brilliant plan to never tell a single soul about his baby’s father is turning out to be not quite so brilliant.

By lunchtime, he’s about ready to explode.

He nods to Sendak, grabs his jacket and is out the door. Every other asshole in this place takes an hour lunch every day, while Keith sticks to the mandated 30 minutes. He’s due for some emergency time.

According to his frantic bus calculations, Pidge has class at 12:30, and assuming she didn’t leave the apartment for lunch, she should be home working on coding right now. He’ll have half an hour, which is not enough time but it’ll have to work.

He doesn’t knock or text or anything, just bypasses her laughable security and walks right in.

“Keith,” she startles, wheeling around in her chair, eyes blinking to adjust from the computer screens. “sh*t, you’re lucky I was wearing pants. What are you doing here?”

He lets the door close behind him and gapes at her. All this way and he doesn’t know what to say.

Pidge turns more fully towards him, wearing a t-shirt pulled taught over her belly and baggy sweatpants. Her work station is littered with junk food, all three of her computer screens running some unintelligible script.

“You alive in there?” She says slowly. “My Girl Scout CPR certification expired about five years ago so I’d rather not use that.”

“Lance is here,” Keith gets out.

“Lance? McClain? He’s back in LA?”

Keith nods.

“From Georgia, right? That’s where he was filming?”

Another nod.

“Great, you can ogle him in the same city now instead of reading your People magazine articles.”

“No, I mean, yes, but…he’s here.” He knows he’s not making any damn sense, but after seven months he can’t f*cking say it.

“What do you mean, he’s here? In my apartment?”

“In my apartment.” Whoop, there it is.

“In your apartment?” Pidge repeats, enunciating each word. “Lance McClain is in your apartment?”

Keith nods. He’s still standing by the door like a dumbass. He feels uncomfortably aware of being pregnant.

“Why the hell is Lance McClain in your apartment? Did you kidnap him?”

“No. He’s…we, uh…he’s the…”

He gives up, and motions at his belly.

Pidge is silent. Her eyes get wide behind her glasses, massive like an owl’s. “What,” she says, crisply. “What?”

He nods, begging her to finish the thought. He used to be a straight talker, he swears. Then he kept a secret for seven months and now he can’t say a word.

“Are you trying to say,” she says, “that Lance McClain is…what, the father of your baby?”

Keith nods, once more.

“No,” she says immediately. “That’s impossible. That’s completely illogical. You had sex with Lance McCain, got pregnant, and nobody knows?”

“Yep,” he says. There’s a hysterical laugh bubbling up in him. It’s out, it’s here, his secret is laid bare. “Yes, exactly.”

“You are crazy. You’ve gone insane. This isn’t real, Keith. Pregnancy is making you crazy. I know you love him but you didn’t sleep with him – “

“I did,” Keith says, face burning, because ouch. “I did, we met at a bar and we had sex without a condom and I got pregnant and never told anyone because he’s closeted and he’s got a girlfriend and I didn’t want to ruin his life.”

“This is insanity. Things like that don’t happen, the odds are astronomical, there are infinitesimally small odds of this ever happening – “

Keith pulls out his phone, flicks through to the old text conversation that he hasn’t looked at in months. He scrolls up to the top and shoves it at Pidge. She holds it close to her face with two tiny hands like a raccoon, the images of their texts reflected back in her glasses.

He watches, heart pounding, as her face stays impassive. When she gets to the selfie, however – one of Lance’s last texts, the sweaty selfie from set – then, her eyebrows raise. She turns back to her computer, minimizes the screen, pulls up ‘Lance McClain selfie’. She scrolls through three pages of Google results, looking at selfie after selfie, trying every combination of ‘Lance McClain’, ‘selfie’, ‘suit’, ‘set’, never finding a match. Keith’s heart warms, despite himself; he didn’t actually know that Lance never posted this selfie anywhere. This was just for Keith.

Pidge finally turns back to him, and Keith can practically see the lightbulbs popping in her head. “Keith,” she says seriously, “This is real? This isn’t some elaborate, lonely pregnancy delusion?”

“No,” he says. “No, I swear to God. I met Lance one night at a sh*tty gay bar and bottomed without a condom. We texted for two months and I never told anyone I was texting him cause I don’t know, it was fun but I didn’t know how far it would go. And I found out I was pregnant – you were there, you saw it – and I just stopped, figured a clean break would be best and I would put it behind me and never bring him into it. And now, he’s back and he saw me and he’s in my apartment cause he says he’s not leaving.”

That’s about the most sanitized way Keith could put it – leaving out all the heartbreak and jealousy and loneliness – but it’s still crazy enough to make Pidge gape at him.

“f*ck,” she says, succinctly.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” She says, which is the million dollar question.

“It’s…I…”

“And now he’s in your apartment? And he won’t leave? Do I need to call the police?”

“He’s pissed, dude, he’s so pissed, all last night he said ‘I want answers’ and ‘How could you!’ He was furious.”

“Yeah, you hid his child from him.”

Keith has nothing to say to that, not at first. She says it so simply, like it’s obvious. He finally sits down, his lower back aching in protest from all the standing.

“What do you mean?” He says slowly.

“I don’t know him, so I don’t really have a lot of evidence to go on,” she says. “But he sounds really upset about the fact that he didn’t know he was having a baby, not that he’s having a baby at all. Maybe he just wants to be involved.”

“Why? He’s famous, Pidge, he doesn’t want a baby and a sh*tty baby mama, he doesn’t want this sh*t. I was trying to protect him, and the baby, kinda like you did – “

As soon as he says it he knows it’s wrong and he tries to backpedal, but Pidge’s eyes flash and her voice is steely when she says,

“They’re not the same thing and you know it. That man has no right to me or my child and if he comes near us I’ll file charges. But Lance didn’t rape you. You had dumb sex and he seems like a nice guy and he has a right to know about the baby.”

“He does know.”

“Now! Seven months in! Christ, Keith – “

“Stop it,” he says desperately, leaning over his belly. “f*ck. Stop it.”

Pidge stops, her perceptive eyes taking him in. He was doing the right thing, he knows it. He was doing the best thing for everybody. He made the right choice and he made it for a good reason and Pidge doesn’t know, she doesn’t know.

“So,” she starts. “Lance McClain.”

“Yeah.”

“He give that good D?”

He gapes at her. “You’re gay.”

“I’m still curious! Did he pretend to be Marco? Does the bad boy thing do it for you?”

“This is my child’s conception, please don’t.”

“How often did you beat your meat after we watched ‘Garrison Varsity’? When do I get to meet him? He’s famous, does he know Bill Nye? Can I meet Bill Nye?”

“Don’t you have class? Wait, also Bill Nye is the famous person you want to meet?”

“Did I stutter?”

Lance thought he’d had some bad nights of sleep: on set, cramped in sh*tty trailers; tossing and turning, eaten alive by rumors that he’d abandoned his family when he got famous; waiting up with his sister-in-law when she had her high-risk baby.

The night on Keith’s couch blows every other sh*tty night right out of the water.

He wakes up with a throbbing kink in his neck, jeans chafing against his skin, feeling like there’s something dead and furry in his mouth. The apartment is so dark he can’t figure out what time of day it is – sh*t, is it still night? – but there’s thin light coming through the tiny windows and the clock on the stove says 9:18. Morning, then.

He stretches, wincing in pain, and forces his sore body up and off the couch to search for Keith. He doesn’t look far; he sees the takeout menu on the fridge, the curt, hostile message. Alright, then. His heart sinks in his chest. This feels like a quagmire, a labyrinth that he’ll never escape.

Keith has nothing in his fridge, just like last night – Lance isn’t sure why he expected food to magically appear – so he takes a shower just for something to do. He tries not to feel so pathetic, but he’s just happy he’s using Keith’s soap, Keith’s shampoo, Keith’s towels. He puts his clothes from last night back on and goes into the last unopened door in the house – Keith’s bedroom off the kitchen.

If he thought the living room was dark, it’s nothing compared to this room. There are no windows at all, so until Lance finds the lamp switch it’s blackout. The walls are white-washed brick, blank like a prison cell. The narrow room leaves little room for anything but a bed, a dresser and a stand-up wardrobe with a few dress shirts and one pair of slacks. A couple of prints are the only decoration; a large print of a beautiful motorcycle, some cityscapes, a single Chinese character on a white background. The bedsheets are dark red and rumpled, with a few meager pillows. Lance can see the dark outline of a laundry room through the adjacent door. He stands in the room, a figure out of place, an aberration in the room where the father of his child has been sleeping alone and in the dark so the baby can have the good room, and thinks no failure in his life could ever measure up to his feeling.

(f*ck, what if Keith hasn’t been sleeping alone? What if he’s got a boyfriend, someone to hold him and keep him company and assure him that he’s better off without the no-good, douchebag baby daddy?)

He has to stay. He has to stay until he can put at least some of this right. And to stay, he needs supplies.

Hunk, bless him, answers on the second ring.

“Hello? Lance?”

“Hi buddy,” he says, some of the tension loosening from his chest.

“Dude, what’s up? That text was really cryptic last night? Are you okay?”

“Ah. Uhm. Not really.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, just…” Yikes, this is a conversation Lance never thought he’d have to have. Something not unlike embarrassment curls in his belly. “Uh. So. You remember Keith?”

“Yes, obviously, you were in love with him for months. What about him?”

“He’s…he’s pregnant.”

The silence crackles through the phone. He can picture Hunk sitting in his home office, drinking coffee, eating a frittata and trying not to freak out.

“What?” Hunk says.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand, you haven’t seen Keith in, in months.”

“Um, yeah. Seven months. Twenty-eight weeks.”

“He’s seven months pregnant?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. His stomach is a sour pit.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“No, God, not at all, I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t know?” His voice is totally changed.

“No. Not until last night.”

“That one night, all those months ago – he got pregnant then?”

“One night. I got strong swimmers,” Lance attempts to joke.

It doesn’t really work. “Oh, my God,” Hunk says.

“I know.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. I know.”

There’s silence, soft and powerful. The air in this apartment feels static, suspended.

“Wow,” Hunk says again. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

“Yeah.” Tears come unbidden to Lance’s eyes, just from the surge of emotion.

“Guess you’re gonna have to come out now.”

Lance laughs for the first time in a long time; he’s startled by it, for some idiot reason. For a while there it felt like he would never laugh again. “Yeah, guess so. Think they’ll be more upset about the other thing.”

“Yeah, good point. Okay.” Hunk switches to work mode in a heartbeat. “What’s our game plan? What are you doing?”

“Currently living at Keith’s.”

“That’s…a quick transition.”

“No, it’s like, I’m camping out here.”

“Are you a home intruder?”

“No. Yes? I am at his apartment and I’m not leaving until we have a conversation. It’s cool. We cool.”

“Are you?” Hunk says skeptically.

“Yeah, why not?”

“That’s…not a good answer. Like, at all.”

“I know, I’m working on it.”

“What do you need from me?”

“If you can, I need some stuff from my house. I don’t have a key so I can’t leave.”

“Got it, I can do that.”

“I love you, you know that? I love you so much. You’re so amazing.”

“Yeah, it’s my pleasure, okay? Just tell me what you need.”

What doesn’t Lance need? He takes a deep breath, tries to focus up.

“Okay, so…”

The sound of the key turning in the lock jolts Lance off the couch like he’s been electrocuted. He stands like an idiot, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans like he’s waiting for a prom date. This image will go in the dictionary next to the definition for ‘pathetic’.

Keith walks in, his eyes snapping immediately to Lance. He takes Lance’s breath away; he’d almost forgotten, since last night, how absolutely enchanting Keith is right now. The curve of his body is captivating, the juxtaposition of his round belly and thick thighs against Lance’s memory of him as lean and toned, just seven months ago. It’s insane that time has wrought such a quick change. And even now, in a t-shirt and old jeans, he’s gorgeous, just as gorgeous as before. Even more gorgeous, maybe.

He’s also, according to his expression, annoyed.

“You’re still here,” he says.

Lance was expecting this. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I told you I would be.”

Keith narrows his eyes, steps further into the apartment and closes the door behind him. “What’s all this?” He says, eyes flickering around the room.

“Oh, uh, yeah. So. My friend/manager, Hunk, he – you know Hunk, what am I saying – Hunk brought over my stuff. Clothes and toiletries and laptop and face cream and towels.” It’s all piled neatly (as neatly as Lance is capable of, anyway) in a corner of the living room. Keith’s face does something complicated that Lance can’t decipher. “And, uh, I also asked him to get groceries? Like, no offence dude but there is nothing here, and I thought, hey, why not use some cash, so we got bread and milk and eggs and more stir-fry and also beef and pasta and spinach cause the interwebs says that’s good for the baby so, uh. Yeah.”

“You bought groceries?” Keith walks to the living room, peeks into the fridge and pantry to find shelves and shelves full of foodstuffs.

“Uhm, yeah. Figured the baby’s making you hungrier and I put the baby in you cause you were so hot I didn’t want to wear a condom, so really the, like, very least I could do is feed you. And her. And me, cause I like eating too.”

Keith blinks at him. There’s a vague sense of confusion, like he can’t quite understand what Lance is saying, like maybe he’s speaking in a thick Scottish accent. Which is not good, because Lance thought they both spoke English. He can try it in Spanish, but if Keith doesn’t speak that then he’s sh*t outta luck.

“You told him? Hunk?” Keith says abruptly.

“Uh, yeah. He’s my best friend. And also my manager. He has to know.”

“Who is he going to tell?”

“No one.” Lance raises his hands, trying to placate. “No one, dude, Hunk’s not gonna tell. This is…let’s just say, this will require some, uh, delicate PR, so Hunk’s not going to spread this around willy-nilly. That is, like, the exact opposite of his job.”

“PR?” Keith repeats. He walks over to the couch and drops heavily into it. His eyes are very wide. “PR, what does PR have to do with this?”

“What does PR have to do with this?” Lance repeats slowly. “Like, a lot? Like, I’m kinda famous, and I’m having a baby, and PR needs to do their thing so we don’t come off looking like horny horndogs too dumb to – “

“You’re telling people? About us?”

“What, you’re not telling anyone? You haven’t told anyone I’m here?”

“Pidge. That’s it. Lance, you can’t f*cking tell, you can’t let this get out, we can’t – “

“I’m not going to tell,” he says firmly, blinking back a rush of tears. God, this kid is really ashamed of him, isn’t he? “Look, I promise. Just Hunk, okay? I get that we…we need to figure this out together for a bit before we bring other people into it.”

Keith nods. The panic in his eyes appears to die down.

“How about dinner?” Lance says. “I’ll make dinner. I make a really good chicken parm. You won’t even know it’s healthy. Its nutrients will blow your mind.”

Keith shrugs. It’s not the response Lance was hoping for, but he’s had to lower his expectations since this whole thing hit the fan, so it’s more than enough. He immediately gets to work, heating up the oven, pulling out chicken breasts, eggs and bread crumbs. Lance works in total silence, not daring to risk another argument by playing the normal reggaeton that always accompanies his cooking. When he sneaks glances at Keith, he sees that he’s tipped his head back on the back of the couch and is breathing heavily, like he’s asleep. One hand is in his lap, tucked into the curve of his belly. Lance desperately wants to touch him, to lay his hand alongside and feel Keith’s warmth.

He doesn’t. He keeps his head down and cooks.

Forty-five minutes later, he prepares a plate of steaming, perfect chicken parm and spaghetti and brings it over. He clears his throat, as softly as he can, and after a few seconds Keith blinks his eyes open, soft and sleepy like a Disney princess.

“Dinner,” Lance whispers, and holds it out.

Keith actually smiles. He stretches, his legs kicking out, and then takes the plate with a quiet “Thank you.” Lance could burst with happiness.

They sit down to eat in the living room just like last night; Keith doesn’t have a dining room table, seems mostly to eat at his coffee table. Keith makes appreciative noises every so often. He has trouble leaning over his belly to get to the food, has to huff a little. Lance doesn’t want to find it adorable, but he does.

“You cook a lot?” Keith asks.

Actual conversation? Praise Jesus, Hallelujah. “Yeah, when I can. My mom and abuela taught me.”

Keith nods, twirling a bite of spaghetti on his fork. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it’s fun.”

“What were you actually doing in that gas station?”

Lance fights down on the defensiveness rising from the other times Keith has asked that question. Keith sounds curious now, not furious, and he focuses on that.

“I was getting an iced coffee. I’d been at St. Cecilia’s, I was pretty exhausted.”

“The hospital you volunteer at?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, totally surprised Keith remembered that.

“You were there, the night we met.”

Lance gives a lopsided smile. “Oh, yeah. I was. Small world.”

Keith says nothing, ducks his head down to finish his dinner. What a lengthy, enlightening conversation, Lance thinks sourly. He should’ve told Hunk to get some booze. Keith can’t drink it but Lance sure as f*ck can.

When he’s done, Keith puts his plate on the table. He does a slow sweep over Lance’s belongings – his favorite pillow, all the non-essential-but-still-essential toiletries he hasn’t unpacked yet, a big travelling suitcase with all sorts of clothes and shoes and various sh*t.

“So you just live here now,” he says flatly.

Lance doesn’t back down. He prepared for this, today, while sitting all alone in the house. “Yeah.” Simple as that.

“You don’t have a key.”

“Actually,” Lance fishes it out of his jeans pockets. “Your spare key was nice and hidden in that black hole you call a junk drawer, but I found it and it totally still works. So yeah, I do have a key. We good.”

“You can’t do this,” he says.

Lance knows, he knows this is so beyond insane and if he heard about anyone else doing else he’d call them crazy and overdramatic and remind them that real people don’t live in a soap opera. It’s just…it’s the principal of the thing. A physical reminder to Keith that Lance is here, that he can’t just erase him, that Lance will be here and wants to be here and Keith is going to have to deal with him whether he wants to or not (the current consensus seems to be not).

“I could call the cops,” Keith says.

“You could,” Lance acknowledges. “But I would really hope you wouldn’t, cause that would really screw over my management team. And me, I don’t want to go to jail. Plus, I fed you! Chicken parm!”

Keith doesn’t look impressed. He kinda looks sad. “How long are you gonna stay here?”

“Until we get this sorted,” Lance says. It’s the least romantic way he could say it – doesn’t cover a tenth of the things he needs – but at least it’s true. If nothing else, they need to sort this out.

Keith swallows. Lance would give every penny of his fortune just to know what he’s thinking right now. He’s trying to have hard, emotional conversations with the Sphinx.

I know you’re in there, he thinks. You feel something for me, I know it.

They wash the dishes in silence. Keith brushes his teeth and slumps off to his little room on his own.

Lance makes himself as comfortable as he can on the couch. He fluffs up his pillow, covers himself in the thin blanket, and boots up Netflix.

Right there, under Recently Watched, is ‘Garrison Varsity’.

Lance can’t help it; his heart spikes. “You do like me,” he whispers, feeling blush crawl up his face. It’s definitely Keith’s Netflix; his name is in the upper corner. Keith Kogane, of his own free will, watches Lance’s breakthrough show.

The thought brings him the tiniest amount of comfort, and falling asleep on this sh*tty couch is much easier than last night.

Keith wakes up the next morning to the same text he’s gotten every hour for the past 48 hours.

Pidge: Text Shiro.

He groans, shoves his face back in the pillow. He’s really not in the mood. He’s got an awful, crawling feeling in his stomach, like he swallowed co*ckroaches. It’s like morning sickness, except he hasn’t had morning sickness in two months, and this is so much worse.

His phone buzzes again. He blinks at it with bleary eyes.

Do it you stupid f*ck.

She mixes up the wording like that, but the message is always the same: Keith needs to tell Shiro about Lance. Except he doesn’t, cause he doesn’t want to, and why tell Shiro this huge, embarrassing, crazy thing if he and Lance aren’t together and it doesn’t have a huge impact on his life? Lance’ll be gone soon anyway, back to Hollywood and his rich and beautiful life. It’s the best for everybody, and it’s definitely best if Shiro knows nothing about it.

Keith bites down on a wave of nausea, exacerbated by the baby doing a forward roll. f*ck, his sheets are so hot, trapping him in a net of sweat. He pushes them off, sits up, swallows against the rush of bile and nausea that almost makes him tip over. Jesus, he feels terrible.

The lurch in his stomach drags him to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on his dresser. He really doesn’t want Lance to see him like this, but Lance isn’t on the couch when he comes out and the bathroom door’s open, everything washed in soft pre-dawn light. He sees a note on the fridge from Lance and stops to read, but only gets halfway – something about an early morning meeting – before his stomach flips and he staggers to the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and empties his stomach in the toilet, his belly keeping him at an awkward angle from the bowl. He thanks God Lance isn’t here to see this, because it’s nasty, and he’s crying a little cause it hurts. The baby kicks, and in between vomiting spells he rubs a hand against her. Gotta be scary for her, having her dad puke – like an earthquake or something.

The puking goes on for far longer than Keith wanted, long after he thought his stomach was empty. He doesn’t want to blame Lance’s chicken parm – because it was delicious – but odds are that caused this. Maybe it was too rich, after months of gas station salads and stirfry. It’s still really early, early enough that Keith’s not gonna worry about texting Sendak to call out. He can’t go into work, he knows that. Or maybe he could, but he’s having a hell of a time convincing himself he should.

He’s exhausted when it’s over, bone-tired, and slumps onto the floor of the bathroom. The cool tile feels good after overheating in his bed, and he maneuvers around, shifting so his head is under the threadbare bath mat. It’s not exactly comfortable, but for some reason it’s the only place he wants to be right now.

He drifts in and out of a half-sleep, eyes closed, chest moving softly. The baby kicks at first and then decides to sleep too, just gentle nudges every now and then. It’s nice that she’s letting him sleep for once. Relaxing. In and out. It’s quiet, just the faintest glimmer of light from the living room windows, barely visible beyond the door. Dust particles hover in the air.

It’s very quiet…

Far, far away, at the end of a very long tunnel, there’s a noise.

He doesn’t want to move. He’s very heavy.

Words filter in, patchy and faint.

“ – God, no – please – can’t – “

He doesn’t respond. He’s so heavy. His head is lying on something soft and he has no interest in moving it.

“ – emergency – bathroom – seven months pregnant – “

A hand grabs him, hot and urgent, shakes him. Hauls him up out of the soft place.

Keith opens his eyes.

Lance, panicked, tears in his eyes, shaking him.

“Baby, f*ck, f*ck, tell me where it hurts.”

Keith’s eyes scrunch up.

“Now, Keith, f*ck, where’d you fall?”

“Sir, is he bleeding?”

“No, I don’t know, there’s vomit in the toilet and his eyes are open but he won’t talk to me – “

In a flash, Keith is wide awake. There’s Lance, kneeling in front of him, holding him up by the shoulders, his phone face-up on the ground with an open phone call to 911.

“Lance, I’m fine,” he says quickly.

“Keith, sh*t, what’s wrong? Babe, does it hurt, where does it hurt – “

“Nowhere, it hurts nowhere. I had morning sickness and came in here to puke and fell asleep on the floor afterwards.”

“You didn’t fall?” Lance’s eyes are so wide and close Keith can see every tiny blood vessel, the shine of unshed tears.

“No, I promise. Not hurt, not bleeding. I’m fine.”

“Baby?”

“Baby’s fine, totally fine.”

Lance gapes at him wordlessly, chest heaving. The grip on Keith’s arms slackens, and Keith adjusts to bear his own weight.

“Sir, did I hear that right? Your husband is alright, he was just sleeping?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Keith speaks to the phone – to the 911 operator, sh*t. “I just fell asleep on the bathroom floor. No fall, no blood, just nausea.”

“The paramedics are on their way already, they’ll do a quick check just in case. But it sounds like you’re okay?”

“Yes, I am.” Keith’s okay but Lance isn’t; he’s crying silently, looking blankly at Keith’s face like he’s barely seeing him.

“Okay, do you want me to stay on the line until they get here?”

“No, we’re fine,” Keith says, already reaching for the phone. He needs to be alone with Lance, ten minutes ago. “Thank you,” he says at the last minute, before pressing the off button.

Once she hangs up Lance is crying in earnest, big gulping sobs.

“You called 911?”

“You looked dead!” Lance says, voice shaking so much Keith can barely understand him. “You looked like you’d hit your head and died on the bathroom floor, I’ve never been more scared in my life, I get a meeting cancelled and I come home and I thought I was gonna lose you, I didn’t know what to do, I thought you were d-dead – “

He keeps talking after that but it’s so choked with tears Keith can’t tell one word from the other. He’s terrified, weirdly, in the face of so much pain and agitation, sitting there like an idiot.

Then Lance leans forward – falls forward, really – and draws Keith into a hug.

Keith freezes, pressed against a crying movie star, Lance’s hot, wet face smushed into his neck. He doesn’t think Lance is capable of letting go, he’s holding on so tight. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers, and he reacted like this? The thought of Keith caused him this much pain? This idiot called 911 before checking on Keith, just reacted on pure instinct and is now shaking through the adrenaline, gasping and heaving hot breaths into Keith’s neck.

He’s distraught. Over just the thought of Keith and the baby dying.

Now it’s Keith’s turn to act on instinct. He does the only thing he thinks will bring Lance some peace of mind: grabs his hands from where they’re rested on Keith’s shoulders and slips them down to his belly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

Lance immediately pushes up Keith’s t-shirt and puts his hands right on the skin. Keith wants to squirm away from sensitivity and embarrassment, from the fact that this is the first time Lance has touched his skin since they made the baby, but he forces himself to breathe through it. Lance cups his belly so, so gently, like he’s holding a tiny, fragile snail shell. His breathing slows against Keith’s neck, not as galloping as before.

“Shh,” Keith says, feeling so damn awkward. He’s never done this before. “We’re okay.”

Slowly, he moves his hand up Lance’s back, places it between his shoulder blades. The position is so awkward, Keith’s legs thrown strangely to the side with his back against the cold porcelain tub, Lance leaned over in a way that must be killing his back, resting his whole weight on Keith. His hands slowly start to stroke Keith’s belly, and Keith wills the baby to kick.

Come on, kiddo. Show your dad you’re there.

Lance needs this. He needs to feel it. And Keith wants it. He wants this boy to be happy, to be at peace.

Come on…come on…

The smallest of thumps.

Lance stills, saying nothing. Keith drags in a breath. He slips his own hand down, pokes himself. She jolts in response, and Lance lets out a gasping laugh.

“Hi,” he whispers. Keith’s heart clenches at his voice; it’s awed, fond, loving, tender. “Hi. Hi, baby. You’re okay.”

Keith nods. He hasn’t looked Lance in the eyes in 15 minutes. The bathroom is so quiet. Lance’s hands nudge under his t-shirt again, warm and clumsy.

“Hi,” he says again.

Keith doesn’t mean to make a decision. But a decision gets made anyway.

The paramedics come and perform a cursory examination of Keith on his own couch. They pronounce him in perfect health and don’t make any comments about the weird phone call. Keith nods and lets Lance hover, his arm and fingers and shoulder and chin catching on Keith, like he can’t bear to not physically touch Keith once every minute or so, tiny fleeting touches to make sure Keith’s still alive. When the medics leave Keith texts Sendak that he’s not coming in and then settles on the couch, not surprised at all when Lance falls down right beside him. He tucks his head into Keith’s shoulder, curving his body over until he’s a line of heat against Keith’s arm. Keith grabs the blanket and throws it over both of their laps. He already feels like he’ll combust from Lance’s heat, but for some reason he can’t bear the thought of Lance not being taken care of right now. Which is weird, because he’s the one that had the quasi-medical scare, but Lance is the one who needs cuddled.

This the most parental Keith’s ever been, and it’s towards his baby daddy. Is that weird? Yes, definitely, it’s super weird.

But it’s happening, so whatever.

Keith turns on Netflix, just to fill the quiet. ‘Garrison Varsity’ is the most recently watched, which neither of them comment on. Lance still doesn’t talk, but over a couple episodes of grade-A fictionalized drama, his silence morphs from adrenaline-based to embarrassment-based. He ducks his head in Keith’s shoulder for long stretches of time, starts to pull back his hands but keeps his face hidden, like he knows he shouldn’t be touching Keith so much but can’t stop.

“Feeling alright?” Keith says. It comes out slightly fond, teasing. He’s not sure how that happened.

“Uh, yeah,” Lance chuckles. He still doesn’t look at Keith, face tucked away. “Yeah, I think we’re, uh…I think I’m good. Are you? Are you good?”

“We’ve been over this, actually. I do think I’m good.”

“I know, sh*t, I’m so sorry, I was just panicking, I know I didn’t need to do that, I’m sorry – “

“It’s okay,” Keith says, and means it. “It’s fine. It was kinda sweet.”

This, finally, drags Lance’s face out of its burrow in Keith’s shoulder. He looks up at Keith with shiny, awestruck blue eyes, so ardent they make Keith’s stomach go hot and squirmy. He says the next sentence mostly to get that look off Lance’s face.

“Do you want to meet Shiro and Adam?”

“Shiro? Your brother?”

“Yeah. We normally do dinner once a week. You could come.”

Keith’s plan has backfired, dramatically; Lance now looks on the verge of tears. “Seriously?” He says, voice dangerously thick.

Keith nods. “This is happening, so.” He’s not sure, exactly, what ‘this’ is: Lance living with him, Lance co-parenting, some relationship with Lance beyond sperm donor. All he knows is, he’s got the same fierce, burning drive that used to dictate all of his decisions before pregnancy made him cautious, scared to jump. For the first time in months, he feels like taking a plunge, to stop worrying and second-guessing and just say f*ck it and ride that wave. He’s not sure and doesn’t want to think too hard about it, but maybe his sudden change of attitude is because it seems like Lance is willing to take a plunge for him.

“Yeah,” Lance says, dazed. “Yeah, I’d, uh, I’d love to.”

“Cool,” Keith says, like an idiot. There’s a Lance on the screen and a Lance on his couch and he’s not sure how either of them got there. He has no idea what’s going to happen from here.

Lance leans his head on Keith’s shoulders and they watch the show in silence.

There are, of course, some flaws in Keith’s plan.

“Do, uh…do they know I’m coming?” Lance says as they step out of the Uber in front of Shiro and Adam’s.

“They know someone’s coming.” He had just texted ‘Bringing a friend for dinner.’ Adam had sent back the surprised emoji and ‘You have a friend??’, cause he’s a jackass like that.

“So they don’t know I’m coming.”

“No, not specifically.”

“Damn it, Keith.” He grips his offertory bottle of wine tight as he walks up. He procured, without Keith ever seeing him do it, a bottle of extremely expensive wine, the value of which will be lost on everyone except Adam. “This is gonna go terribly.”

“Probably,” Keith says, and rings the doorbell.

Shiro takes his time getting to the door. “I’m impressed,” he says, opening the door. “Normally you just walk in, your manners – “

He sees Lance and his voice trails off.

“Shiro, this is Lance,” Keith says. “McClain,” he adds uselessly.

“Hi, great to meet you,” Lance says, and holds a hand out to shake.

Shiro takes it totally out of habit, his eyes darting rapidly between Lance and Keith. “Lance,” he repeats. “This is a surprise.”

“What’s a surprise?” Adam comes around the corner, drying his hand on a dishtowel, and freezes in the foyer. “f*ck, that’s Lance McClain.”

“And that’s Adam,” Keith says.

“Hi,” Lance says. His face is bright red.

“Keith, why is Lance McClain here for dinner?” Shiro asks.

Keith nudges an unresponsive Lance inside, shuts the front door, and says, “Cause he’s the father of the baby.”

Plunge taken.

Adam and Shiro say nothing, frozen in statuesque poses. “You could’ve said that better,” Lance mutters, gripping his bottle of wine like a lifeline.

“Lance McClain?” Adam repeats. “What, from that show? With the teenagers and stuff?”

“Garrison Varsity,” Keith says. “He’s right here, also, you don’t have to keep saying his full name.” He’s weirdly zen about this. The truth is out, no matter how much nobody can believe it. All they have to do is get to the acceptance phase. All of this is just temporary panic.

“Sorry,” Adam says to Lance, belatedly. “About that. But you slept with Keith?”

Keith flushes violently red. Wow, Adam, thanks for the vote of confidence.

“Uh.” Lance’s eyes look everywhere in the room but Keith. “Your brother – brother-in-law? Foster brother-in-law? – uh, whatever, is really hot. Like, super hot. So. Uh. Yeah.”

Keith’s burning face goes hot for another reason. Really hot. Super hot. He wants his belly to disappear for ten minutes so he can be that hot again. Maybe show Lance what he thinks of his body.

Shiro and Adam apparently have nothing to say to that. Shiro is looking worryingly into the middle distance like he’s trying not to make eye contact with anyone in the room, and Adam keeps looking at Keith’s belly like he’s relearning how babies are made.

The dumpster fire is turning into more of a landfill fire.

“How about we eat,” Keith says. “Dinner?”

“I brought you this.” Lance all but shoves the wine at Adam, giving up his lifeline at last. He fidgets with his hands for a minute – slipping them in his pockets, tapping his thighs, running them through his hair – before grabbing Keith’s hand violently.

This, of course, causes Shiro and Adam to both react, eyebrows raised and mouths open. Keith grips tight and glares at Shiro, commanding him to say something.

“Dining room’s this way,” Shiro says, stunned.

Keith tugs Lance through, nudges him into a seat, gives him a quick smile. Lance is pale and visibly anxious, but he smiles too. This is happening, Keith reminds himself. We’re a team. In it together.

He catches sight of Adam gaping at the wine bottle in the kitchen, not even pouring it out. He goes over to look and finds a label entirely in French, not a recognizable word in sight.

“This wine is a thousand dollars,” Adam whispers.

Keith shrugs. “He’s a movie star.”

Adam looks at Keith, glasses reflecting the light of the kitchen. “What did you do?” he whispers, and it sounds a bit awed.

“Something dumb,” he replies. “Trying to figure it out. He’s…he’s a really good guy, dude. He’s…yeah.”

Adam’s face softens. “We were never gonna kick him out, Keith. We were just surprised. I can’t wait to get to know him.”

He claps him on the shoulder and starts pouring wine. Keith ducks his head, smiling down at his belly, and grabs the salad bowl.

Adam comes out when they’re all seated with three glasses of wine and a water for Keith. Shiro, normally a beer drinker exclusively, opens his mouth as if to protest, but Adam sends him such a death glare he shuts up instantly.

“Thanks for the wine, Lance,” he says. Keith can almost hear the ‘McClain’ he wanted to tack on, but didn’t. “I can’t wait to try it.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Lance grins too brightly and grabs his glass. “Toast?”

They all raise their glasses slowly.

“To Keith,” Lance says, making deliberate eye contact. “Who is doing an amazing job in a really tough situation.”

“Lance,” he mutters.

“It’s true.” Lance doesn’t back down. “You have really been a rock star about this and I think you need to hear that more. So, to Keith.”

“To Keith,” Shiro and Adam echo, and drink. Keith drinks his water and looks down at his lap, where the baby is warm and quiet under his Henley. He hasn’t done an amazing job at f*cking all. He hid the truth from Lance for months and months, lied to everyone else, was an absolute asshole when Lance came back. f*ck, he made Lance cry that first night. Nothing about this has been handled well, at all. And Lance is putting him on blast about it, in front of his family.

Except that isn’t how the toast is received; Shiro looks impressed. He leans onto the table with wine in hand and says,

“Lance McClain, huh? It’s great to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too! Keith talks about you all the time, it’s great to finally meet you guys.” This is a blatant lie. Keith has talked about them exactly once. But it makes both of them smile.

“Well, it’s not every day we get to meet a star! How is…work, I guess?”

“Work is good,” Lance says with an amused smile. Jesus, what a gorgeous human, Keith thinks, a furl of heat in his belly. “Just wrapped up shooting in Georgia, so I’m glad to be back home.”

“How does that work? Do they put you up in hotels, or are you stuck in trailers?” Shiro asks.

“Oh, I love my trailer,” Lance says, and they’re off to the races. By the time he’s done with a description of his trailer (which has two TVs and red Jello stains from a Hunk prank years ago), Shiro and Adam are smiling and laughing, taking long pulls from the wine. They’ve got dozens of questions about the movie-making process which Lance is happy to answer, with lots of humor and patience. He’s so good at this, at smiling and answering questions and making everyone feel at ease. Keith mostly sits there, smiling to himself with a hand on his belly, trying to fight off the warmth in his cheeks and happily failing.

Lance carries them straight through dinner, and it’s only at dessert that Shiro and Adam seem to remember why, exactly, they have a movie star in their house. “So, are we going to be seeing more of you?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah,” Lance says, without hesitation. Then he sends a panicked look at Keith. “I mean, if that’s – “

“Yeah, you will,” Keith says simply.

Adam and Shiro nod, like they’re recalibrating around the new information. Keith looks at Lance, finds him warm and smiling. He regrets putting them at opposite sides of the table; he’d quite like to hold Lance’s hand right now. He’s never thought that about anyone before.

He excuses himself for a pregnancy-mandated pee break and afterwards finds Lance deep in conversation with Adam about the merits of spaghetti squash. Shiro is in the kitchen, washing up.

“Hey,” Keith says.

“Hey. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, all good.”

Shiro smiles. “I really like him. He’s great guy, Keith.”

He says it like Keith did something to snag Lance, like he earned Lance instead of jumping on his dick like an idiot and then trapping him with an unplanned pregnancy. “Yeah, I know.” The shadowy figure of Allura Altea rises unbidden in Keith’s mind, like the reminder of a life Lance would rather be living.

“It seems like you’ve got to work on your communication,” Shiro says, in typical fashion. “But you’re partners in this, and it seems like he knows that. That’s not a bad place to start.”

Keith hears the compliment for what it was, in Shiro’s overly pedantic tone, but instead of feeling proud and full of approval there’s a vague sense of dread. Because he will f*ck this up, he knows it. He’s already f*cked this up beyond hope of repair. They barely made it through one dinner okay, that doesn’t exactly bode well for the rest of their f*cking lives.

Lance says his goodbyes to Shiro and Adam, all effervescent hugs and effortless smiles and genuine, heartfelt compliments. He’s a f*cking charm bomb, and Keith’s f*cking family is going to like Lance better than him when it’s all over. Totally oblivious to Keith’s turmoil, Lance helps him into his sweatshirt and calls a car, helps Keith into the backseat with a casually possessive hand on the small of Keith’s back. The touch sends a shiver through every one of Keith’s nerve endings, making him freeze up with too much kinetic energy and nowhere to expend it. He should do something, reciprocate somehow. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to do anything right.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Lance says, with that sunrise smile that makes Keith’s heart clench. “I really appreciate it, getting to know your family. They’re so cool, and they love you so much, man. They’re gonna be such awesome uncles, way better than my idiot uncles who taught me all the Spanish swears but told me they were prayers and got me a chancla from my abuela when I said them in church.”

“Yeah,” Keith says faintly, because none of that means a damn thing to him. Literally everything about their lives has been different.

When they get dropped off at the house – and this is how out of it Keith is, that he doesn’t realize it’s a private black car and not an Uber until just then, when the driver says, “Goodnight, Mr. McClain” and comes around to open their doors, causing a whole new cascade of internal freakouts – Lance is in a great mood. He hums to himself when he brushes his teeth, little pops of his hips when he puts on one of his innumerable face creams. Keith watches him get ready for bed, fluffing his lone pillow and re-arranging the threadbare blanket, with a panicked need to act. Lance is so happy, and loves so much, and if Keith doesn’t do something back Lance will leave, take all this sunshine with him.

“Do you like the couch?” He blurts out. Like a f*cking idiot.

Lance looks up, eyebrows drawing together. “Uh…yeah, dude, it’s fine. I’ve slept on worse, believe me, my twin bed growing up was so much worse, it was like lying on cinderblocks.”

Which…is not the answer Keith needed. He needed Lance to say, “No, your couch sucks ass,” so Keith could suavely say, “Wanna sleep somewhere nicer?” Instead, he’s bumbling for words, standing there like a goddamn idiot in his massive pregnancy sweater, trying to come up with something to say while Lance gets more and more confused.

Finally he gets out, “You could sleep somewhere softer.”

“Oh…kay? Where?” Lance looks around the tiny apartment like a bed is going to magically appear.

Keith fists his hands in his hair, tries to breathe without grunting in frustration. The baby is awake – probably responding to the insane pounding of his heart – and she’s not helping matters.

Lance, thank God, catches on. “Are you, like, inviting me to sleep with you?”

“Yes,” Keith says, relieved. “Yeah, I am.”

“Oh,” Lance says. His cheeks glow a beautiful red. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

“Cool,” Keith says with a smile. The baby kicks fiercely, and he puts an instinctive hand on his belly to soothe her. He wishes he hadn’t; Lance gets cagey very quickly once he sees it, having trouble meeting Keith’s eyes as he scoops up his pillow and phone charger and heads into the bedroom. Awesome. Keith got a smile for a grand total of one second. He’s totally not f*cking this up at all. This is going to go great.

He walks into the bedroom next, but only to grab his biggest, most circus-tent-like pregnancy pajamas. It’s dumb, Lance literally touched his belly this morning, he knows that Keith does, in fact, have a body, it’s just…he doesn’t really need to see it, right? Keith can live in massive tablecloths until the baby’s out and, if Lance is still there, present him with the non-swollen body that he described as “really hot.”

While he’s changing and brushing his teeth in the bathroom he texts Pidge, something useless like, “Lance in my bed tonight?????” She, of course, sends back, “f*ck YES RIDE THAT D YEET THAT BITCH wear a condom just to be safe PUT THEM SENSITIVE TIDDIES TO WORK” and 80 emojis. It came very fast, that text. Must’ve worn her little fingers to the nub texting that garbage.

When Keith finally re-enters the bedroom, Lance is standing by the bed looking totally lost. “I wasn’t sure,” he blurts. “Where you slept. Which side, I mean, I know you sleep in the bed. Obviously, it’s your bed. I know sleeping must be…more uncomfortable, now, so I didn’t want to…”

He trails off, with the helpless look of a small animal caught in a bear trap. Keith thinks, oddly, that he has no idea how two humans this awkward managed to make a baby.

He points to the side closest to the door, and Lance immediately moves his pillow to the other side by the wall. Keith hesitates a moment, because the last time he shared a bed with Lance some very fun things happened, and he’s equal parts terrified and desperate for them to happen again, but then he clambers in as gracefully as he can. He pulls the covers over and Lance does too, and then – there’s someone here, another warm body in this sh*tty bed, and this person is the father of his baby and that father is Lance McClain, and for all these long months and all the long years before it Keith almost never shared a bed with anyone. He remembers why not; it’s f*cking terrifying, having a human next to him when he’s resting, and all the limitless potential of human actions right here, while he’s trying to sleep. He feels like an animal, watching, waiting to see what Lance will do. What he’ll do with Keith.

The light’s still on, so Keith can see clearly when Lance turns over on his side so he can look at Keith. “Hey,” he says. “I’m not…gonna do anything you’re not comfortable with. Okay? I promise, I’m not a creep, or anything. No awful-Hollywood-Harvey Weinstein-bullsh*t. Seriously, I’m just…happy to be here.”

Keith’s chest relaxes, unleashing a wave of relief and…disappointment? Because thank God, Lance doesn’t anything like that from him, the very thought fills Keith with absolute fear, the terror of inevitable failure and disappointment from both parties. But also…of course, Lance doesn’t want to touch him. Why would he? Keith looks like an inflated balloon animal right now. Of course there was no universe where Lance could ever find him sexy. Keith wouldn’t find himself sexy at all. Most days he hates even looking at himself, he can’t imagine trying to f*ck like this.

Still, he smiles at Lance, neck craned at a weird angle to look at him (because turning over is a lot easier for Lance than it is for Keith right now). Lance returns it, soft, sleepy-eyed in the single point of light in the dark room. Keith reaches out, nudges around until he hits the lamp switch, plunges them both into darkness. The air is alive, now, like it’s never been before; two sets of syncopated breathing, two puffs of warm breath into the negative space, the minute rustlings of two bodies against the sheets. Two humans. Two and a half, really. Two individuals and the incipient amalgamation of both of them, soon to be an individual too.

Keith shuts his eyes.

For a fierce, lonely moment, he wants to grab Lance’s hand.

He doesn’t. He breathes. Eventually, he puts himself to sleep.

When Lance wakes up the next morning, he opens his eyes into deep darkness and the lingering traces of warmth beside him.

This isn’t surprising. Keith’s been gone before Lance almost all of the mornings since he’s been here. What is new, and wonderful, is the way Lance can roll over and press his face into Keith’s pillow, chasing those remnants of warmth, that tiny smell of heat and musk and oil still left on the pillowcase. It’s pathetic. He doesn’t care.

He wakes up, makes a cup of coffee, eats some avocado toast. Then, he gets practical.

The first call is to his financial advisor, a sweet woman named Nora whose primary job, as far as Lance can tell, is to move Lance’s money around into weird stocks and bonds and other sh*t so it doesn’t…disappear? He doesn’t know. He says hello, gently reminds her of the NDAs she signed, and then goes into a halting explanation of every single life change he’s experienced in the last week.

“So, like, can we set up a college fund? And, you know, get another credit card under my account for Keith? So he’s got access to my money? No limit, I don’t know, whatever, but, just in case, you know…they’re taken care of.”

“Lance,” she says, “your holdings are…very substantial. College won’t be a problem, as far as finances go.”

“I know, but aren’t there tax-free accounts for that? Someplace where the money goes and no one can touch it? I just…if I, you know, lose my voice and can never act again and I end up broke and destitute, I just want them to be okay.”

“Sure, Lance,” she says, with the air of someone who thinks what the other person is saying is lunacy. He thinks he can hear some fondness, too, so he’s not offended. “We can do that for you. Let me take a look at your portfolio and I’ll get back to you.”

The thought of him losing his voice and never acting turns into a much deeper spiral of him dying and leaving Keith and the baby broke and alone, so he calls Hunk in full hysteria mode. Hunk talks him down, tells him he’s not gonna die, and promises to call his lawyer to figure out how to adjust his will accordingly. Lance has looked at his will a grand total of one (1) time, and it made him panic then, so he’s more than happy to let the lawyers figure that out and he’ll sign off at the end. He knows Keith’s not his biggest fan, but he’ll take Lance’s money if Lance dies, right? For the baby, at least?

It’s all so f*cked, so next he grabs his wonderful credit with its wonderfully high limit and goes apesh*t on baby supplies. Diapers and bottles and clothes and a crib and a car seat and a changing table and a Diaper Genie cause he doesn’t know what that is but it sounds like it makes diapers disappear and that can only be a good thing. He doesn’t think about a theme, or a color scheme, or anything matching, just buys the most expensive thing he sees and figures what’s more important is getting something in his house, which has nothing for the baby at all. He also buys like fifteen parenting books, all the top-rated ones on Amazon, and when he’s done he’s significantly less rich and significantly more in awe of Keith doing this without a platinum credit card.

Dinner that night is grilled chicken with brussels sprouts. Keith pokes suspiciously at them until Lance informs him they’re grilled with butter and bacon fat. He’s much more receptive after that. Lance watches him with this little smile on his face, soft-hearted and sappy, and doesn’t tell Keith about anything he did today. The ground between them is still so shaky, the ice so thin…Lance wants these tender little moments while he has them.

He’s zoned out, eating on autopilot, when Keith asks in that gunfire way of his –

“Did you tell your parents yet?”

Lance jerks. “Sorry?”

“Did you tell them?” Keith asks. His face is totally neutral. “About me.”

“Ahh. No. Uh. Not yet.”

“Are you not close with them?”

“No, no, we’re super close.” It’s been eating at him, actually, to not tell them; he’s been avoiding his mom’s calls, for fear that he’ll blurt it out. “I just, you know. We said we’d keep it between ourselves for a while.”

Keith nods, and if Lance is imagining the approval on his face…well, it’s been a very long week. He’ll take a nice delusion where he can get it.

“Is this their first grandkid?”

“No,” Lance says, “no, my brother Luis is married, they’ve got two kids. They were pretty young too, I think, like 22? Something like that, close to us. So I’m not even the first one to have kids young, it’s just…” He smiles, shrugs. “It’ll be a little different, cause I’m the youngest, and I’m…you know. Famous, or something.”

“Famous or something,” Keith snorts.

“I don’t know, I hate saying it! ‘I’m famous,’ like bitch, we been knew!”

Keith laughs, actually laughs. It’s like fireworks. Lance could float away.

“You can tell them, you know.” Keith spears a brussels sprout.

“What?”

“About me,” he says. “And the baby. The whole thing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. They’re your family. They need to know.” He looks down at his plate, ducking his head so Lance is left to stare at the top of Keith’s head with his eyes watering.

“Thank you,” he says, voice totally thick. Keith’s head pops up in alarm.

“Why are you crying? I’m the pregnant one, I should be crying! Stop crying!”

“Okay,” Lance says, and continues to cry.

“Oh my God.” Keith looks at him in horror. “Do you just cry all the time?”

“No!”

“You do! You cry all the time!”

“I’m very emotional!”

“Stop!”

“Being emotional?”

“Yes!”

“This is a very emotional time!”

“You are not allowed to talk to your family anymore if this is what you’re going to do.”

“No take-backsies.” Lance wipes his eyes off.

Keith quirks a smile. He’s beautiful, Lance thinks. Hair a mess, old t-shirt stretched over his belly, razor nick at his jaw. He’s beautiful, and Lance wants to know everything about him.

“I’m gonna wash up,” Keith says, and pushes himself up and out of his chair. “Do you wanna…watch ‘Garrison Varsity?’”

“Ooh, I love that show! Is that the one with that handsome Cuban actor? Amazing bod, cooks like Gordon Ramsey?”

“No, that guy’s annoying,” Keith grumbles, balancing his plates on his belly. Lance fights the urge to coo. “He talks too much and he cries all the time.”

“You didn’t say I didn’t cook like Gordon Ramsey.”

“You don’t even cook in ‘Garrison Varsity!’ Not once in five seasons!”

“You’ve watched all five seasons? Keith – “

“No,” Keith says. “No, I didn’t. I hate that show. I hate you.”

“Who should I have ended up with? Since you watched it so much? Brilliant but poor Clara, or rich and cruel Dakotah?”

“Should’ve ended up in the trash. Should put you right in the dump where you belong.”

“Wow. Wow. I can’t believe this, what will our child say, what language are you teaching her, how rude – “

“Start the damn show.”

Ultimately, it was always going to happen this way, and Keith’s not sure why he thought any differently.

He comes home from work on Friday to see Pidge sitting on his kitchen counter with a bag of white cheddar Cheetos in her lap, and Lance sitting on the couch facing her with a look of pure panic on his face.

Keith rubs his eyes. “Yeah, that tracks. I see you’ve met Pidge?” He gestures grandly at her.

“Oh, we’ve met,” Pidge answers gleefully. “We’re best friends now.”

“I’ve had stalkers before, I’m not scared of you.” Lance’s wide, terrified eyes say otherwise.

“Shut up,” she says, and he immediately shuts up. “Keith, when were you going to introduce me to your baby daddy? It’s like you don’t love me.”

“Never, cause I knew you were gonna pull this sh*t.”

“Rude,” she says, totally unoffended. “He’s much cuter in person. You were holding out on me.”

Keith’s not touching that with a ten-foot pole (because Lance is looking cute today, in dark wash jeans and a blue t-shirt. Keith wants to do dumb things like curl up in his arms and bite his chest.) “How did you get in here?” He says instead. “How did you get up there? You’re like 80 months pregnant.”

“Mind over matter,” she says loftily. Lance catches Keith’s eye and mouths ‘step stool’. “As for the first question, your security is laughable and was no match for my Air Force lockpicking kit.”

“The Air Force makes lockpicking kits?” Lance wonders aloud.

“Are you here for anything specific or just to torment Lance?” Keith asks. “Cause if not, I am very hungry and he promised me burgers.”

“Ooh, burgers,” she says, eyes lighting up, and then shakes her head. “No, forget it, I’m here to kidnap you and take you to my parents’ for dinner.”

“Pidge – “

“Keith. Come on, they have to meet him!”

“No, they don’t – “

“I don’t mind,” Lance says, and Pidge points a finger.

“Yes. Exactly. If you wanna be Keith’s lover, you gotta get with his friends. I’m his only friend. It me.”

“Pidge,” he says, blushing, it feels, all the way down to his toes.

“You’re my only friend too, it’s okay,” she says calmly. “Come on, I know you guys don’t have any other plans, and it’s pork chop night!”

Lance looks to Keith – always checking in, always making sure he’s okay – and, well…Keith never really had a choice, did he?

“Alright,” he shrugs, and both Lance and Pidge cheer. He has a feeling a very dangerous friendship has begun tonight that will likely end in his utter embarrassment.

And it’s…it’s nice. Pidge isn’t just technology smart, she’s also generally smart, and Keith forgets that: tonight, she’s clearly prepped her family for Lance’s arrival, so there’s none of the ‘Oh my God it’s Lance McClain’ reactions they both hate so much. Instead, all three Holts are calm and gracious and treat Lance like an old friend they’ve known for years, and Keith is beyond grateful. For once he feels like he can just be with Lance, his dorky baby daddy who cooks and sings to reggaeton in the shower, instead of Lance McClain and whoever people want him to be.

(There’s one moment, where Colleen clearly remembers who’s in her kitchen – Sam is talking about the new Amazon Echo, and Lance confirms that he saw it in his friend Leo’s house and it actually works really well – it takes a moment but Colleen clutches her heart and mouths ‘DiCaprio?’ before Pidge elbows her and she gets it together.)

So they eat pork chops and green beans, and Lance fits in at this table like he fits in everywhere, and Pidge sends Keith knowing glances over her apple juice that Keith ignores because it’s not, and he knows it’s not, and Pidge should know that too – she’s making eyes like Lance is his…his boyfriend, and he’s not, Lance is just the poor dude who knocked Keith up and he’s here because he’s a fundamentally good guy, and that’s all it’ll ever be.

Keith is grateful for that. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get, that’s for sure.

Lance even gets to witness, in person, the exquisite humiliation of Keith and Pidge taking their weekly pregnancy wall photos. He lights up when Colleen suggests it, his cheeks flushed with all the wine he’s been drinking, and flat-out cheers when Keith gets up. This is Keith’s least favorite part of the dinner to begin with, especially as his bump has progressed from cute-curve to smuggling-a-basketball-out-of-the-YMCA and all of the accompanying pain and awkwardness that comes with that. He wants to hide under a blanket for the picture, especially hates turning to the side for the full profile, like this picture is going to remind Lance that he’s living with the human equivalent of a boat.

Except when he gets the courage to dart his eyes over at Lance during the picture, he doesn’t look disgusted or pitying. He looks…he’s smiling, warm and full, and when he meets Keith’s eyes he gives a thumb’s up.

Keith gives a weird smile in response. Colleen looks down at the view finder and raises her eyebrows at the picture she’s just taken. Keith doesn’t ask.

“Do you have a bunch of these?” Lance says. He’s already got last week’s picture in his hands; Keith, scowling in yet another stretched-out t-shirt, holding the little sign saying ’27 weeks’.

“Yeah, for a couple of months now.”

“Can I see them?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Lance says, slowly. “I haven’t…I missed it, you know, so I just want to…I don’t know. I want to see it.”

Wants to see me, or just the baby growing? Keith thinks. And then remembers, if it’s the baby – of course it’s the baby – that there’s an easier way for that then having to see Keith blowing up like a balloon. He’s got a doctor’s appointment next week, and Dr. Rosenthal mentioned that it’s time for another ultrasound.

Lance deserves to see the baby. He deserves to meet his daughter.

So later that night, when they’re lying in bed breathing in the same darkness, Keith whispers,

“What are you doing on Wednesday?”

“Umm…” Lance whispers back. “Nothing, I think. I’ll check but…I don’t think I have any meetings.”

“Okay. Do you want to come to the doctor’s with me? I’ve got a checkup.”

“Yes,” he replies instantly. “Yes, absolutely, I’ll be there.”

“It’s gonna be hard to keep you hidden, it’s in Culver City, really open – “

“Let me worry about that.” Lance reaches out to grab Keith’s hand, and Keith jerks in surprise. Lance quickly pulls it back, and Keith wants to scream, No, come back, I was just surprised, please. Lance clears his throat. “Umm, we’ll figure something out. I’ll be there, I promise.”

There’s nothing Keith wants more than to hold Lance’s hand again, to press all of his thank yous and I’m sorrys and I’m gratefuls skin to skin. But the moment’s passed, he thinks, and now it would just be awkward. Conciliatory.

“Sounds good,” he whispers, lamely, and in his mind, Lance smiles back.

But it’s too dark to see.

The last thing Lance says before mysteriously disappearing on Wednesday morning is,

“Don’t take the bus. I’m sending someone. Just take the day off.”

So Keith calls out – again, damn, what is this boy doing to his sick leave, he’s gonna have no time left once the baby comes – and hangs out at home. At first it seems like a good opportunity to do some cleaning – double the people means double the mess – but he gets exhausted almost immediately from trying to maneuver the vacuum with his belly. He stops to breathe, hands on his lower back, trying to figure out why it feels like the baby is sitting right on his f*cking lungs. So f*ck cleaning, then. Lance can run a vacuum over this place.

Besides, he realizes, why was he trying to clean in the first place when he could’ve been using the time to jerk off.

He all but runs into the bedroom, throws himself down on the bed, and wiggles his sweatpants off. His sex drive took a nose dive around month six, because there’s nothing less sexy than trying to beat his meat when he can’t see his dick, hasn’t seen it in months. But then Lance moved in, and started sleeping with him, and had to do really sexy things like sing along to Spanish songs and wear jeans that are tight on his endless legs and open jars with his massive hands and smile with his dimples and exist in Keith’s space and –

The angle’s terrible and Keith’s flushed with embarrassment but he gets a hand on his dick and starts pumping. He hisses with how good it feels, how long it’s been since he let himself do it, and doesn’t even try to stop himself from imagining Lance. Lance, wet and warm and flushed in the shower. Lance, kicking Keith’s knees open and taking him from behind. Lance, with his blue eyes and his fierce heart and his open mind, the way he treats Keith like he’s the best thing that ever happened to him instead of the worst. He comes with a strangled cry, folding up as much as possible, thinks that this is still more than he deserves, more than he’ll get. The idea of Lance pity-f*cking him is more than he can bear, so he doesn’t dwell on it. Just breathes, and listens to his heart gallop as he comes down, and tries to just exist.

An hour later Keith is showered, and dressed in good clothes, and reading on the couch. He’s surprised when he gets a knock on his door instead of the call he was expecting.

When he opens the door, he sees one of the happiest looking humans he’s ever seen. He’s got a broad grin, sparkling eyes, a soft gray shirt under a navy blue sport coat. He’s tall and broad, and Keith thinks weirdly that he looks like he gives excellent hugs.

“Oh man,” he says, “you’re here, I am so excited, dude, you don’t even know.”

“Umm…”

“I’m Hunk,” he says, holding out a hand. “Lance didn’t tell you I was gonna be picking you up, did he? Super forgetful, I’m not surprised.”

“Hunk,” Keith repeats. This is Hunk, Lance’s manager and best friend. For some reason Keith was picturing him stick-thin, like Lance, and maybe white. “Yeah, nice to meet you. I’m Keith.”

“Dude, I been knew,” Hunk says, shaking his hand. “You are literally all Lance talks about. I feel like I know your social security number and your blood type. I feel like I know you better than I know my own mom.”

Keith can’t help but blush. What the f*ck is she supposed to say to that? He wants to hide under a blanket until his face calms down. “Uhh.”

Hunk is undeterred by Keith’s inability to speak English. “You had breakfast? You want coffee or anything before we go? I got Lance’s credit card, we can go crazy. Let’s get lobster. I’m kidding, it’s 10 am, I never have lobster before six.”

This feels a lot like talking to Lance, and that makes Keith smile. “You’re not his driver, though.”

“No, I’m not, but we’re still really hush-hush about the whole baby thing.” He makes a weird flailing motion towards Keith’s belly, which makes Keith snort. “And honestly Lance was never gonna let me meet you until I took matters into my own hands, so I volunteered.”

“Oh,” Keith says, heart sinking in his chest. So Lance was ashamed of him. Of course he was, why wouldn’t he? Keith is a f*cking orphan mechanic with a GED. Not exactly dream genetic material for your first-born child.

“What – oh, dude, oh. Not like that. Literally the opposite of that. He’s so f*cking overprotective. And, like, he thinks you’re gonna bolt, so he’s, like, keeping you under wraps. He’s not, like – he’d tell the whole f*cking world if he could. He’d put it on the cover of the New York Times.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and only that, because he can’t handle the emotional whiplash of this conversation. The way that his stupid heart keeps jumping up and down like a pogo stick. “Yeah, okay. So, uh, I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Great!” Hunk says, politely ignoring Keith’s abrupt change of subject. “Let’s roll.”

They climb into a sleek black car, which Keith only recognizes as a Ferrari once he sees the name on the dash (he knows bikes, not cars). “Is this Lance’s?”

“One of his, yeah. Much less flash than the Aston, better for undercover work.”

“…Oh.”

“Did I freak you out again? I’m sorry, man. Lance is the worst rich person in the world. He drops tons of money on Goldfish and one time asked me how to spell Versace. I promise, any swagger you see is artificially installed by me or his stylist.”

“How long have you worked with Lance?”

“Three years now, since we graduated high school. It’s like herding cats. But, like, one very hyper cat, with terrible ideas. Terrible ideas that end with me shirtless in Martin Scorsese’s house, having to apologize to Uma Thurman cause Lance peed on her bonsai.”

“Did the bonsai deserve it?”

“Absolutely, no question,” Hunk says.

Keith cracks a grin, staring out the window as sunshiny LA rolls by outside. Hunk’s a good driver, calm and steady, and an even better conversationalist. He’s got the same skill Lance has, where he’s effortlessly charming; must be the business, all the years of schmoozing and socializing and, apparently, apologizing. Keith gets the burning desire to ask Hunk something about Lance, cause it feels like he’ll tell Keith anything, but the only question that’s really on his mind is What is up with Allura Altea? He can’t, though, he’s too terrified of the answer, doesn’t want to spend this doctor’s visit crying every time he looks at Lance. Instead, he says,

“How would this work? Like, with the movies?”

“What, like how does Lance’s schedule work?”

Keith nods. “He was gone for months.”

“Yeah, that does happen. But it can be avoided. Lots of movies are shot entirely on soundstages here in LA. If he gets back into television – which is something we were talking about, even before you got pregnant – that’s a lot easier, there’s normally just a studio set and it’s pretty stationery. Or he does commercials for a while until you’re out of the danger zone, God knows I’ve got about 80 endorsem*nt offers on my desk right now, he can take his pick. So I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s a weird job, yeah, but it doesn’t mean he can’t have a family. Plenty of people do, even directors.”

Keith nods and traces a hand over his belly, basking in the relief of one question answered.

They come in the regular entrance, the one Keith always uses, and everything’s exactly the same except for Hunk leaving to go talk to someone once Keith goes into the room for his appointment. He sits on the bed, paper gown crinkling like it always does, hands clenched in his lap. Dr. Rosenthal comes in, eyes on her folder, calm as ever.

“Good morning, Keith,” she says. “Thought we were gonna have a friend join us today? That’s what the receptionist said.”

“Uh, we will, he’s just running late,” Keith says. “Uh…have they had you sign an NDA?”

“Keith, everything we say in here is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality,” she says, eyebrows raised above her glasses. “I promise, there’s no need for an NDA for anything we say in here.”

“Uh,” Keith says again, just when the door opens and Lance walks in.

“Oh my God I’m so sorry I’m late, traffic was awful and we had to take the secret entrance, it was a whole thing.” He gives Keith a quick hug and turns to Dr. Rosenthal with a smile. “Hi, I’m Lance, nice to meet you.”

Dr. Rosenthal’s still calm as ever, but there’s a panic in her eyes that’s hysterical to watch. “Hello, Lance,” she says slowly, reaching out to shake his hand. “Lance McClain,” she adds, unable to help herself.

“That’s me,” Lance says brightly. God, this poor boy is so used to hearing this. Keith didn’t realize until they started living together.

“It’s…it’s very exciting that Keith’s got a friend who could come.”

“Oh, uh, I’m not a friend. Well, I mean, I am, we are friends, just…I’m also, you know. The dad.”

Dr. Rosenthal is silent. One second. Two seconds.

She looks at Keith, like How the f*ck did you sleep with Lance McClain? Keith shrugs. He’s got no clue himself.

“Okay,” she says, and he watches her shake herself back into work mode. “Okay. Awesome. Let’s talk about the baby.”

“Yes, please,” Keith says.

She takes a look down at her chart. “So, all of this looks good…blood pressure good, your weight gain looks good – “

Keith flushes so hot he’s sure his face could be used as a hibachi grill. “Don’t,” he mutters, darting a glance at Lance.

“Keith,” Dr. Rosenthal says, “When you grow another human in your body, they are in fact made of something more solid than air, so they do, in fact, weight something. We have this talk every time, this is the first week you’ve actually been on track instead of underweight.”

Keith could die. He could combust into literal flames. He looks down at his lap – his belly, really, he hasn’t seen his lap in months – and rues the day that he decided to bring his very famous, very attractive movie star baby daddy to the appointment where they tell him he’s finally fat, that’s it, he’s wearing nothing but muumuus until this f*cking baby is out of him – and jerks in surprise when a warm hand fits back into his.

“Hey.” It’s Lance. He smiles, not letting Keith duck his head again, keeping eye contact like it’s the last important thing on Earth. “You look great, babe. Don’t worry about it.”

Oh, wow, Keith’s gonna die for a whole different reason. He wants to save Lance saying ‘babe’ so he can play it on a loop, put it as his ringtone like it’s 2003. Babe. f*ck, how is he supposed to respond to that?

He doesn’t, because he’s Keith, just breaks eye contact and looks at his lap. When he looks up again, an indeterminate amount of time later, Dr. Rosenthal’s face is showing a very weird combination of fond and totally baffled.

“Okay,” she says. “So, let’s talk. How are you feeling?”

Keith tells her, honestly, that he’s way more tired and way more off-balance than he was before. He’s out of breath all the time and can’t stand for too long. Dr. Rosenthal asks about paternity leave.

“I get time, kinda. I’ve been saving up sick time too. I just don’t want to use it all now before she’s even here,” he explains. He looks over at Lance to find him confused, his eyebrows scrunched together. What could be confusing about this? “So, you know. I’m gonna go until I physically can’t.”

“Well, you’ve got a very physically demanding job, so ‘until you physically can’t’ is probably going to be 36 weeks.” Keith makes a face but Dr. Rosenthal is unfazed. “It could be worse. You’re lucky bed rest isn’t prescribed anymore.”

Keith’s disgusted face deepens, and Lance laughs. “Oh my God, I can’t see that. You don’t even sleep in, you couldn’t stay in bed all day.”

“I could,” Keith mutters, and he’s not sure when this became a contest.

“Sure, babe,” Lance says fondly. Babe. Again. Oh my God. Why was he doing this, did he want Keith to burst into flames?

Dr. Rosenthal’s eyes had gone a little moony, but she got herself back. They went through the rest of Keith’s current medical woes and took some blood, and she directed him to lie down and lift the gown up so she could palpate his belly. Lance stares at Keith’s stomach with wide eyes, and Keith looks up at the ceiling and prays to every deity in human existence for a miraculous vanishing of his stretch marks and stupid popped-out navel.

“Is that normal?” Lance says, because of course the idiot has to comment on his belly button.

“Oh, yeah,” Dr. Rosenthal says calmly. She places her gloved hands on either side of his belly and starts pushing, very lightly. “Lots of pressure, you know, pops it out. Lots more bulk.” Bulk, she says, oh God.

“Is it ticklish?” Lance says, and touches it.

Keith yelps and squirms away. “Lance!”

“Gonna go with a yes,” Lance says gleefully.

“Well now you’ve woken her up,” Keith grumbles.

“She’s strong,” Dr. Rosenthal says, as she puts her hands back on Keith’s belly. “Good kicks.”

“Of course she’s strong,” Lance says calmly. “She’s our kid.” Like it’s that easy. Like that’s all the baby needs in life – to be strong, to have two parents. sh*t, maybe it is, in the world of Lance McClain.

Next they’re visited by the eternally optimistic ultrasound tech with the cart. Marlena – Keith’s learned her name, now, after quite a few of these scans – Marlena and Lance get on like a house on fire. Marlena is awestruck by Lance for approximately one minute and then proceeds to ask about more-famous famous people. Lance regales her with stories about Will Smith and Tina Fey and one, from afar, Michelle Obama, while Marlena squeals and Keith looks at them amusedly while he’s laid back. When she raises his gown and starts to rub the gel on, Lance is fascinated again.

“So we’re actually gonna see her,” he says, leaning forward in his seat.

“No, the other baby in my stomach,” Keith says. He hisses when the gel hits his belly, and Marlena shushes him soothingly.

“Don’t even joke about twins,” Lance says. “I’m rich but I’m not that rich. Wait, can we get one of the 3D ones where you see their faces?”

“No, they’re creepy,” Keith says.

“What? Keith – “

“You’re gonna see her in 10 weeks, you bozo, what do you need to see her face for now?”

Lance opens his mouth, probably for a clever retort, but Marlena shifts the wand just so, and all the words in the room die.

“There she is,” Marlena says. “There’s the little lady.”

She’s so big; Keith somehow expects, every time, that he’ll see the same tiny peanut he saw that first time. But she’s a whole person now, with the shadowy outline of fingers and the ridge of her nose and her big, alien head. It’s an avalanche, seeing her, alive and warm and safe, no clue about all the drama going on around and about her. He wants, for a crazy moment, to keep her inside; to keep her safe from everything that’s gonna happen, all the furor from people inevitably finding out about the circ*mstances of her conception. He doesn’t want her to live with that; at least inside of him, she’s safe.

But then he looks over at Lance’s starstruck face, and his wish dies.

She’d be safe inside of him, sure. But she’d also never meet Lance.

“That’s…that’s her?” He says.

“Yup,” Marlena says warmly, moving the wand so they get angles. “That’s her.”

“She’s, like…this is live inside Keith, right now?” He gestures weirdly at Keith’s bared belly.

“Live feed,” Marlena replies patiently.

“I know it’s weird,” Keith says. He’s half-naked and they’re looking at the living human inside of him. It’s f*cking weird. It’s as weird as it gets.

“It’s not weird. I mean, it is, yeah, but, like…” Lance’s eyes are so wide Keith can see the black and white reflection of the ultrasound in his eyes. “That’s our baby. That’s my daughter.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, not taking his eyes off Lance.

“She’s, like, wiggling,” he says.

“Just a bit.” Keith can feel her; not gut-punch kicks, but soft nudges and little twitches. Slow and calm, like the rocking of a boat. “You can try to feel.”

Lance reaches down to the small parts of Keith’s belly that aren’t covered in gel. She shifts, obligingly, and Lance’s eyes widen even more.

Then he starts crying.

“Lance,” Keith says in alarm.

“I can feel her,” he says, voice thick and teary. He swipes a hand under his nose. “She’s there. I can feel her.”

“Aww, I love the criers,” Marlena says.

“Well you’re gonna love him,” Keith replies, and Lance manages a giggly smile.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…this is like the best moment of my life? Like I’m so happy I feel like I could explode with it. God, Keith, this is amazing.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, and winces. Wow, he is terrible at expressing emotion. Or, he’s great at being angry and frustrated and sad; not as great at reacting honestly to the father of his child crying as he sees her for the first time. Not as easy. Can’t just say ‘f*ck’ and go for a long motorcycle ride to deal with this particular emotion.

Lance doesn’t seem to care about Keith’s emotional retardation. “I told you I was gonna cry a lot,” he says with a sheepish smile.

“It’s okay,” Keith says. “It’s fine. You warned me.”

“We need to think of names,” Lance says absentmindedly, looking at the screen.

Keith has a mini heart attack, because this is week 30 and this is the first time he’s thought that this kid needs a name.

“f*ck me,” he says emphatically.

Lance bursts out laughing.

“Too late,” he says, with a meaningful look at Keith’s belly.

Marlena snorts, trying to stifle her laughter behind her hand, and Keith reaches out to half-heartedly slap at Lance’s arm. Lance whispers ‘I’m sorry’ and clearly doesn’t mean it. The sun shines through the windows and Keith’s daughter is happy and healthy inside of him, and Keith thinks,

I was doing fine before. I was doing okay on my own.

But this is way better with Lance.

The call comes in the middle of the night. It takes Keith a good thirty seconds to drag himself out of sleep, decide that the ringing won’t go away if he ignores it, and fumble around until he finds the phone. When he sees Colleen Holt’s name on the phone, though, he’s wide awake. This could only mean one thing.

“Hello?”

“Keith,” she says, voice tight. “Hi. I’m so sorry to wake you. But Pidge is in labor.”

“She’s too early,” Keith says, flicking the light. Beside him, Lance twitches awake. “She’s only 32 weeks, she’s too early.”

“I know, she’s definitely too early, but the baby’s scans are coming back just fine and the doctors say trying to stop it would be more dangerous at this point. Apparently she was having contractions most of the day and only just told us a few hours ago.”

“Typical,” Keith says, and it startles a weak laugh out of Colleen. “Okay, we’ll be there. Soon as we can.”

“Great, okay. Thank you, Keith,” she says, and Keith has to hang up because there is so much emotion in her voice he has to turn away before it drowns him.

Lance is looking at him with rumpled hair and eyes that are shining like marbles. “Pidge is in labor?”

Keith nods and hauls himself out of bed.

“She’s too early, right? She’s only like two weeks ahead of you, isn’t that too early?”

“It’s definitely too early, but it’s happening, so. Pidge isn’t really a fan of following the rules so I shouldn’t be surprised this is happening now.” He walks over to the dresser and starts pulling out clothes. He turns to Lance, on the verge of asking him if he’ll call a car for them, before realizing this is a huge assumption and who even said Lance wants to go to the hospital? He’s met Pidge once. “Um, I can go…if you want to stay…in case you’ve got, like, meetings, or…”

Lance is looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “Don’t be stupid, babe,” he says, already grabbing his jeans. “There’s literally nowhere else I’d be. I’m gonna grab us some snacks and then we’ll hit the road, okay?”

He heads to the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Keith stares after him and knows it’s happening. He’s gonna fall in love with Lance McClain like a hundred thousand other people in this world and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Lance calls a black car from one of his usual drivers, a very nice man named Jason. It’s eleven at night and they’re headed to a middling hospital in Culver City, not Bel-Air, so Keith thinks for once they don’t have to worry about getting papped. Just like that first night at the Ritz-Carleton, Lance walks through the hospital like he owns it, making no eye contact and brokering no questions. They don’t get stopped once on their way to the maternity ward on the third floor.

Down the end of the hall, Matt is hunched over on a chair, bleary frown on his face as he types at a computer. When he sees Lance and Keith, it visibly takes him a minute to recognize them.

“Guys,” he says with a smile. “sh*t, I’m glad to see you.”

“She okay?” Keith says, giving him a hug.

“Yeah, fine. Or, well, not fine, but as good as can be expected. Mom and Dad are in there with her, but it’s gonna be a long night so I thought I’d maybe get some work done. Which sucks,” he says with an awful, sad little smile, “cause Pidge is the best at this stuff, this sub-function coding I’m doing, but it’s not…I can’t exactly ask her right now, can I?”

Keith has no idea what to say to that. Lance rubs a hand over Matt’s shoulders, and he looks grateful for the touch.

“You should go in and see her,” he says. “I think she’d really love to see you.”

Keith smiles at that, and they head inside.

The fluorescent lights are dimmed in here, just enough to make Keith’s eyes adjust; like they tried to create a sense of comfort in this awful hospital room. Colleen sits by the side of the bed and Sam’s in a chair against the wall. There’s a softly beeping machine and a pole with an IV bag, and lying covered in blankets, dwarfed by the big hospital bed, is a tired Pidge.

She looks up at them and relief breaks across her face like a wave. “Keith,” she says, planting her hands to try and sit up.

Keith doesn’t let her; he hustles over and bends down for the most awkward, most necessary hug of his life. He rubs her back and hair simultaneously and she smashes her face in his chest and he can feel her tremble, like her bones are shaking from the inside. He pulls away after an eternity to look at her and finds her far more tired than he thought; red-faced, drawn, her glasses magnifying the thin, pale skin around her eyes. She’s his prophecy, and she’s at the end of the line.

They don’t say anything for far too long, but Keith doesn’t really know what to say. He’s only been awake for twenty minutes now, he doesn’t have the bandwidth for this kind of emotion yet. All he knows is that she’s his person; before Lance came back they were all he each other had, the only ports in the storm, the two most miserable pregnant people on the planet who found each other by dumb luck and Zelda. He’s so f*cking proud of her already, because she’s a warrior, but seeing her like this, exhausted to the bone but with bright eyes and her fierce mouth, like she’s scared of nothing…he swallows against the lungs in his throat.

She doesn’t need him to say it. She smiles, cause she knows.

So instead he says,

“You absolute dumbass. Who has contractions for a whole day and doesn’t tell anyone?”

She grins lopsidedly. “Wasn’t any worse than period cramps.”

“You idiot,” he says fondly. “f*cking moron.”

By the bedside, Colleen quirks a grin, momentarily vanishing the terror in her eyes.

Pidge waves at Lance, who’s been hiding unsuccessfully behind Keith this whole time. “Hello, Lance McClain. My new bestie.”

“What? Who? I don’t know a Lance,” he babbles, coming up to the bed to give her a hug. “My name is Rodrigo, I followed beautiful Keith here, who is Lance?”

“Lance, shut up,” Keith says, as Lance proceeds to hug every member of the Holt family.

“Yeah, okay, I’m sorry, I ramble when I’m nervous. How are you? What’s, like, up?”

“My vagin* is slowly expanding, and eventually I will have a four-inch hole in my body from which I will expel a living human,” she says, dry as the Sahara. “That’s what’s up.”

Lance is very, very red. Keith thinks it’s a nice change of pace, to not be the one blushing. “Oh. Wow. Yeah.”

“Katie,” her mom scolds.

“What? It’s true.”

“How many centimeters are you?” Keith asks.

“Just hit five, last she checked.” Pidge’s smile slips. “Still got a while to go.”

“You should sleep,” Colleen says. “While you’ve got the chance.”

“I’m going to, I just had to say hi to Lance and Keith, they can hang out with Matt while I – while I, uh – “

She grits her teeth, eyes slipping closed, and it takes far too long for Keith to realize she’s having a contraction. It’s so quiet; every stupid sitcom he’s watched showed yelling and screaming and squeezing hands, but Pidge just breathes like she’s pulling air in through a mask, face clenched, arms braced. Colleen pushes her hair off her face, but it seems more for her comfort than for Pidge’s.

It lasts a good while, long enough for Keith to wonder if it’ll ever break; when it does, it’s like the puppet strings have been cut, and she lays her shoulders back on the pillow, face relaxing.

“Sorry,” she says, in a small voice. “Where was I? Berating my parents?”

“Shouldn’t you have an epidural by now?” Keith asks instead. “Five centimeters, isn’t that dilated enough?”

Colleen makes a small, weird noise and Pidge says, “I’m not getting an epidural.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m not getting an epidural.” Her voice is calm, body still limp against the bed, but there’s no room for argument in her voice.

“Seriously?”

“It’s her choice,” Lance says diplomatically, and Colleen and Sam nod.

“But I don’t get it,” Keith says. “You love modern medicine. You told me people who don’t vaccinate their kids should get euthanized. You said you’d pay your doctor to live in your house. One time you told me you’d rather die than live without ibuprofen, you – why wouldn’t you get an epidural?”

“This has nothing to do with any of that.” She’s fierce now, tougher than any man, with her eyes on fire and her hand resting on the blanket-covered swell of her belly. “This is the only child I’ll ever give birth to. The only one. So I want to feel everything. It’s my choice, and I want to feel every second of bringing a child into this world.”

And Keith has nothing to say to that. Her mother holds her hand, and the beeping machines give voice where none of them can.

Pidge kicks everyone out so she can sleep before active labor kicks in. Sam goes out to work with Matt, Colleen heads outside to call people with updates, and Keith and Lance go for a walk. It’s quiet and aimless, just a slow mosey through dark hospital corridors, talking only in murmurs, about nothing at all. Eventually Keith’s back starts to ache, and they find a couple of stiff chairs outside the silent, darkened physical therapy ward. Lance digs some slightly smushed granola bars out of his pocket and they eat in contented silence.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks after a while.

Keith looks up at him. “Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, I mean, I’m kinda freaked out and I’m not even the one doing anything, I feel like…if I were you, I’d be f*cking sh*tting myself.”

“I mean…” Keith sighs, adjusts himself in this horribly uncomfortable chair. “I’m kinda freaked, yeah. Of course. But it doesn’t do me any good to lose my sh*t. She’s gonna come out, so I can panic about it, or I can just…do it.”

“That’s…” Lance shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s so badass.”

“I’ve had almost eight months to get used to it,” Keith replies with a smile.

Lance nods, finishes eating his granola. He’s mid-bite when he freezes, looks over at Keith with a petrified expression.

“What?”

He swallows. “This is…like, a really dumb question…”

“Oh, good.”

“But…does the baby come out…the same way she went in?”

Keith stares at him for a solid five seconds.

“Are you asking if I’m giving birth through my ass?”

“Yes! I mean, like yes are you, or no – ?”

“No, Lance, she’s not coming out of my ass.”

Lance visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank God,” he mutters.

“There’s a canal. It’ll form in the last couple of weeks, just like a temporary passage between my dick and my ass where the baby’ll come out. It’s normally painless, I heard, just uncomfortable when it forms, but it can cause problems if men go into labor early. If I drop at 32 weeks like Pidge, I’d get a c-section. Nowhere else for her to come out.”

“Are you? Gonna drop early?”

“There’s no way to know for sure,” Keith says softly, recognizing the panic in Lance’s voice for what it is. “But Dr. Rosenthal says I’m in good health and everything looks fine. And if I do go early, we’ll deal with it. It’s not the end of the world.”

Lance stares at him with so much trust, like Keith’s just given him all the reassurance he needs that his daughter won’t be born early. Keith almost wants to put a disclaimer on his words, because f*ck if he knows what could go wrong. But in the end he doesn’t say anything. Maybe speaking good into the universe means you’ll get good out.

“Okay,” Lance says with a nod. “Okay. That’s…I’ll deal with that when/if it happens, I guess? If you – “ He blanches, widens his eyes. “If you want me there, I mean, if you’re comfortable with it, I can, I can wait outside, if you want – “

Oh, this sweet, sweet man. Now it’s Keith’s turn to say.

“There’s literally nowhere else I’d want you to be.”

Lance grins with all his teeth, joy on his face. If you’d asked Keith when he first got pregnant who’d be in the delivery room, he’d have said no one. No one in this world, no matter how much he loved Shiro and Adam, needed to be in the room seeing him that vulnerable, in that much pain.

It’s funny, really, how many rules he’s broken for Lance, how many he’s sure he’ll break in the future. He finds he doesn’t mind the disruption of his whole world as much as he thought, just as long as it’s Lance doing the disrupting.

Not long after that, still talking in that weird midnight waiting room, Keith starts getting sleepy. The adrenaline of the wake-up call is worn off, and the baby is quiet for once. He starts yawning, shifting to try and get more comfortable in this stupid chair when he’s got a bowling ball on his pelvis.

“It’s okay,” Lance says softly. “You can sleep. I’ll wake you up if something happens.”

“Okay,” Keith says, not questioning, because Lance is warm and steady beside him. He leans his head over onto Lance’s bony shoulder, smushes his cheek around until he gets in a comfy position, and is on the verge of telling Lance to stop working out and gain some weight so he can be a proper pillow when he drops instantly into sleep.

It’s de ja vu; Keith’s phone ringing pulls him once again out of sleep. It’s Sam, letting them know that Pidge is about to start pushing and this is their last chance to see her before active labor. They trek back up to the maternity ward, and this time Lance opts to stay outside with Matt while Keith goes inside. Lance made a good call; Pidge is in a hell of a lot more pain now, curled up on her side sweating and shaking. Colleen keeps stroking her hair, making soft noises. Pidge looks up at Keith with bloodshot eyes, hair plastered to her forehead.

“f*ck,” she whispers, “this hurts,” and his heart breaks.

“I know,” he says, even though he doesn’t. “It’s almost over though?”

“It’s not, it’s just starting, f*ck – “

“Pushing is better,” Colleen says. “Trust me. Doing something is much better than sitting in pain. You’ll have a purpose.”

“Goddamn, see this is why there’s no such thing as intelligent design, no all-knowing and benevolent God would choose this method of procreation, it’s inhumane and inefficient. Ouch, the ball, can I get on the ball?” She trails off with a moan.

It takes Sam and Colleen to get her up, each one holding an arm as they maneuver her out of bed and onto an exercise ball. She hisses as she’s lowered down, face scrunched up, but relaxes when she’s settled, rocking back and forth just slightly. One hand stays braced on the bed, the other on her belly under the gown.

“Pro tip,” she says to Keith, voice tight, “exercise ball. Good stuff.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Keith says, even though the only thing on his mind is how quickly he’s getting an epidural when it’s his turn.

Pidge breathes on the exercise ball, rocking through her next contraction, which seems to come right on top of the last one. The doctor comes in – not Dr. Rosenthal, someone else, a chubby woman with brisk steps who’s snapping on gloves.

“Alright, kiddo, think it’s showtime?”

“I think it’s been showtime,” she says, strained.

“Let’s get you back on the bed and we’ll check it out.”

“I’m gonna head out,” Keith says, because as curious as he is about the mechanics of labor he gets the feeling Pidge doesn’t need him in the actual room. “But I’ll be right outside, okay?”

“Yeah, go,” she says, and reaches up to hug up. “Last awkward belly hug,” she says, and he grins.

“We’ll look like humans again, instead of potatoes.”

“Oh, the joy,” she says, as her parents come over to help her back off. There’s a lot of motion, as a nurse comes into the room too, so Keith takes his leave quietly. The last thing he sees, when he turns around at the door, is Pidge’s young face, steely and fierce, as the doctor leans over.

Lance and Matt are still waiting outside. Keith lowers into the chair next to Lance and he drops a hand onto Keith’s thigh.

“Go time?”

“Something like that. I’m getting an epidural. I just want that said now. I respect her choice, that’s badass, but I want an epidural.”

“Yeah, not gonna fight you on that one, buddy,” Lance says. “Hungry?”

“Literally always.”

They field trip with Matt to the hospital cafeteria, indulge in stale turkey sandwiches wrapped in plastic and tiny bags of chips. The checkout lady recognizes Lance, clearly, but doesn’t say anything – she just stares and stares as he checks out. Lance and Keith share a look while they’re sitting down, because really, they’ve been absolutely reckless all night. Just because the Holts don’t care that Lance is famous doesn’t mean their safe little bubble extends to everyone. Lance doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t suggest that they try to hide out, find a different room or anything, and Keith follows suit. He’s not sure what to do, what can be done, and he doesn’t want to lose this. He’s got a tenuous grasp on tonight as it is; having to grapple with the reality of how famous his baby daddy is might send him over the edge.

Matt has a deck of cards in his bag, so Lance and Keith play while Matt works on Air Force stuff on his computer. Keith only knows solitaire and Lance only knows Egyptian corkscrew, so it’s really more of a teaching experience than anything. Around three AM, only forty minutes or so after they went downstairs, Matt’s phone starts buzzing, and they all immediately whip around to stare at it.

“Is it – “ Lance says, as Matt lunges for it. His face when he picks up is all the answer they need.

“Oh my God,” Lance says, as Keith’s heart spikes and he scrambles to stuff the cards back in the box. “Oh my God, oh my God – “

“They’re good? Both of them?” Matt says as he shuts his computer. “sh*t, that’s great. Yeah, we’re coming up now. Yeah, right now, Mom, I’ll see you soon. She’s crying already,” he says to Lance and Keith, slipping the phone back in his pocket. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“She’s really had a baby,” Lance says. After so many hours of non-action, it feels surreal to be rushing through the hospital like this. “She’s really un-pregnanted.”

“Do not use that word when we have a baby,” Keith says.

“Copy that, evil word.”

There’s a mild shuffle at the door, as Lance and Keith hesitate to let Matt go first and he attempts to do the same, but it’s finally Keith who pushes the door open finds the most amazing sight in the world.

Colleen and Sam are there, and the doctors and nurses and all the beeping machines, but the only thing Keith sees is Pidge. She’s back in the bed, somehow flushed and pale at the same time, hair a mess, still so dwarfed by the hospital bed. There’s no mound of blankets over her stomach, but there is a teeny bundle of blankets in her arms, and it’s that bundle – so small, it almost looks empty – that draws all the energy in the room.

When she sees them she smiles, exhausted and proud.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hey,” Matt says, walking closer. “Heard you were a boss.”

“Yeah,” she says with a laugh. “Yeah, uh. Can’t deny that.”

“Is that – ?” He leans over, and Keith and Lance lean in.

Her whole face softens, cheeks dimpling in a smile. “This,” she says, voice tender, “is my baby.”

Her fingers inch up to pull the blanket back, and Keith’s breath hitches at the tiny, scrunched-up face, the little red nose, perfect miniature lips and squeezed-tight eyes. The baby twitches, shifting in her arms, and Keith’s heart melts into a puddle.

“Oh, Pidge,” Matt whispers. “Oh my God, how precious.”

“I know,” she says, and hitches the baby up to press a kiss to the little knit cap. “He’s perfect.”

“He?” Keith says, the first thing he’s said. He notices Lance’s hand is in his. He has no idea how long it’s been there. He squeezes, and Lance squeezes back.

“His sex is male,” Pidge answers, flicking a glance at her parents sitting tiredly in the chairs, “but we’ll see what he identifies as, gender-wise. Too early to tell, so for now he/him pronouns will be fine.”

Keith can’t help but grin, thinking back to their first conversation when he was vomiting in a ficus. “You’re such a good mom,” he says, and her whole face turns bright red.

“f*ck,” she says, clutching the baby. “I’m a mom. f*ck.”

“Great start,” Lance says, and the room chuckles.

The nurse walks over with a bassinet and Pidge immediately clutches the baby tighter. “Do you need to take him? Already?”

“In a few minutes,” she says apologetically. “He looks great but we want to run a few more tests, make sure he’s okay for being a little preemie. We’ll get him under the incubator too, he’s probably a little cold since he’s not as chubby as a full-term baby would be.”

Pidge nods, rubbing her baby instinctively. She’s so young, Keith thinks. He wonders when he’ll ever stop thinking that. “Okay,” she says, way calmer than Keith would be in this situation. “Alright. Can they hold him first? Before you take him?”

“Absolutely.”

So the baby gets passed around like the warmest, sleepiest basketball. Colleen cries, of course, and Sam too, because deep down he’s much more of a sap than she is, and Matt takes an incredibly awkward selfie with his nephew while Lance spots him so he won’t drop the baby. Keith takes this tiny newborn life in his hands and thinks of joy out of pain, thinks of Pidge sobbing on her couch and sitting here now with her baby, thinks of resilience and hearts of steel that still possess the capacity for new love, and knows that in just a few weeks he’ll be here too and his only wish is to half as well as she did.

When Lance takes his turn, Pidge starts laughing. “I’m sorry,” she says, at their confused looks. “But I just had a baby, and Lance McClain is holding him. Lance McClain is dating my best friend, and right now he’s holding my son. It just…it proves the multiverse theory, is all I’m saying.”

Lance gives a small, self-deprecating laugh, and hefts the baby up in his arms to nuzzle at him. The sight makes something inside Keith smolder and crumble. “Well, Lance McClain is pretty excited to be in this universe with you and your baby. Cause this is amazing, Pidge. He’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

“Thanks, Lance,” she says, taking off her glasses to rub at her eyes. When she looks back up, her eyes seem so small, not magnified by her glasses. She smiles. “I know.”

The NICU nurse comes back, and Lance reluctantly surrenders the baby to her bassinette. Pidge is yawning, eyes blinking like there’s anvils attached to them, so Keith and Lance take their leave. Keith whispers in her ear that he’s so proud of her, that she’s the bravest person he knows, everything he never says, and she cries quietly, little wet splotches of heat on his shirt, and says nothing, just gives a watery smile. They give hugs to all the assembled Holts and Lance calls a car. It’s four in the morning when they stumble out to the dark street, and when Lance suggests that Keith call out sick for the first couple hours of the day, he can’t find it in himself to disagree.

Lance holds his hand in the back seat of the car. It’s like breathing; Keith doesn’t even think about it, and it feels right.

“Hey, I’m gonna drop you off first, if that’s okay,” Lance says softly. His face glows yellow with each passing streetlight. “I’ve got a super early meeting so I’m gonna stay at my place so I don’t wake you up. I’ll be back for dinner, though. I was thinking enchiladas?”

“Enchiladas sound great,” Keith says. When the car drops him off, he leans over and hugs Lance, melting into the curve of his shoulder, shivering with each sweep of Lance’s fingers over his back. He lets himself in, gets ready for bed, and it isn’t even until he’s lying in his bed that he realizes what’s just happened. Lance left the apartment for the night, for the first time since he found out Keith was pregnant. The stakeout is over. If Keith wanted, he could change the locks and keep him out, do what he wanted to do when Lance first moved in here.

He doesn’t want that. It’s as simple and as complex as that. He wants Lance to come home and make enchiladas. And he will, of that Keith has no doubt. He will, because whatever it is he and Keith have going for them, it’s something good.

He plugs his phone in and prepares for a good couple hours of sleep.

For the third time in a row, it doesn’t happen.

Barely an hour later, his phone drags him out of sleep, and he moans at the pulsing headache that’s threatening to jackhammer his temples. He blinks at his phone and realizes there’s a lot more notifications than usual, missed calls and texts and People Magazine push notifications. He swipes up on Lance’s call, while still lying on his pillow, and croaks, “Hello?”

“Houston, we’ve got a problem.”

Breaking: Lance McClain Spotted at LA Hospital with Mystery Pregnant Man By Nyma Van Dyne

Updating Live: Lance McClain was photographed in the small hours of the morning entering and leaving Mercy General Hospital with a mysterious pregnant man. Fan cameras caught the pair arriving in a black car at eleven PM, and People photographers captured them leaving around four AM. McClain, 21, was dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt; the mysterious stranger wore a hoodie and jeans over his significant baby bump (see pictures below). No information exists yet on the pregnant stranger or his relationship to Lance McClain. He has never been seen before with the actor, and it is unclear if he is expecting McClain’s child or someone else’s. Representatives for Lance McClain have been contacted for a comment.

Is Lance McClain about to become a daddy? What do you think? Let us know in the comments!

Keith reads the article on his phone, the tiny rectangle the only light in the room, with his stomach somewhere by his knees and his heart galloping in his chest. The baby, roused by the adrenaline, is shifting restlessly, giving Keith one more good reason to throw up.

“f*ck,” he whispers. “f*ck.”

Lance gives a short, humorless laugh over the phone. “Yeah,” he says. “f*ck.”

“How did they - ?”

“I don’t know. Could’ve been anybody. Could’ve been the nurses, someone in the halls, the cafeteria lady. Someone puts it on their Facebook, People gets hold, they come with cameras…it could’ve been anyone. It doesn’t matter who did it, it’s out now.”

“But it’s just one site – “

“It’s not one site.” He’s never heard Lance sound like this – bitter, dejected. Shrouds instead of sunshine in his voice. “It’s all of them. Every gossip site. f*ck, it made the New York Times. The back pages, but still.”

Keith thinks, for an awful moment, that he’s gonna pass out.

“What do we do?” He whispers.

Lance sighs. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“We? Who’s we? Where are you?”

“I had an early meeting, remember? I’m at my management company’s office. We had just gotten started with our normal business when the story broke. Everyone’s come here, all the studio execs and my PR people and their PR people and all the legal people and…”

Keith realizes, just now, that it’s not just the pregnancy that’s public now. Lance just got outed. Not confirmed yet, but he doubts all those people – all the studio people and PR people and lawyers – would be there if the consensus online was that Lance was just helping out a friend at the hospital. The fans online must have figured it out.

“Are they pissed?” He asks tentatively.

Lance sighs, and it seems to last a lifetime. It’s quiet in the background, but it sounds like the dead quiet of an empty hallway or a quiet room, so he must’ve stepped away. “They’re…not happy. Let’s say that.”

“Lance,” Keith says helplessly.

“You’re gonna have to come in.”

“What?”

“You have to come in.” Lance sounds like he’s about to cry. “Now, actually. You have to come in. We need you here. Figure out next steps.”

“You want me to go there?” To a room full of Hollywood executives who will hate him, the tramp who’s responsible for outing Lance McClain, the slu*t who wouldn’t get an abortion and kept the pregnancy a secret for seven months? The whor* who ruined the life of their precious, straight Lance McClain?

Now Keith thinks he’s going to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Lance says, uselessly. “f*ck, I’m sorry. But we have to have you here, we’re trying to figure out what to do and we need – “

“I’ll come,” Keith interrupts. “Jesus. Just – send a car or something. f*ck.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Lance says softly.

Keith laughs, a horrible, barking thing.

“Is it?”

“You should pay a fine for breach of contract,” Iverson says. “Simple as that.”

“Mr. McClain’s contract has no stipulations for disclosure of personal affairs,” the lawyer says.

“He didn’t tell us he knocked up some guy!” Iverson explodes. “He got a mechanic pregnant and this is the first we’ve heard of it! From People! The movie’s blown to sh*t, how are gonna recoup these ticket sales?”

The sun’s not even up yet. Lance is on his third cup of coffee and he feels like this conference room will be his tomb. “I was dealing with some pretty huge life changes,” he says, with all the grit and dignity he can muster. “I’m sorry my first call when I found out I was gonna be a father wasn’t to 20^th Century Fox.”

“It should’ve been!” Iverson yells, and Hunk steps in.

“None of this is productive,” he says sharply. He showed up, like Lance, in the nicest clothes he had, without taking time to change into a suit; his wrinkled button-down and dark wash jeans shouldn’t be so endearing, but they are. “None of this helps us. Our only priority right now is next steps. Every minute we don’t release a statement is another minute this story gets away from us and the internet comes up with wilder and wilder theories.”

“If we didn’t have to wait for his baby mama – “

“His name is Keith,” Lance yells, “and he has a right to know what we’re gonna say about him!”

“Garage just called,” says one of the ten people on a phone. “He’s here.”

Lance glares at the room, wants to tell these grown ass men to play nice like he tells his nieces and nephews before dinner. Everyone sits in tense silence for five minutes, which makes it all the worse when Keith walks in all alone.

Lance’s heart breaks, looking at him. He’s so tired, bags under his purple eyes, cowlick in his hair from his pillow. He’s wearing his best paternity jeans and a clean Henley, but he still looks underdressed compared to all these assholes in suits. He walks slowly, haltingly into the room, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. He’s so pregnant – Lance has forgotten, since he’s used to seeing it, but no one else here is, and one of the lawyers barely stifles a gasp. Keith’s ears go red, and he tries to hunch in on himself. Lance doesn’t why it’s so damning, Keith’s round belly, but it is – visible proof of what they did and how long they hid it. Lance feels a curl of shame in his own belly. f*ck. Everyone knows.

He gets up, though, walks over to Keith as quickly as he can. With all of their eyes glued on him, he hugs Keith, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. It’s like hugging a statue; Keith doesn’t relax one bit.

“Hi,” he says, which feels woefully inadequate. Keith pulls back, and Lance sees that his jaw is set, eyes huge and scared in his pale face. Lance pulls out a chair and Keith lowers himself in cautiously, off-balance. He’s barely taken a seat when Iverson moves in.

“Mr., uh – Kogane, was it?”

Keith nods.

“Thank you for coming in today.” It’s the least thankful Lance has ever heard someone sound. “First things first, how pregnant are you?”

“Thirty weeks,” he replies. “Thirty-one in two days.”

Mutterings fill the room. “Christ, that’s almost here,” a lawyer says – Lance think his name is Dos Santos.

“And is it true that you are a…motorcycle mechanic?”

Keith nods shortly. Lance wants to punch Iverson, the derision in his voice.

Then, Iverson locks his one eye on Keith and has the f*cking nerve to say, “And have you taken a paternity test to prove that this child is, indeed, Lance McClain’s?”

“f*ck off,” Lance spits, can’t help it. “It’s mine.”

“We don’t know that,” Iverson says, cold as stone, as Keith flushes bright red. “We don’t know his choices. We have no proof any of this is necessary.”

“It’s his,” Keith grits out. “Trust me.”

“I think I would remember who I slept with without a condom,” Lance defends.

“Would you?” Iverson says calmly, and Lance’s blood boils.

“Before we go further, we really need to get a paternity test,” says Dos Santos. “Just to make sure. Maybe this will all be a misunderstanding – “

“Give me the f*cking test,” Keith says, savage fury in his voice, and as upset as Lance is, something inside him cheers, because this is the Keith he loves. “I don’t care. But it’s going to be positive, so while you’ve got me, let’s try to something productive with our time.”

At the end of the table, Hunk is visibly trying to contain his laughter.

Some of the execs look amused or even grudgingly impressed; Iverson narrows his gaze, like Keith is an impertinent child who needs punished.

“So as far as strategy,” Hunk says, scrolling through his phone, “I think our only real solution is a statement. Let’s come clean, spin it positively, introduce Keith and then let it lie for a couple of days for the furor to die down.”

“We can’t…deny?” Keith asks.

Lance feels like he got punched in the mouth. “You want to?”

“Just until we come up with something better! Buy us some time!”

Lance stares, aghast, as Keith’s face gets redder while his eyes stay hard. After all this, after – after everything, he wants to just…deny? He –

“It’s too late for that,” Hunk says. “Unless you want to never be seen in public again with Lance once you have the baby. Can’t exactly go to the park together after we’ve issued a vehement denial that the child is his, can you?”

sh*t, does Keith want that? To never be seen in public with Lance again? Keith looks down at the table and says nothing, jaw working.

“Mr. Kogane might have a point,” says the head PR woman, Montgomery. “Buying us some time to get a better story isn’t a bad play.”

“What better story?” Hunk says. “There is no better story, this is the story!”

“Something that doesn’t make them look like irresponsible kids! The optics are terrible! Get Keith a better job, say we knew all along and were valuing their privacy, get them married – “

“Married?” Keith and Lance both bristle at the word. “You can’t force us to get married, this isn’t the 1800s! Just because I got someone pregnant - “

“You f*cked a mechanic!” Iverson yells, and Keith flinches. “A mechanic with no college degree and no family, and you hid it from us so we have to find out from a tabloid – “

“He didn’t hide it,” Keith says.

“What?”

“He didn’t hide it,” he says. His voice is thick with something, but he swallows it and makes eye contact with Iverson. Lance realizes at the last second what he’s about to do and starts shaking his head furiously. “Not for the whole time, at least. I didn’t tell him until two weeks ago.”

The tension in the room ratchets up immediately. Every suit stares at Keith with total disdain, like he’s something stinking that Lance dragged in from the alley. Hunk, with a deep frown on his face, is typing furiously at his phone. Lance wants to reach out and grab Keith’s hand, but they’re clasped tight on the top of the conference table and he looks like he wants no one to touch him.

I was never going to tell them that, Lance thinks, staring at Keith’s handsome profile, the slope of his nose and the flint of his eyes. That was gonna be our secret. Now they’ll hate you.

“Well,” Iverson finally speaks into the icy silence. “I’m glad to see that your complete disregard for other people’s lives doesn’t just extend to the people in this room, Mr. Kogane, but to the father of your child as well.”

“I had my reasons,” Keith grits out. There are tears standing in his eyes.

“What reasons could possibly be good enough? What could ever justify the situation we now find ourselves in?”

“I had my reasons,” Keith repeats.

(Lance, actually, doesn’t mind this interrogation, because he’s had the same questions for two weeks now.)

“Why?” Montgomery says. “Explain it to us, so we can maybe use that in the spin – “

“Hell no,” Hunk says. “We offer no explanation. That makes us look weak. We say just the bare necessities and we deal with explanations later, if we ever deal with them.”

The execs descend into bickering and strategies, and Lance turns to Keith. The sun is just starting to rise now, casting a soft gray glow alongside the garish conference room lights, and the light makes him look young and scared, pale alabaster skin and thick lashes and downcast eyes. He’s looking down at his belly, the way he does when she’s kicking and he’s trying to will her to stop without touching her.

“Keith,” Lance says, and he jerks up, wildly.

“I had my reasons,” he whispers.

“Was this – “ Lance gestures around at the conference room, at the general Hollywood bullsh*t that’s coalesced into the perfect miasma in this room, “one of them?”

Keith doesn’t say anything. He bites his lip and holds eye contact and Lance connects the dots.

“f*ck,” he whispers, as his heart crumbles in his chest.

The meeting progresses terribly from there. Quite a few of the suits are in the deny camp, quite a few are in favor of sending Lance on a publicity blitz to atone for his actions, and at least one seems to think Keith should be sent to the f*cking gulag so he isn’t seen publicly pregnant out of wedlock. Hunk’s their biggest advocate, stopping them from slandering Keith and Lance too much, but he leaves to make a call right as Iverson says that they should detract any losses in movie revenue directly from Lance’s salary.

“What?” Lance says.

“It’s simple, the way I see it,” Iverson says blithely. “We look at the movie’s projected revenue, and anything that falls below that we take from Mr. McClain’s cut. It’s only fair.”

“That could be tens of millions of dollars!”

“Then that’s how much your mistake is worth!”

The lawyers all start yelling at once, Lance’s lawyers pointing to his guaranteed salary in his contract and the studio lawyers arguing that they’ve got license to do this and Lance watching his biggest fear become reality, that he won’t be able to provide for his family and he’ll have nothing to offer Keith and their daughter besides a failed movie career. Keith’s going to leave him and he’ll only see his baby on weekends if he’s lucky, and there’ll be no more quiet nights of cooking and ‘Garrison Varsity’ on the couch –

“I’m hungry,” Keith says, bringing the room to a halt.

“Hungry?” Iverson repeats.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “In case you didn’t know, I’m pregnant – “ he waves a hand over his belly in an impressively sardonic gesture, “and I’ve been here for two hours with no breakfast. I need to eat and I need to piss.”

At least some of the execs have the grace to look chagrined.

“Do you have a cafeteria in this building?” Lance asks.

“For employees only,” one of them mutters.

Lance cries, “Dude, he’s pregnant, what the fu – “

“Take Mr. Kogane to get some breakfast,” Iverson says with a nod, and f*ck but Lance hates that, that Keith doesn’t get food because he’s carrying Lance’s child and needs to eat, but because Iverson said so, like they’re kids who need adult permission to use the bathroom during class. That’s all they are to them, is children – dumb kids who ran off and got pregnant and now need the grownups to figure out what to do about it.

Lance is actually starving too, but when he goes to stand up, Iverson pins him to his seat with a look. Keith looks over his shoulder from where he’s being led out by a secretary, and Lance shrugs and gives the best smile he can. Judging by Keith’s face as he walks out, it’s unsuccessful.

“You guys are being assholes to him,” Lance says as soon as the door is shut. “Can’t you cut him some slack?”

“This is your career we’re talking about,” Montgomery says coldly. “No, we can’t cut him some slack. He kept it a secret, that’s horrible.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Lance protests half-heartedly. “And anyway, you’re all acting like he’s a felon, so what if he didn’t go to college, I never went to college – “

“He’s an orphan mechanic from the foster care system, he’s surly and rude and basically you picked the worst person to knock up – “

“He’s still a person! And he’s lovely when he’s not being interrogated, he didn’t ask for this – “

“Then he should’ve used protection when he slept with a movie star!”

Hunk comes in just as the room descends back into chaos, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Dude, where were you? I was left to the wolves!” Lance hisses.

“I know, I’m sorry, that’s why I was calling in the big guns,” he says as he retakes his seat.

Lance has no idea what he’s talking about, and doesn’t until fifteen minutes later, when they’re deep in discussion about whether or not Lance should have to pay the studio for character damages. The door opens, and every head swivels around to see Allura Altea stride in, followed by her PA, Coran, typing on an iPad.

Oh, Lance realizes. The big guns.

“Miss Altea,” Iverson says, eyes wide, “What are you doing here – “

“Oh, I’m here to do what I can to stop you from being absolute arseholes.” Lance’s heartrate ticks up and he can’t stop a grin as she leans over and braces her hands on the table. “How dare you treat Mr. McClain like this, like a liability, like a screw-up, when he’s going to become a father and we should be congratulating and supporting him in this exciting time?”

“Miss Altea,” Iverson says, “of course we support Mr. McClain – “

“Really?” It’s so much more cutting in her British accent. “Is this what you call support? Threatening to strip him of his pay, to force him to get married, saying the most awful things to the father of his child? Have you no decency at all?”

Hunk smirks down at the table like the cat who got the cream.

“Miss Altea, we’re…really glad to see you,” Montgomery says, fidgeting in her seat, “but this is really a private matter between us and Mr. Kogane and Mr. McClain – “

“It’s not anymore,” she says with absolute firmness. “Let me make myself plain. If you do not treat Mr. McClain – one of your biggest-earning stars, I’ll remind you – with anything less than unconditional support and understanding, I will pull out of Edge of a Knife and any further collaboration with 20^th Century Fox.”

Lance’s heart stops as gasps erupt through the room. “We’ve finished principal photography, you can’t do that! We’ll run the movie anyway!” Iverson says.

“Oh, of course there’s nothing I can do about footage already shot,” she says blithely, an evil little smirk on her face. “I’m not a magician, I can’t turn back time. What I can do, however, is refuse to appear in promotions. I can refuse to go premieres and red carpets. I can tell my Twitter followers, all – how many do I have, Coran?”

“Thirty-four million, as of this morning,” he replies cheerfully.

“All thirty-four million of them,” she says, and watches every suit in the room have a simultaneous heart attack, “to boycott this movie due to mistreatment of my dear friend, Lance McClain. How do you think that will affect the movie’s performance?”

“You signed a contract,” says Dos Santos, weakly. “For promotion. You’ll pay a fine.”

This doesn’t scare her – if anything, her eyes light up. “If you truly think that your fines will have any impact on my vast personal fortune, you have truly underestimated my value and I would advise you to never to do so again.”

Holy sh*t, Lance thinks, in the one corner of his brain that hasn’t gone non-verbal in the freakout, this woman really should’ve won that Oscar.

“Now,” she says into the stunned silence of the conference room, “if you had been thinking clearly at all through your prejudice and cruelty, you would have remembered that Lance has been nothing but a fantastic asset to this studio, who has delivered another amazing performance in very difficult circ*mstances during filming, circ*mstances which you caused with your incompetence, circ*mstances which Coran has been faithfully recording with all due diligence in case you ever try to get uppity with us about the disaster that was the filming of this movie.” Coran waves the iPad with a grin, and Iverson goes deathly pale. “Lance isn’t asking for much but some sympathy and understanding from the people who are supposed to have his back. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Slowly, heads in the room start to shake.

“You will also,” she continues, “be giving Lance any and all paternity leave he requests around the birth of his child.”

“That’s right during the premiere – “

“Any and all.” Her voice is clipped. “You will also allow him to add Keith and the child on his health insurance, and Keith will not be forced to sign any NDA’s beyond the standard issue contracts. All this,” she says, “is merely due to the trouble you have caused them this morning. For all that Lance has done for you, I think it more than fair.”

Iverson says, “You are not in a position to bargain for him, Miss Altea – “

“I will walk,” she says, loud and clear. “Coran has been on the phone with my attorneys already, I can and I will. You need me more than I need you. Lance has been a far better friend to me than anyone in this room, so understand that my loyalty is to him and no one else. If you choose not to pay him respect then you choose not to pay me respect, so be prepared for me to act accordingly. Have I made myself clear?”

The execs nod like bobbleheads.

“Good,” she says curtly, and sweeps out of the room.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Coran says brightly, as he follows her.

“I – sorry, I’ll be right back,” Lance says, pushing out his chair and through the door. He sees the swish of her white ponytail down the hall and calls “Allura!”, practically jogging to catch up to her.

She turns, eyes still blazing, and he has to tilt his head a bit to look up at her.

“Allura, Jesus, I – “

He tries to get a grip on his swirling thoughts, starts with the most important. “Thank you, so much, oh my God. That – that was incredible, you saved my ass, oh my God.”

“You’re welcome, Lance. Hunk called and told me what was happening and I just wanted to help.”

Coran has made himself scarce, down at the end of the hall on his cell phone. There’s still an angry little furrow in her eyebrows, and it doesn’t take long for Lance to figure out why.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the baby,” He says. The hallway is so much quieter than the awful conference room; his head is ringing with the silence, almost making him dizzy. “I know you must have questions and I’m sorry. I really only did find out two weeks ago, and it’s been crazy, I kinda invaded his apartment, we genuinely didn’t tell anybody, I wasn’t sure where we stood…yeah. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

All of her anger is gone, replaced by warm eyes and a kind smile. “It’s alright, dear,” she says, squeezing his arms. “It was a shock, of course, but I meant what I said. This is a really exciting time for you, they shouldn’t act like you’re a criminal. I will walk, if they try this again.”

“Think you stole their balls, there, I’d be surprised if they had the guts to ever speak to you again.”

She laughs, clear and beautiful. She’s a little prideful, sure, but Lance knows she would never be anything but happy for him in the end. She just hates not knowing the latest gossip, which becomes abundantly clear when she starts looking around the room.

“Sooo…where is he? The famous Keith? Can I meet him?”

“I think he’s getting food somewhere? I haven’t seen him in a minute.”

“I can’t believe you’re having a baby!” She says, hands clasped to her chest. “This is the most exciting thing ever, there’s gonna be a little teeny Lance running around!”

“Well, it’s a girl, so – “

This prompts another round of squeals from Allura, along with a bone-crushing hug.

“A girl! A baby girl! Oh my God, this is the best day ever!”

“Is it?” Lance says, and she reads his voice and lets the hug turn into something softer.

“I know today must be terrible,” she says gently, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “But it’s all temporary. When your daughter is in your arms, you won’t be worrying about any of this nonsense anymore.”

Lance gives himself the comfort, because he needs it; gives himself a second to bury his head in Allura’s shoulder and breathe in her clear, fresh perfume, and maybe squeeze out a tear or two that’ve been building this whole terrible day. Then he pulls back and puts his game face back on, because Keith needs him to be strong in there. He needs to protect his family.

He musters up a smile. “You’re right.”

She smiles back. “Of course I am, darling.”

The employee cafeteria is barely waking up when Keith and the secretary get down to it. The secretary leaves almost immediately to go make a call, for which Keith is extremely grateful; he can feel everyone’s eyes on him like sandpaper, looking at his face and his belly and his rough hands like they know everything about him, like they can’t wait to get their hands on the guy who ruined Lance McClain’s life. He hunches over and eats his bagel and cream cheese all alone in a too-bright cafeteria. He’s so hungry he eats it in three bites and goes back for a second one.

Afterwards he has no desire to back to that awful f*cking conference room with all those people who hate him and Lance who looked like he was two seconds from crying. Cause he hates you, says the voice inside his head. You didn’t tell him you were pregnant, you put his career in jeopardy, you didn’t go to college and you don’t look right and he wishes he’s having a baby with anyone but you.

His eyes prickle and he digs the heels of his hands in his eyes, breathing deep. He’s not gonna cry in this f*cking cafeteria, surrounded by people who are thinking he’s trash. He’s not going to give them ammo.

He distracts himself by calling Shiro, who’s called him twenty times already. Despite the fact that it’s just gone seven am, Shiro and Adam are both wide awake, picking up immediately and listening intently as Keith explains the situation in halting sentences.

“So they’re actually figuring out the official press statement,” Adam says. “Like, this will be an official press release, clarifying the nature of your relationship with Lance McClain.”

“Yeah, basically,” Keith says.

There’s a pause. “When you first brought him over, this is the kind of thing I was picturing,” Shiro says. “Tabloids and press and paparazzi. But the more you talked about him, I just…it wasn’t a part of his life. He almost never seemed truly famous.”

“I know. I forgot too. It’s like…he was just Lance, not Lance McClain. We had our little bubble away from it all. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.” He tears up again, taking a few deep sniffles, whiles Adam and Shiro graciously say nothing.

“So what’s the game plan? What are they gonna say?” Adam asks.

“I don’t know. I’m hiding.”

“Keith – “

“They hate me,” he says viciously. “Their job is to make Lance look good and nothing about this looks good. I don’t look good. I f*cked up and I didn’t tell him and now they hate me and I’m gonna f*cking hide, okay?”

They’ve got nothing to say to that.

He calls Pidge afterwards, cause she’s also called quite a few times so he figures she’s awake. She’s a bit more hip to the celebrity around Lance McClain then Shiro or Adam, and she has opinions about how they should do the press release (she agrees with Hunk, that they have to be upfront about it.)

“Pidge,” he interrupts her in the middle of a diatribe. “What – you literally just had a baby. When have you had time to figure all this out? Also how is he doing?”

She sighs, and Keith can hear the exhaustion in her voice.

“Look, I still haven’t really slept,” she admits. “It’s…it’s looking a little rocky. There’s a lot I didn’t realize about having a preemie. So when the story broke, it was maybe nice to get ten minutes of thinking about something else. Plus, you were visiting me when it happened, so I feel bad.”

“Don’t, we wanted to be there,” he says without thinking. “A little rocky, what does that mean, is he okay?”

“He’s fine, but he’s…he’s little. And they’re saying I can’t take him home for at least a month until he gets bigger. And he’s in the NICU with all these lights and a little cannula and a tube into his little tiny belly cause he can’t breastfeed and I can’t hold him for too long and – “ Her breath catches. “It’s hard, you know? I don’t know what the f*ck I’m doing, and my mom is saying I need to be tough for him, and…it’s hard.”

“Pidge,” he says, wishing with everything in him that he was with her, just to hold her. “sh*t, oh my God, that’s – that – “

“I know,” she says heavily. “Yeah.”

“But he’s…it’s just for now, right? Like he’ll be fine and grow up big and he just needs help now?”

“Yeah, that’s what they’re saying. Shouldn’t be any lasting effects. It’s just that I wish we were there now, and not in the crappy sh*tty part right now.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. Then, because he’s totally forgot until now –

“Did you name him?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice significantly brighter. “I think so.”

“And?”

“I like Archibald.”

“Archibald?” He replies. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I like it,” she defends. “Call him Archie for short.”

“Archie,” Keith repeats, testing it on his tongue. “That’s actually…that’s not bad.”

“I know, right?”

“Is it after anyone? Like a relative or something?”

“No,” she says, “I just like it. Archibald Samuel Holt. It’s got a good ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Keith says begrudgingly. “It’s not bad. As long as you don’t mind everyone asking if you named him after ‘Riverdale’ for the first couple of years.”

“What?”

“’Riverdale?’ You don’t know ‘Riverdale?’ What – you call yourself ‘the god of the internet’ and you don’t know ‘Riverdale?’”

“I just had a baby,” she says indignantly. "I had more important things to do than watch TV."

“You watched every single season of 'Star Trek: Next Generation' while you were pregnant, that is not an excuse!”

“Star Trek is art!” She hisses, and Keith smiles for the first time all morning. Because Pidge a gift from a benevolent god, and Keith’s not sure what he did to deserve her.

He ends the call with promises to come visit her when things calm down. Then he makes the tragic trip back up to the conference room, the secretary having vanished long ago.

He knows it’s only been a couple of hours, but already it feels like he’s been in this f*cking office building for a week. He drags his feet getting out of the elevator, takes his time going down the hallways, lit by garish fluorescent ceiling lights. He’s not ready to go back into that conference room; might never go back if he had a say, could just stay in this hallway.

Then he turns the corner.

There’s Allura Altea, immediately recognizable, even more beautiful in person, flowing ponytail and endless legs. And there’s Lance, or at least his back, because he’s hugging her, his face pressed so tight to her neck that all Keith can see is the back of his head and her hands rubbing through his hair. He’s clinging to her, and she’s soothing him, and her eyes are closed and her face is tender and she’s holding Lance like Keith never has.

The baby kicks. Keith wants to cry.

They haven’t seen him, too wrapped up in each other, so Keith flees back down the hallway, pushing on doors until he finds one that’s open and falls into it. It’s another smaller conference room, with the tables and chairs pushed up to the side, and Keith doesn’t have the strength to pull over a chair before he kneels clumsily on the round and starts to cry.

Of course Allura would be here to pick up the pieces. When Keith and his bastard got discovered, of course Lance would go to his beautiful co-star. Nobody would ever tell her that her optics weren’t good, nobody would ever say Allura was the worst person on earth to knock up.

Or maybe – maybe she’s been here all along. Maybe she’s been with Lance while Keith was at work, maybe he was at her place last night. Maybe he was just staying with Keith out of pity, or a sense of duty to the baby, and now he’s realizing what a bad idea that was, he should’ve taken the out Keith gave him, and she’s whispering in his ear, I know dear, I know he’s a tramp, you’ve done so well to stand by him…cut your losses, you don’t need him dragging you down…come home to me, I’ll be what you need…

Keith sobs, gasping for air, red-faced and snotty and pathetic, like he’s never cried before, hiccuping for air. He can’t blame them. That’s the worst part. If he had a chance to leave himself, he would. He’s got nothing to offer Lance, nothing like Allura does. He’s got abandonment issues and a miserable apartment and a thorny heart. Lance deserves so much better than him.

The baby kicks again, and Keith drops a hand to hold her.

He could’ve worn a condom. He could’ve. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, and thinks he’ll never stop saying it.

He keeps crying, his sobs petering out only to start up again. In one of the quiet periods, he hears a voice from outside the doors.

“Keith? Someone said they saw you up here, did you get lost?”

Keith instantly holds his breath in, tries to stop crying. He can’t let Lance find him, not like this.

“Keith?’

He hears Lance trying doors, jiggling handles. He claps a hand over his mouth, fingertips wet with tears, tries to be silent.

No use. Lance opens the door and his eyes widen when he sees Keith teary-eyed on the floor.

“Keith,” he says, and his voice is so convincingly heartbroken. Kid’s a good actor. “Babe, are you okay?”

‘Babe’ sets off another round of tears. “Fine,” Keith says, even as his eyes well up and tears roll down his cheeks.

Lance, to Keith’s horror, kneels down next to him. “You’re not hurt, right? You’re just sad?”

“Just sad,” Keith says, remembering the 911 call, Lance sobbing as he held Keith. The day that Keith decided that it was time to let Lance into his life, because it was clear Lance wanted to stay.

He was so stupid.

He puts his face in his hands and sobs, and for a long time Lance says nothing, just puts a gentle hand on Keith’s knee. Keith wants to push him off, but it feels too nice, this tiny degree of comfort.

“I’m so sorry,” Lance finally says, and his own voice is thick with tears. Keith peeks up through his bangs and sees Lance scrubbing at his nose. “I’m sorry. I know this is awful.”

“I didn’t want all this,” Keith says.

“I know,” Lance says miserably.

“I didn’t want to be your mistake.”

“You’re not.”

Keith laughs awfully. “What am I, Lance? What am I to these people but your biggest mistake?”

“You’re the father of my child,” Lance whispers.

Keith snorts. “Exactly what I mean. A mistake.”

He’s trying to play it tough, but the tears leaking out of his eyes shatter the illusion. Lance rubs his eyes, shoulders shaking on an exhale. Last night they were holding Pidge’s baby and there was nothing Keith wanted more than to wake up every day beside this man.

Now, he’s filled with something akin to hate – hate towards Lance, hate for his team, hate for Allura. Hate for himself for thinking it would turn out okay.

“Can we – we should go back,” Lance finally says. “Hunk’s managed to convince them to do a statement. So let’s…get it over with.”

Keith exhales. He plants a hand on the nearest stack of chairs and uses it to lever himself up.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get this over this.”

The official press release goes live at 9:30 am. It’s as bare bones as they could make it, but Keith still hates the amount of information it contains – his full name, his occupation, his age, how many months pregnant he is. They make no effort to clarify the relationship between Keith and Lance, just say that they’re excited to be parents and they ask for privacy at this time. That request, of course, goes unheeded; as soon as the website girl posts it, Lance’s PR reps’ phones start going crazy, and they all dismiss themselves to go deal with the fallout.

“Well, I guess that’s as good as it’ll get,” Iverson says testily.

Hunk doesn’t even argue; he’s been talking so much he’s almost lost his voice.

“Can we go home?” Keith asks. They’ve been here for almost five hours. He would commit capital murder for the chance to take a nap.

“Yeah, about that,” says one of the guys in the back. A big beefy guy on Lance’s security team.

“What now? I’ve signed all your sh*t, the statement’s up, what more do you need from me?”

“It’s not that you can’t go home, it’s that you can’t go back to your home,” he says. “We cased the apartment while you were meeting. I’m not comfortable with Mr. Kogane going back there right now. The security’s not tight enough.”

He’s so f*cking tired and humiliated and strung out, the tears are there instantly. “You’re not letting me go home?”

“Kinkade, please – “ Lance says.

“Mr. McClain, this is serious. There are fans outside the studio right now, and all your fan pages are telling more to come so they can catch a glimpse of you. You’re trending on Twitter. The security risk would be high enough normally, but Mr. Kogane’s pregnant. I genuinely think they might follow your car to his apartment and I’m not willing to take that chance.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“Mr. McClain’s house is gated and has intensive security measures in place. It’s already equipped for this.”

“My stuff – “

“Can be picked up and brought to you. I’m sorry, Mr. Kogane, I know it’s an inconvenience, but I genuinely think it is in your best interest. It’s just for a few days, a week at most, while this dies down.”

Keith’s rage is boiling out of him, causing his heart to slam and his fists to clench. He breathes through a locked jaw, sees Lance’s tense, terrified face, and gets even angrier.

“Fine,” he snaps. “f*ck. Not like you people haven’t taken enough from me.”

“Keith – “ Lance says, teary.

“Shut up. Jesus. Let’s go.”

Hunk’s face is stricken. Keith attempts to storm out, but the effect is lessened by his belly bumping against the edge of the table, causing him to readjust. He has no idea where he’s going, just stomps down the hall. Everyone else catches up at the elevator, and it’s a tense, silent ride to the car.

Everything about it grates on Keith, in a way it wouldn’t ordinarily. He hates the way the black car smells. He hates the way Iverson leans over and whispers something in Lance’s ear, just as they’re leaving, once against leaving Keith out of the loop. He hates that Hunk gives Lance a hug, and Lance says a sincere thank you and Keith can hardly muster a wave because it feels like his anger is burning him alive. He feels frenetic, like if he wasn’t weighed down by the baby and his misshapen body he’d be up and fighting like he used to. But all he can do is grind his teeth, and fidget, and try to ignore Lance sitting beside him like a terrified, remorseful puppy. He could punch him.

He gets angrier when he sees the security guard was right. There are tons of people waiting outside, mostly young women, crowding around the main entrance with cell phones in hand. The black car sails right by them, with their tinted windows and side exit, and a couple of the girls scream and start running but the car’s already long gone. Keith watches them getting smaller with a distant sense of panic. This is his life now. This is his new normal. This is what will happen every time he leaves his house.

He stews all through the trip, even as they start to go on highways and roads he’s only driven on in his motorcycle. He realizes where they’re going – Bel-Air, literally Bel-Air – and wants to scream.

After 40 minutes of the most awkward car ride of Keith’s life, they turn off the beautiful, manicured streets and up to a gate flanked by fountains. A security guard leans out of his kiosk and smiles at them.

“Have a good day, Mr. McClain.”

The gate swings open and they roll up through wide green lawns, brick walls, gates with monograms on them. Keith’s still plenty angry, but for the first time he’s also a little curious.

The driven finally pulls in at a house on the top of gradual swell of a hill, with a wide lawn sloping up to an adobe house sitting on top of the hill like a cake topper. The gate is simple bronze, and the driver inputs a code to make the gates swing open.

“This is where you live?”

Lance literally jumps when he hears Keith’s voice, then tries to cover it up with a cough.

“Uh. Yeah. Yes.”

The driver takes up a paved driveway, dotted with flowers. The front of the house has a gorgeous fountain, colorful flowers Keith can’t name spilling out of large terracotta pots.

$75 million, the voice in Keith’s head whispers.

He didn’t know what $75 million looked like until now.

“Text Griffin what you want from the other apartment,” Kinkade says. “He should be able to have it all to you by this evening.”

“Wait,” Keith says, just remembering, “there’s a motorcycle parked outside – could you bring it inside? Or store it somewhere?”

Kinkade nods. “We saw that. We’ll put it in the living room.”

That…works, Keith supposes. “Thanks,” he says, and steps out. sh*t, even the air smells better here. He didn’t know there was any part of LA that didn’t permanently smell like smog.

Lance gets out and fumbles the keys to the front door. “So I haven’t been here in a few weeks – obviously, you knew that, duh – so it’s not that clean, so, yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll do a pick up while you nap or something, we’ll get this taken care of…”

He opens the door, still not meeting Keith’s eyes, and gestures him into the foyer.

This house has a f*cking foyer.

The ceiling is tall and beautiful, showing a winding staircase up to a second floor. A beautiful mural takes up one of the entryway walls – lush flowers, rich colors, dark-skinned people dancing in community.

“Okay, so…” The insecurity in Lance’s voice is painful to hear, but Keith’s not ready to let him off the hook yet. “Let me give you the grand tour…”

There are two living rooms, one of them sunken with a beautiful fireplace, the other modern with televisions and gaming consoles. The kitchen is state-of-the-art, clean and shining with a window that looks out over the gorgeous pool and huge backyard. Upstairs there’s three bedrooms (all of them have windows, Keith notes with a pit in his stomach); downstairs there’s a basem*nt with a home gym and a movie theater.

As Lance babbles his way through the house, Keith’s exhausted brain brings him to a thrilling conclusion; it’s a rich house, yes, but it’s not opulent. There aren’t crystal chandeliers in every room and a robot butler. It still feels approachable. There are signs that a 21-year-old boy lives here; shoes piled by the front door, an empty pizza box in the recycling, video game controllers strewn all over the couch. Just like Lance, really; his obscene wealth and star status mean more to everyone else than to him.

Keith lets Lance peter out and asks when there’s a lull,

“How long have you lived here?”

It’s the first thing he’s said in half an hour. Lance’s eyes light up. “Oh! Uh, like two years?”

“Where were you before?”

“With my parents. I bought them a nice big house so we could fit everybody and I lived there until I was nineteen, cause I’m not always good at being alone, you know? But I was nineteen and I figured probably time to move out, you know? So I got this place. The pool’s my favorite part. And it has a hot tub! We should hot tub.”

“Can’t,” Keith says. “Pregnant, remember?”

Lance’s face falls and Keith immediately feels guilty. “Yeah, of course, how could I forget, stupid – “

“You’re not stupid,” Keith says. God, he wants to be so pissed at this boy – the image of him and Allura hugging still flashes in his eyes every couple of minutes – but it’s hard, when Lance looks like a kicked puppy, when he’s clearly beating himself up over the article even though it’s not his fault. “We can swim. I like swimming.”

“Okay,” Lance says, nodding enthusiastically. “Swim, yes.”

“Food first?”

“Yes! Let me see what I have.”

Enough, apparently; Lance makes a pasta salad with olive oil and feta cheese and it’s the perfect light meal for Keith’s stomach, still queasy from being woken up early and starved for hours. Something occurs to him while he watches Lance hang up his adorable apron, and it’s important enough to break the awkward silence.

“How are you feeling? You just got outed.”

Lance blinks at Keith’s bluntness, but shrugs down at his bowl. “Not…that bad? Obviously it wasn’t how I preferred to do it, but I’ve been trying to come out for years. So in a way it’s almost nice that the hand got forced, you know? Otherwise I’m not sure they’d ever let me.”

Keith nods.

“I mean, I haven’t seen what people are saying online, so that’ll probably suck, but…you know. It’s our kid. That’s important enough to be out for.”

Makes sense, Keith thinks. Or maybe Lance didn’t mind being closeted because Allura is his true love and he knew he would end up with her. Also makes sense.

The exhaustion starts to hit him once he’s full, the sheer weight of all that’s happened in just one day. Lance says he can choose any bedroom upstairs and leaves it up to Keith whether to choose the one that is very obviously Lance’s.

His bedroom looks warm and inviting – a big messy bed, warm pictures of family, a balcony with a view of LA sleeping in the distance.

Keith thinks of Allura’s long, pretty nails scratching through Lance’s hair.

He picks one of the other two rooms, smaller and colder, with impersonal sheets and a bedside tablet covered in a thin coat of dust, totally forgotten.

He sends texts to Shiro, Adam and Pidge so they don’t think he’s been kidnapped, then crawls into bed. He’s so tired he’s sure he’ll fall asleep in the next minute.

It takes him almost an hour.

When Keith wakes up, it’s late afternoon. The sun hovers just over the horizon, changing the light in the room. Keith wakes up and lets himself stretch for minutes on end before he shuffles out. He slept in his jeans; he really needs to have some clothes soon, because even jeans with a stretchy waistband aren’t comfortable for a full night’s sleep.

He goes slowly down the stairs, clinging to the banister because he can’t see his feet, and finds Lance sitting at the kitchen island with a laptop and a mug of tea in front of him. When he hears Keith come down he turns, and Keith can see his drawn, bloodshot eyes.

“Hey! Sleep well?”

“Better than you.”

Lance tries to grin, but it comes out like a grimace. “Yeah.”

“What are you working on?” Keith attempts to climb up onto a bar stool but they’re very high – it takes him two tries to get up next to Lance.

“Trying to figure out which talk show should interrogate me,” he says miserably. “We’ve gotten so many offers and I’m trying to decide which one will be the least painful.”

“Go on a talk show…to talk about us? The baby?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind the idea of talking about this in my own words, not just a statement, but Iverson wants to try and capitalize on this to get people to watch the movie and that’s the part that pisses me off.”

“How does you getting me pregnant make people want to watch the movie?”

“I don’t know, it’s a scandal? I don’t get it. They do this all the time, every movie poster has me and Allura on it, it’s so annoying…”

Keith’s heart leaps at the mention of Allura and he instantly tries to change the subject. “So what are they saying online?”

“Uhh…stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff,” Lance says cagily.

“I’m just gonna look it up later if you don’t show me now.”

Lance sighs, and Keith can’t help but find it endearing that Lance wants to take care of him. Lance clicks open People.com, where their statement is the top of the page with the blurry picture of them from the hospital. The article has been viewed by a million people already. Keith fights down a wave of dizziness.

He scrolls down to the comments section and screws up his courage.

WTF?????

NOOOOOO Lance is my husband what is he doing w this slu*t????

Picture sucks but I would f*ck the other guy

LMAO all that money can’t buy a condom

Lance is gonna be such a good daddy <3

Does that other guy have a mullet asking for a friend

God says hom*osexualitie is a sin, these sodomites are going to hell, the bible says so

Since when is Lance gay. Isn’t he dating allura??

The slash fanfiction writes itself

OH MY GOD I’M CRY

You guys are idiots, he’s been a twink for years

Who tf is that guy???

Good for them for owning up to it!

This country has no morals

LANCE IS SO YOUNG f*ck THIS THAT CHINK whor* SHOULD’VE KILLED HIS AIDS BABY

Keith kogane fa*ggot

It goes on and on.

Keith finally looks up and sees Lance watching him warily. He has no idea what to say. His heart beats shallowly, weakly.

“sh*t,” he finally says.

“Yeah.”

“Is it…always like this?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, and Keith wants to cry. “I mean, this is a greater concentration than normal, but yeah.”

Keith keeps scrolling; it’s like a train wreck, he can’t stop looking at it even as it makes him want to vomit.

“They call you a wetback,” he says quietly.

“They call you a chink.”

Keith doesn’t know how to respond. Lance sighs, takes a sip of his tea. Keith waits for him to say something optimistic, some words of encouragement, but they don’t come. Keith has no idea what to do with a silent, depressed Lance. He can’t be the optimistic one here. They’ll never be happy if he’s the one in charge of group morale.

He decides to try anyway.

“Hey,” he says. “Think about it this way. None of these racist assholes online have a house with two living rooms.”

“You said that before,” Lance says, with the tiniest of smiles. “Why are you so freaked out by the second living room?”

“You have two living rooms and a separate dining room. I have a combo living/dining room/kitchen. Not even separated.”

“One of the living rooms is more of a den, really.”

“f*ck you,” Keith says emphatically, and Lance gives his first grin. Keith doesn’t want to think of it as a victory, but he does.

Keith’s stuff has come in, so he spends time unpacking into the smaller bedroom. They forgot his favorite t-shirt, so he’ll have to go back for that at some point, but other than that they took most of his wardrobe and whatever they could find in the shower. Keith wants to protest that he needs a lot more than just clothes and soap – what about stuff in his kitchen? – but the truth is Lance’s gorgeous, new kitchen has everything his kitchen had and then some, so his argument doesn’t hold water.

Lance still hasn’t said anything about Keith moving into a different bedroom; he just asks what Keith wants for dinner out of their magically restocked fridge. Then they move to the non-den living room and eat risotto while silently watching ‘Garrison Varsity.’ Lance’s complete silence grates on Keith, sets his teeth on edge and makes him want to lash out. Lance is obviously so miserable having Keith here. Poor movie star who has to live with Keith. Is he counting down the hours until Keith can go home and he can go back to being with Allura, laughing about how poor clueless Keith had a crush on him? Lance has no right to be so pissed; Keith’s the one stuck here, like he’s the one stuck with the bastard baby everyone’s so pissed about. Lance just has to put up with him for a couple of f*cking days. Keith’s stuck with the baby for the rest of his damn life.

“It’s just for a few days,” he says viciously, out of nowhere, cause he’s never been good at controlling his impulses. “Then I’ll be out of your space.”

Lance looks bewildered. “It’s no trouble,” he says slowly. “There’s plenty of space.”

Space, he says, space away from Keith, f*ck. As soon as he’s done eating Keith storms off and all but throws his bowl in the sink as Lance gapes after him. The TV’s still playing and Keith didn’t even offer to wash up.

He hauls himself up the stairs, getting even angrier at how out of breath it makes him, and it takes everything in him not to slam the door of his bedroom.

Just a few more days, then he’ll be out of Lance McClain’s life.

The next morning, Keith has to wait for the car company to come get him before he goes to work. Lance offered to drive, but Kinkade said no, and Keith doesn’t mind. He’s looking forward to work; none of these guys have ever heard of Lance McClain before, so he gets to have a quiet day of fixing bikes and not being judged on his famous baby daddy.

At least, that’s what he thinks will happen.

He’s barely changed into his jumpsuit and gotten on the floor when Prorok says,

“Are you seriously having Lance McClain’s kid?”

Keith almost jumps out of his skin. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell us your boyfriend was famous?” Ranveig asks, leaning forward in his seat.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Keith says automatically. “Wait, how do you know who Lance McClain is?”

“My daughter is obsessed with him,” Prorok says, and sh*t, Keith forgot he had a teenage daughter. “She’s got posters in her room, makes me watch all the movies. She screamed when she saw that article come out.”

Well. This is nice and awkward. “Uh, yeah,” Keith says. It’s all he can say.

“So,” Sendak says, and his smile turns Keith’s stomach. “How nice, to have a cute, rich boyfriend at home. Here we felt so sorry for you – single and pregnant and alone – when it turns out you’ve been living the high life. Eating cheesecake and bon bons with your Hollywood boyfriend.”

Keith flushes bright red. He wishes he was in his plainclothes for this; the only jumpsuits they had that would cover his belly are way too long in the sleeves and legs, so he had to fold the hems up and glue gun them. He feels like an Oompa Loompa, and there is an exquisite humiliation in the way his zipper strains to fit over the widest part of his belly.

“It wasn’t anyone’s business but mine,” he says, which is true. “I just wanted to fix bikes.”

“What are you still doing here?” Prorok says with a sneer. “You’ve got a sugar daddy now, take good care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of,” Keith says hotly.

“Besides, movie star did that already,” Ranveig says with a wink, and they all roar with laughter as Keith catches their meaning.

“Shut the f*ck up,” he says, loud and clear so it echoes across the garage. “Why don’t you all focus on your awful lives, and I’ll focus on mine.”

He walks over to his work station, where a Yamaha with a finnicky brake is waiting for him. He can feel them laughing at him behind his back, he can feel their scorn, but he just puts his head down and works.

After the assholes on the internet, these f*ckers can’t touch him.

He has no desire to stay at work for lunch, so he calls a car and asks them to go the hospital. The driver gives him a weird look but complies, and this time they come in the back entrance. Keith can feel it, the slight terror of returning to the place where it all broke down. But he’s got a good reason to be here, and it’s worth all the anxiety as he walks through the halls, making eye contact with the nurses and wondering which of them sold him out.

He gets to the Pidge’s room, but there’s no one there – no Pidge, no Colleen, definitely no baby, the sheets on the bed turned down and the chairs empty. A passing nurse comes by and looks quizzically at Keith standing in the empty room, and he takes his chance and says,

“Hey, do you know where, uh – Katie Holt is? This was her room?”

“Oh, Pidge?” She says, and Keith instantly smiles. “Yeah, she’s over in the NICU, I can take you.”

If this nurse recognizes Keith, she doesn’t let on; she just takes them briskly down and across the hall. Keith’s having a hard time deciding which source of anxiety to focus on first: trying to figure out which nurses might have ratted him out, watching everyone with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, or panic over Pidge and Archie and his fragile chosen family that seems to be hanging on by a thread. He starts to clench his fingers, shoulders up like he’s ready for a fight. One nurse gives him a weird look, and it takes everything in him to convince himself not to snap at her.

He sees Pidge long before the nurse tells him they’re there; she’s standing before a set of swinging double doors, wearing sweatpants with her back to them, looking through the window. “Pidge,” the nurse says gently, and Pidge swings around. She’s been crying, Keith can tell; her eyes are red and puffy, with a little red nose like a tomato, and when she sees Keith she tears up again.

“sh*t,” she says right away, and rushes forward to hug Keith. He holds her as tight as he can with his belly in the way, rubbing a hand over her greasy hair. He catches the look on the nurse’s face; it’s tender, pitying, loving. Apparently it took this woman all of two days to become desperately attached to Pidge. Keith knows the feeling.

“Pidgey,” he says. He’s not good with words. He definitely has no words for this.

She takes a shuddering breath against his neck and then slowly pulls away, wiping under her eyes. “sh*t, I am so glad to see you,” she says, wobbly.

“What’s – is he okay? I know he’s not okay, but is he – like, has anything…nothing’s happened, right?”

“We had, like, a little scare this morning – he was having trouble clearing his lungs, and they had to watch him to make sure he got it out, but he’s fine now. As fine as he can be when he weighs three and a half pounds and he can’t eat on his own and it’s the most f*cking terrifying thing ever because it doesn’t even feel like I’m holding a baby, it’s like I’m holding a tiny little alien who is so small – “

“God,” Keith says. He feels like all he says to her are useless words, empty meaningless platitudes that are doing nothing to help. He’s a mechanic, he’s used to fixing things with his hands, not his words. “Are you – are you standing out here cause you can’t see him?”

“No, he’s sleeping.” She crosses her arms over her sweatshirt-clad chest. She still looks pregnant; her stomach is so swollen, it pushes at the pocket of her hoodie. Keith thinks he could drown in the bags under her eyes. “I got to hold him. He blinked at me a couple of times and they put my breastmilk in a bag to go into his stomach cause he can’t suck. That’s my motherhood journey so far. I never even wanted to be pregnant, and this is what happens…”

Her breath hitches, face crumpling, and he leans over to hug her again. This one is longer, looser; before he hugged her fiercely, to stamp his love on her; but this hug is a promise. I’m not just here for the good times, he tries to say, with every slow inhale. I’m here for the bad times too.

Pidge finally pulls away, wiping her eyes. “Do you want to see him?” She says, shakily.

“I thought he was sleeping?”

“He is,” she says, and then points to the window. “He’s the one farthest on the right.”

Keith looks through – which is probably much easier for him than for Pidge – and sees a row of bassinets surrounded by machines like watchful sentinels. He can’t tell much about the baby in the farthest on the right, but he’s picturing a mini-Pidge in the small pink body.

“Have you gone home yet?”

“No, I’ve probably got another day and then I’m home. And then I guess I just…come visit him? For a month? It sounds miserable, he’s my baby and I can’t hold him, and I just…I’d like…to be home. With my kid. That doesn’t feel like too much to ask.”

“It’s not,” Keith says softly.

She sighs, rubs at her eyes under her glasses. “So! How are you? What’s up?” She asks, faux-brightly.

“Pidge, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to!”

“I mean, seriously, you can’t care about us, you don’t – “

“Keith.” Her voice is so shaky, but so strong; a leaf made out of steel. She blinks gritty eyes at him. “Let me tell you what I want. Okay? So just…tell me what’s up with you.”

Keith, chastised, nods. “Uh. Yeah. Of course. Uh, Lance and I are living together. I’m living at Lance’s.”

“Wow, you guys move quick. Thought U-Haul lesbians were actually lesbians.”

“I have to live there. They said my apartment isn’t secure enough with all the fans and stuff, so I have to live at Lance’s.”

“Oh,” she says, tone changing entirely. “Yikes. Is it a mansion?”

“Yeah, kinda. Three bedrooms. They all have windows.”

“Oh no,” Pidge says, to this sentence that would make no sense to anyone else. “Well, there are worse places to be captive, right? Siberia. China. Cincinnati.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. It just feels like he hates me and doesn’t want me there. Like I’m taking up space.”

“No,” she says immediately. “You are not taking up space, there or anywhere. You can’t think like that. Dude, you’re…I’m not gonna say it, cause I’m not here to fix your stupidity, but I promise you’re not a waste of space.”

“Why aren’t you going to fix my stupidity?” Keith says, which is not a normal response at all.

“Because I hope one day you’ll fix it yourself,” she says sagely. “Come on. I went onto the message boards, found the people who were talking the most sh*t about you, and hacked their pages so now all they can post is gifs from the Wiggles. Let me show you.”

The next night, over some of the best pork chops Keith has ever had, Lance asks if Keith wants to help decorate the nursery with him.

“There’s not really a theme at all, I just kinda went on Amazon and ordered a ton of sh*t, and I’ve been with you so I haven’t gotten the chance to assemble any of it, it’s all just sitting in there.”

Keith saw it all when he first moved in, sitting haphazardly in the other bedroom upstairs. He takes a bite of pork chop; it tastes like ash, suddenly.

“And I thought, it might be nice to do it together?” Lance smiles nervously. “Like, I know you can’t lift anything heavy so I’ll take care of that, but, you know. More fun to do it together, right?”

Keith’s stomach sinks right through him, hitting the floor beneath him in a pathetic puddle. He must want to live separately, Keith thinks. He wants to decorate the nursery here, in his gorgeous mansion, so the baby can live here and have a good crib instead of a second-hand one and a room with more than one window. And the baby will come here and he’ll say, ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now, you’re not with the other daddy in his terrible apartment.’”

“Okay,” he says, with a voice that probably sounds as awful as he feels.

Lance gives him a weird look, and Keith returns with a strained smile.

That night, Keith can’t sleep. This isn’t uncommon; it’s hard to sleep with a living human taking up space in his torso and constantly kicking his bladder. But it’s particularly awful tonight. Ironically, Keith thinks it’s the window; his tiny, dark room made the nights very peaceful. Now, even the moon is too much light pollution for him.

He finally gives up around two am. He levers himself upward, which is humiliating, because he used to have actual abs that weren’t hidden behind thirty pounds of baby. Then he makes the laborious journey down the stairs, squinting in the darkness, clinging to the railing like it’s a life raft on the Titanic. He’s thoroughly grumpy when he gets to the sunken den, and perfectly miserable when he opens a cabinet and finds a whole array of fluffy throw blankets to choose from, instead of just one.

He grabs the fluffiest one and wraps himself in an angry little cocoon on the couch. Once he kicks the footrest out he feels better, letting his legs stretch out and taking the pressure off his hips and back, and he wiggles around until he finds a comfortable position. Ironically enough it’s staring out the window, at the fat half-moon hovering over LA.

His brain immediately wants to spin out of control, to weave angry little universes full of self-hate and self-pity, but he puts his hands on his belly and breathes. Tries to quiet the roiling. Tries to keep out everyone’s expectations and judgment and just focus on the moon. The baby shifts, like the tides, and he smiles.

He doesn’t notice Lance come into the room.

“Hey,” Lance says, softly enough to keep Keith from startling. Keith turns his head from the window, sees Lance silhouetted against the light from the entryway door.

“How’d you know I was here?” Keith asks.

“Heard you come down the stairs.” That’s fair; Keith sounds like a baby elephant when he walks around these days. He’s so tired that the normal hot spike of embarrassment is more of a bitter wash. “Everything okay?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Lance nods. “Yeah, I can imagine.” He sits down on the couch, a full arm’s length away from Keith. The distance aches. “Well, I can’t imagine, really. But it sounds awful.”

Keith shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say. All his words are spilled out on the wind.

Lance looks beautiful, though. He wishes he had words for that. He’s wearing a soft t-shirt that says ‘Rio Verde High School Blood Drive’ and looks so worn through that one touch will crumble it to dust. His flannel pants mold to the shape of his thighs and his bare feet poke out, curled up against the carpet. Keith’s throat is dry. I hope my daughter looks like him, he thinks.

“Would TV help? Something easy that’ll put you to sleep? Great British Bake-Off always does it for me.” Lance kicks out the other footrest and flails about awkwardly until he finds the remote.

“You don’t – “ Keith shifts awkwardly, hauls his belly up and over until he’s facing Lance. “You don’t have to, like. Stay up with me. It’s my problem, you can go back to bed.”

Lance looks at him. There’s something heavy in his gaze, tangible. Like there’s twelve million words he wants to say. “It’s our problem,” he says. “We’re in it together. Okay?”

Keith nods, feeling like a kid saying yes to a question because he knows he should, not because he truly understands.

Lance puts on Great British Bake-Off. And what do you know – it does help.

The garage has become Keith’s personal hell. Everything about it now is the opposite of the sanctuary it used to be. Physically, he has trouble doing any of the tasks required of him; his colleagues are snarky and bitchy where they used to leave him alone; and Prorok’s teenage daughter and her friends come over after school and hover around, watching Keith and tittering, pretending to be visiting her father. Keith’s neck burns with embarrassment every time and his fists clench with anger and he can just picture the tweets of his bloated body put up on the Internet and destroying the last vestiges of his privacy. He can see Kinkade and Griffin telling him he can’t go to work and he has to stay at Lance’s house for his own safety – literally trapped in the house like a kept girl, useless and pregnant.

When he finally gets home he’s in a terrible mood. But Lance is hovering around waiting for him, vibrating like he’s gonna shake out of his skin.

“Hi! What’s up? How was your day? Did you save the world, one motorcycle at a time?”

Keith pauses, one hand braced against the wall as he works the heel of his sneaker off. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s a dumb question, I’m sorry, I’m just soo hyped right now! Okay, so you remember how we were trying to figure out which talk show to go on? Well, we picked one! David Jimenez!”

“David Jimenez?”

“Yeah, he’s not as mainstream as the other ones, but Jimmy Kimmel was kind of an ass after last year’s Oscars and me and Jimmy Fallon are in some weird faux-feud? I don’t know how it started, it was weird, and I like James Corden but my team told me it airs too late so we can’t do that one, and me and David have always gotten along well cause he’s another Latino so we represent the homeland, and I talked to him and he sounds really excited to have us on and he congratulated me on the baby and said he wasn’t going to be too big of an ass, so I’m feeling pretty psyched about it.”

“Uh, cool. Congrats, that’s good.”

“No, that’s not even what’s cool!” Lance starts bouncing between his feet, most likely doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “We were chatting and he said I could bring whoever I want to the taping, and I was all like, ‘Yeah, I know, of course Hunk is gonna come, that’s his job,’ and David is all, ‘No man, you can bring whoever you want,’ and I was like oh! Great idea! So basically, do you want to come to the taping? It’s not as late at night as they air, it’ll be totally easy to come to, and David said he’ll bump someone so we can get the primetime Saturday night spot and you won’t have to miss any work! They’re super fun, I promise.”

Keith’s stomach sinks again. f*ck, he hates this, he hates feeling like this half the time he’s around Lance. It’s just…he knows what David was implying. It’s the same thing the rest of the world would imply. Lance should bring Allura to the taping. It’s the logical conclusion; it makes far more sense than Lance and Keith ever would.

He’s on the verge of smiling and nodding, the normal things he does with Lance, when he realizes he’s tired of it. He can’t keep pretending that he and Lance are something they’re not. They’ll all be happier if he lets Lance go, and Keith can stop living in this half-true fantasy.

“Uh. Yeah,” he says, swallowing. This is gonna be hard, in the face of Lance’s beaming face. “Or, you know. You could take Allura.”

Lance’s eyebrows fold inward. “Allura?”

“Yeah.” Keith clears his throat, tries to banish the tears that are already gathering. God, he used to be stronger than this.

“Allura Altea? Are we talking about a different Allura?” Lance seems wildly confused; it’s making all of this much harder. “Why would I bring Allura?”

Keith shrugs and fixes his eyeline somewhere over Lance’s shoulder. “You guys are real close, and it’ll be nice. She’ll probably really like it. It’s a good move. I don’t mind, I promise.”

Lance’s mouth actually opens, gaping at him. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“It’s okay, Lance, I promise, I’m not gonna get in the way. Just take Allura, it’s a great date, Super…fun. Yeah.”

f*ck, he’s giving Lance an out, why isn’t he taking it? Lance stares at him in complete bafflement for another ten seconds; then, slowly, his face morphs into something more solid and resolute. Like he’s made a decision.

“Okay, so,” he says, and his voice makes Keith’s spine straighten. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, and I think that’s part of the problem. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say we need some actual communication. Maybe some clarity. Just so we’re both on the same page.”

Keith’s heart immediately skyrockets, adrenaline filling his chest and making his heart pump double time. f*ck, this is really it. He steels himself, tries to gather up the strength he used to have whenever another year went by and no adoptive parents had shown even a passing interest in him. We’ll be okay, he swears to the baby, even as he knows that this hurt is going to be the worst he’s ever faced, it’ll be just you and me. But we’ll figure it out.

“Like, I know that this whole thing has been super weird and we’re doing this all backwards and I wasn’t here for the first seven months and trust me, I feel so bad about that.” Lance fidgets as he stands, his words slurring together like he’s got to get this all out in one rush. “And I get that you don’t like me much, and I deserve that, trust me, not fighting that – but let me just say, I am not going anywhere. Like, you can push me away all you want or push me off on Allura or whatever you were trying to do there, but I am not leaving you. We don’t have to date if you don’t want – which would suck, and I would really want that, but that’s neither here nor here – but you don’t get to just push me out of the baby’s life, or your life, for that matter, cause I think you’re awesome, I think you’re f*cking amazing, I really like you, like like you, maybe even other l-word you, and I don’t think it’s fair that you’re telling me to date someone else, like it’s kind of cruel if you know that I have a crush on you to try and give me someone else to date, like a pity thing, cause people did that freshman year of high school and it hurt then and it hurts now – “

“Wait,” Keith interjects, because what? “What?”

“It’s not fair,” Lance says, twisting his fingers together. “I don’t know when you figured out that I have a crush on you, and if you didn’t want to date me then that’s fine, I can handle rejection, but don’t, like, give me someone else to date in your place, cause Allura’s great but she’s never gonna replace you and you should know that – “

“You have a crush on me?” Keith squeaks.

“Yes, how many times do I have to say it, you really know how to twist the knife, dude – “

“How long?” Keith demands. He’s so lightheaded it feels like he’s going to faint. “How long have you had a crush on me?”

“Since day f*cking one? Since I saw you in that stupid bar? I never got over you, dude, not in Georgia and not here and definitely not now.” Lance’s whole face is bright red.

“Oh my God,” Keith says. “Oh f*ck me – oh Jesus – but Allura – “

“Allura’s my friend, yeah, Allura’s great but she’s not you. She’s never gonna be you. You’re carrying my baby, she’s – “

“So that’s why you like me,” Keith says, searching desperately for an answer that will make sense. “Because I’m pregnant. Cause it’s your baby inside me.”

Lance furrows his brow. “Do you think I’m that shallow? Jeez, man, no, it’s not because of that. I mean, it’s amazing, I love you so much because you decided to keep her and I love that she’s inside you – yikes, that sounds weird – but, no, it’s because of you. Like, you independently of her.”

Keith puts a hand on the wall, blood rushing to his head. I love you. Lance just said he loved him. Lance just said he loved him independently of the baby.

“Oh God,” Lance moans, reaching up to cover his face. “I just said I love you. Oh God, it’s like high school all over again, damnit Lance, why do you have to go so hard, who f*cking says that – “

“I love you too,” Keith blurts, and the whole world stops spinning.

Lance peeks out from his hands, and it’s adorable. “What?” He says softly.

“I love you too,” Keith says, with a smile bursting onto his face and his heart somewhere out of his chest and fluttering up in the stratosphere.

“Seriously?” Now Lance is the incredulous one. “But why were you talking about Allura?”

“I thought you liked Allura! I thought you guys were dating, had been dating this whole time, and you were just with me cause I had the baby.”

“What? What ‘whole time?’”

“When you were in Georgia, there was this article on People.com, and then I saw you hugging in the hallway while we were talking about the article.”

“You read an article on People.com? Babe, you know that stuff is all sh*t!” He gestures grandly. “Allura and I aren’t dating! We never have been! I had a crush on her, sure, when I was fifteen! And now she’s like my sister! And in the hallway, she was just hugging me cause I was freaking out, and she came in and saved our asses from all the douchebags in there, and you – oh God, is that why you were crying? When I found you in that room? Oh, babe – “

“I didn’t know!” Keith yells back. He’s not sure why they’re yelling but he’s so happy he could cry. “I thought you were just pitying me! Everyone told you that you were too good for me, I figured – “

“f*ck ‘em! f*ck ‘em all! Keith, Jesus Christ, I’m so into you and I’m trying to play it cool and you’re the one who’s too good for me, I thought you hated me – “

“I could never hate you! Who could hate you? You’re perfect!”

Keith all but screams this, and Lance’s eyes go wide, and the foyer is silent for the first time in a long while. Lance’s chest heaves and Keith is so lightheaded he can see stars and he’s in a brave, bright new world.

“Is there any way that this perfect guy could kiss you?” Lance says, shakily.

“Yeah, go off, I guess,” Keith says, and Lance takes two steps forward and cups Keith’s jaw and ducks down to press their lips together.

The first touch of Lance’s lips sends chills waterfalling down Keith’s spine, and he has to suppress a shiver at how good it feels, how right. He grabs Lance’s shoulders and hauls himself closer, no thought at all to how desperate he looks, and Lance grins against his lips and puts gentle hands on his hips.

“This was a little easier the last time we did this, huh,” he whispers, lips still brushing over Keith’s. The angle is hilariously awkward, Lance’s flat stomach pressed against Keith’s swollen one, and Keith has to crane his neck up and over to reach Lance.

“Shut up,” he mutters, already going back for more kisses. Some dark part of his brain thinks Lance is gonna leave, and he needs to get his kisses now in case he does. “This is your fault.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lance says agreeably. He pecks Keith one, two, three times, making him blush furiously. “I’m cool with that.”

“I f*cking love you,” Keith says. He says it like he’s staking a claim, planting a flag on the moon. He loves Lance.

“I love you too,” Lance says. “God, I’ve never said that outside of a movie. And this feels so much better, oh my God, I’ve been acting that all wrong.” He molds his hands over Keith’s hips. “I never imaged it would feel this good.”

Keith can’t even begin to touch that without self-imploding, so he tucks his face into the crevice of Lance’s shoulders and breathes him in, the springtime of his detergent and the saltwater of his skin. Lance reaches up and plays with the hairs on the nape of his neck. The baby rests quietly inside of Keith.

“How could I ever look at anyone else?” Lance whispers into the shell of Keith’s ear.

Keith remembers crying on the couch, reading a very different People magazine article, feeling his daughter kick, preparing himself for a lifetime where he never felt as good as he does in this moment.

“So don’t,” he whispers back.