#this could be preklance if you want

[autisticlancemcclain]

Dude I’m pleading with you for a black paladin lance fic

sorry this took me a hundred years 💀💀

Chocolate Chip Chivalry

Keith & Lance (Voltron), Black Paladin Lance, 1.5k Words

Summary: Keith is struggling with Shiro’s disappearance and his own inability to be what he thought Shiro wanted. Lance, it turns out, is a big help.

———

“Alright, buddy, up you get.”

Keith doesn’t move except to roll his sore eyes. If Lance thinks he’s gonna get Keith up for anything other than a mission, he’s got another thing coming.

“I will lift you out of that bed, Kogane, do not test me.”

This gives Keith pause. Because while Lance is kind of scrawny, he has this weird ability to do things that seem out of the physical realm of possibility for him when he’s feeling stubborn. A month ago, for example, he suddenly sprouted the ability to hear a whispered conversation several miles away, because he wanted to go home and finish a project of his. Truly remarkable.

So, yeah. Keith might be bigger than Lance, but he also knows from experience that if Lance says he will bodily lift Keith out of bed, then he damn well means it, and Keith would like to hold on to what’s left of his dignity, thanks.

“What the fuck do you want,” Keith growls, sitting up and glaring at the Cuban.

Lance raises an eyebrow back, completely unfazed. “I want you to get out of bed. You’ve been locked in here for three days, and it’s making you feel worse, not better.”

“I think I’m entitled to some fucking self-pity, Lance.”

“I never said you weren’t. I’m just saying that the rest of us have been crying with company, and it feels marginally less shitty than sobbing in your room alone.”

Keith really looks at Lance for the first time since he barged in, noticing the red-rimmed eyes and dried tear tracks. He starts to feel guilty. He’s been spending who knows how long holed up in his room, throwing himself a pity party, as if he’s the only one who lost Shiro. God, no wonder the Black Lion chose Lance instead of him, he’d be a shit leader, he can only think of himself he’s such a fucking douche, he’s a fucking waste of space —

“Cut that out,” Lance orders, narrowing his eyes at Keith. “No one’s mad at you. No one’s disappointed. We completely understand why you’re camped in here, and we get it. I get it. I just also know that it’s unhealthy, and I want you to do something to take your mind off of it.”

Keith is quiet for a moment, looking down at his fists, clenched in his sheets. He doesn’t really want to get out of bed. All he really wants to do is sleep or cry some more, and every time he thinks of his brother his eyes tear up on their own.

But some training probably wouldn’t hurt. The endorphins will probably be good for him, honestly.

“I guess I could train,” Keith mutters sullenly.

“Um, no. You will not be doing that. That’s going to make it worse, because you’re gonna —”

“So what the fuck am I meant to do, then, huh, Lance?” Keith demands. “Just fucking sit around and get more weak and useless? Maybe I can fucking summon Shiro with my mind, and then I’ll have a purpose again! Shiro asked me to do one fucking thing, just one, and I couldn’t even —” Keith breaks down into tears, again, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

Fuck.

He feels the mattress dip to his left, seeing Lance kneeling next to him out of the corner of his eyes. The next thing he feels is Lance’s arm over his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. Keith cries into Lance’s neck, soaking his shirt and skin, for what feels like hours. Lance doesn’t complain or move, only running a gentle hand down his back and making occasional humming noises.

Eventually Keith cries himself out, tears dried, leaving only those horrible stuttering breaths that are the aftermath of a period of misery. Lance pulls away a little, moving his hands so his palms are pressing on either side of Keith’s face. His hands are blessedly cool on Keith’s overheated skin.

“Shiro is not disappointed in you,” he says firmly. “Wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing, he’s proud of you. He always is.”

“But I’m a fucking failure,” Keith argues, feeling his eyes burn again. “He asked me to pilot Black, and she wouldn’t open for me. She opened for you, which makes sense, but I still feel like a let-down.”

Something unreadable flashes through Lance’s dark eyes, and then a look of determination settles in his features. He grips Keith’s hands and pulls him off the bed, making Keith stumble a little. It’s been a hot minute since he’s really moved a lot.

“Okay, change of plans,” Lance announces. “To the kitchens.”

Lance marches them down the hall, turning into the big double doors that lead to the dining area. He drags Keith all the way to the massive, industrial Altean kitchen, depositing him by the counter beside the stove, and walks to the fridge.

“Okay, we need butter, and eggs…” he trails off as he rummages through the fridge’s contents, occasionally moving to set down a few ingredients or equipment beside Keith. Keith watches him in confusion.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“Start sifting two cups of flour into the pink bowl,” Lance says instead of answering.

Keith thinks about refusing, but he honestly doesn’t have the energy. He settles for rolling his eyes and muttering petulantly as he complies.

Lance continues to call out instructions as he buzzes around the kitchen, messing with the oven settings and God knows what else. Keith continues to follow the instructions, getting into a sort of rhythm of whipping or sifting or mixing or measuring.

Eventually, Keith fully clues into what he’s been doing for the past half hour and realises he’s successfully made a batch of space chocolate chip cookie dough.

“Okay, now scoop a bunch of that onto this cookie sheet. About twelve balls, evenly spaced, a little more than a tablespoon of dough on each spot.”

Keith hesitates a moment, because he realises he hasn’t really registered jack shit since Lance made him start on this. Not Lance’s idle chatter, not the fact that he literally made cookie dough, and, most importantly, not the overwhelming sadness and desperation he’s been feeling nonstop for the past three days.

But he continues on, scooping the dough onto the baking sheet, and then he sits up on the counter and watches as Lance slides them into the hot oven and sets a ten minute timer.

“Why did we… why did you make me do that?” Keith asks after a period of silence. He’s surprised at his own tone — only honest curiosity, not an ounce of hostility or anger. Huh.

“You needed to do something creative and tedious,” Lance responds simply. “Not to psychoanalyse you or anything, but you were very clearly going through a depressive episode, and that kind of thing helps.”

“Oh.”

They sit in quiet, contemplative silence until the timer goes off. Lance hops off the counter and puts on an oven mitt, grinning a little as he takes the cookies out. Keith gets it. They look perfect, and certainly smell amazing.

Lance expertly lifts each cookie from the parchment paper onto a cooling rack with a spatula, except for three of them, which he puts on a plate and slides towards Keith.

“There’s milk in the fridge,” he informs him. Keith nods, heading over to pour two glasses. He carries them back over to the counter, where Lance is waiting.

They both grab a cookie, biting them at the same time. Keith feels his eyebrows raise. These cookies are delicious, and usually Keith kind of sucks in the kitchen.

“There are really good,” Keith says.

“You did a good job,” Lance agrees.

Keith makes a face, looking at Lance strangely. “I didn’t make them.”

Lance raises his eyebrows, looking amused, but Keith recognizes the knowing glint in his eyes. There’s something else at play here.

“I didn’t do shit. You put all the ingredients together. You measured them, mixed them, scooped them. All you, buddy. I talked the whole time.”

“No, you — wait,” Keith pauses for a minute, cookie halfway to his mouth (they really are amazing), thinking back to the past forty-odd minutes.

“Huh,” he says after a moment. He really did make these cookies.

“You made these cookies,” Lance reiterates.

Keith looks at him suspiciously. “Why are you putting so much emphasis on that?”

Lance shrugs, but his knowing grin from earlier has only gotten bigger.

“You said you were useless, earlier. That you didn’t make a difference. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think a useless person couldn’t make these bomb-ass cookies, and they certainly made a difference in my day, so.”

Lance lets that sit between them, as Keith processes.

Well, damn.

“…Point taken,” Keith says eventually.

Lance smiles at him, big and bright, and nudges his shoulder.

“I know losing Shiro has sucked,” he says softly. “I can’t even conceptualize your pain — I don’t know what I’d do if I lost one of my siblings not once, but twice. I’m sorry, Keith. I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry that Shiro’s expectations weren’t right for you. But I promise you that we will find Shiro, whatever it takes, and I will do everything in my power to be the best leader I can be in the meantime.”

Keith smiles back, a little watery, a little emotional, but happier nonetheless. He reaches over to grab Lance’s hand, squeezing tightly.

“You’re already are, Lance. You already are.”