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The penthouse in Marmora’s Landing—Earth’s first fully integrated alien-human settlement, nestled in the shadow of the rebuilt Galaxy Garrison—was too quiet. The usual night-time hum of hover-traffic and distant, multi-species chatter from the plaza below was muffled by the thick, soundproofed glass. Inside, the silence felt heavy, charged, and to Lance, unbearably oppressive.
He was sprawled across the vast sectional sofa, a mountain of pillows propping him up. He didn’t have the obvious belly bulge, but his body was undeniably, unmistakably changing. The swell of his stomach was a firm, proud curve beneath his soft tank top, but the transformation wasn’t just there. His hips had widened, his backside had filled out noticeably, making the borrowed pair of Keith’s sweatpants he wore strain just a little in a way that was, frankly, kind of fantastic.
He felt heavy, and warm, and profoundly frustrated.
From the kitchen doorway, Keith watched him, leaning against the frame with a bowl of sliced peaches in one hand. He’d been home for three weeks now, on what Kolivan had reluctantly termed “pre-operative paternal standby.” He was on paternity leave in all but name. He was dressed down in soft grey sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the cut of his shoulders or the lean strength of his arms. His hair was a messy, dark waterfall over his shoulders.
He looked infuriatingly calm. Infuriatingly, stupidly hot. Infuriatingly untouchable.
“You’re staring,” Keith said, his voice a low, even rumble. He popped a slice of peach into his mouth.
“I’m contemplating,” Lance corrected, letting his head loll back. “Contemplating the cruel and unusual punishment of celibacy imposed by my own husband.”
Keith’s lips twitched. He walked over and set the bowl down, perching on the edge of the couch. “It’s not celibacy. It’s being careful.”
“It’s torture,” Lance groaned, rolling onto his side to face him. The movement made the sweats pull tight across his backside, a fact he didn’t miss, and neither, he noticed, did Keith. Keith’s eyes flickered down for a half-second before snapping back up. “Keith, come on. I have needs. Urgent ones.”
“I gave you a foot rub an hour ago,” Keith pointed out, reaching out to trace a slow circle on the bare strip of Lance’s lower back. His touch was warm and calloused and so damn gentle it was maddening.
“That’s the problem!” Lance caught his wrist. “You touch me like I’m a museum piece. I’m not fragile. I barely have a belly!” He guided Keith’s hand to his stomach. “Feel that? She’s tough. We’re tough. We could handle a little… stress relief.”
Keith’s expression softened, his thumb moving over the taut fabric. “She’s active.”
“She’s bored,” Lance whispered. “She’s wondering why her dads are so tense. I read an article. Stress is bad for the baby.”
A quiet chuckle escaped Keith. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Lance’s shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m right,” Lance insisted, pushing up. “You think I don’t see you? Pacing at 2 a.m. Doing push-ups until you’re sweating it out. You’re just as wound up as I am. You’re just better at pretending you’re a monk.”
Keith’s smile faded. He pulled his hand back. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s safe.”
“And how do you know it’s not safe?” Lance challenged. “Huh? You get a medical degree I don’t know about?”
“Common sense, Lance,” Keith said, standing up. He ran a hand through his hair. “You get winded walking to the kitchen. How is that a green light for anything… sexual?”
“Because it’s different!” Lance argued, heaving himself upright. “It’s not a marathon! The doctor said I’m healthy! You’re just using Sora as an excuse because you’re scared to actually touch me.”
The words hung in the air. Keith went very still, his back to Lance.
“That’s not true,” he said, voice quiet.
“Prove it.”
Keith turned. His eyes were a storm—dark, wanting, worried. “I’m not gonna risk anything because you’re horny and dramatic.”
“Horny and dramatic?” Lance repeated, grabbing a pillow and flinging it. Keith caught it. “I’m carrying your kid, you jackass! My back hurts, my feet hurt, and you’re treating me like I’m made of glass!”
He cut himself off, breathing hard. The frustration was hot, but underneath was a real ache. Keith saw the shift. The anger left his face.
“Lance…”
“No,” Lance said, holding up a hand. He took a deep breath, a gleam in his eye. “You want a doctor’s opinion? Fine.”
With a grunt, he pushed to his feet and waddled to the kitchen island for his communicator.
“Lance, what are you doing?” Keith followed him.
“What does it look like?” Lance snatched the device. The screen lit up his determined face. “It’s almost midnight. Perfect for a medical consult.”
“You are not calling Dr. Ryn at midnight.”
“Watch me.” Lance found the contact and hit call.
It rang. Keith pinched the bridge of his nose.
The call connected. A hologram flickered to life, showing Dr. Ryn with sleep-mussed silver hair and a robe. Her markings glowed a tired blue.
“Paladin McClain,” she said, voice smooth but edged with gravel. “Urgency? Contractions? Bleeding?”
Lance pasted on a charming smile. “Hi, Doc! No, Sora’s just kicking. We’re good. Quick question. About… marital relations. In a healthy, half-Galra pregnancy. No complications.”
A long, dead silence. Dr. Ryn blinked slowly. “It is almost twelve-hundred hours.”
“I know! Time flies, right?”
“Paladin,” she said, her nurturing tone now laced with steel. “This is a conversation for clinic hours. My office opens at 0700. Come in then, if your schedules are clear.”
Lance smirked, glancing at Keith. “Oh, our they are wide open. Keith’s on paternity leave. And I’m on… well, I’m stubborn. Refuse to take my leave. But I love those kids, and Shiro owes me. I can just text him, he’ll cover my morning class. So, tomorrow?”
Dr. Ryn’s smile was thin. “Tomorrow. Goodnight, Paladins.” The call died.
Lance set the communicator down with a click. He turned, leaning back against the island.
He made a point of shifting his weight, the motion accentuating the new, generous curve of his hips and backside in the soft sweats. Keith’s eyes tracked the movement before he forced them away, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
“Well?” Lance said. “We have an appointment.”
Keith just stared. “You are the most impossible person.”
“You love it.”
“Sometimes.” Keith shook his head. “But what was the point of that?”
“The point,” Lance said, pushing off and closing the distance. He stopped close, the firm curve of his belly not quite touching Keith, but the new, softer swell of his hips did. He saw Keith’s breath catch. “The point is you’re being an overprotective idiot. And I’m gonna prove it.” He reached up, curling his fingers around the back of Keith’s neck.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “But we both know what she’s gonna say. So you can keep pretending, cariño. But I can feel you.” He pressed his hips forward, just a little.
Keith’s sharp intake was a victory.
“You’re just as frustrated. You just hide it better.”
For a second, Keith wavered. His eyes went dark, dropping to Lance’s mouth. His hands came up, hovering at Lance’s now-wider hips. He looked wrecked—all that sharp, hot intensity held in check by sheer will. It was the worst kind of tease.
But then he stiffened. He gently broke Lance’s hold, stepping back like he’d been burned. “Bed. You need sleep.”
“Keith—”
“Lance.” It was his leader-voice, but it was frayed. He nudged Lance toward the bedroom. “Go. I’ll be there.”
“Where are you going?” Lance demanded at the doorway.
“Blade reports. HQ stuff.”
“You’re on leave!”
“And you’re supposed to be resting,” Keith shot back, but his eyes were soft. “Go to sleep. I’ll be in soon.”
Lance huffed, shuffling into the room. He looked over his shoulder, pouting. “Hurry up. Your child and I get lonely.”
A quiet laugh escaped Keith. “I’ll be quick.”
As Keith turned, Lance called out, “And Keith?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to…think of me that much yeah? Wouldn’t wanna disappoint those monks.”
Keith stopped. He didn’t turn, but his shoulders lifted in a deep, resigned breath. He shook his head once.
“Goodnight, Lance.”
“Night, Mullet.”
Lance listened to him walk away. He collapsed on the bed, a mix of smug and still-aching. Sora gave a kick.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “We’ll break him. He’s only human. Mostly.”
Outside, Keith stood in the dark living room, not moving toward his data-pad. He stared out the window, running a hand over his face. Lance was infuriating. And impossible. And so beautiful it hurt—a different kind of beautiful now, all soft curves and life and a glow that had nothing to do with fighting. It made Keith feel clumsy and desperate and scared.
Touching him felt like too much.
Not touching him felt worse.
He pulled out his communicator.
To: Dr. Ryn
From: K. Kogane
Subject: Tomorrow
Message: Please be blunt with him. With both of us. Thanks. -KK
He hit send, leaned his forehead against the cool glass, and waited for his own pulse to slow down.
Tomorrow. They’d figure it out tomorrow.
The warmth was the first thing Lance registered. A solid, heavy heat along his back, an arm slung possessively over his waist, a hand splayed wide and warm over the lower curve of his belly.
Keith’s breath was a slow, even tide against the nape of his neck. In the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds, tangled in this quiet cocoon, Lance felt a surge of such profound, stupid love it almost eclipsed the persistent, low-grade frustration humming in his veins.
He shifted, turning carefully within the circle of Keith’s arms until they were face-to-face. Keith was still asleep, his features softened, the usual sharp lines of worry and focus smoothed away. He looked younger. Lance’s heart did a funny little squeeze. He reached up, unable to resist, and began threading his fingers through the dark, silky strands of Keith’s hair, tracing the shell of his ear, his thumb brushing over a sharp cheekbone.
Keith stirred almost immediately. A low, sleepy grumble vibrated in his chest.
His eyes didn’t open, but his arm tightened around Lance’s waist, pulling him incrementally closer. “Mm. Stop that.”
“Stop what?” Lance whispered, innocent, continuing to play with his hair.
“That. Thinking. I can hear you thinking.” Keith finally cracked one eye open, a sliver of sleepy violet. “And that thought you’re having right now? Don’t even think about it.”
Lance pouted, dropping his hand. “I wasn’t thinking about it!”
“You were.” Keith sighed, finally opening both eyes. He looked at Lance—really looked—and some of the sleepiness was replaced by that familiar, fond exasperation. “We have an appointment. Get up.”
Lance whined, a long, drawn-out sound, but the mention of the appointment sparked a fresh current of determination. He began the awkward process of extricating himself from bed, which involved Keith’s help whether he wanted it or not—a steadying hand under his elbow, a push at the small of his back. “You’re such a morning person,” Lance grumbled.
“I’m a ‘let’s-get-this-over-with’ person,” Keith corrected, already heading to the closet.
They dressed with a practiced, incognito efficiency born of necessity. The news of Lance’s pregnancy wasn’t public knowledge. Only their inner circle—the family who’d been at Shiro and Adam’s vow renewal—knew. The rest of the universe saw Paladins, heroes, diplomats. They didn’t need to see the tabloid shots of a pregnant Lance McClain waddling out of an OB-GYN’s office. So, it was layers.
For Lance, dark, loose-fitting jeans that still somehow managed to feel tight across his hips and backside (a fact he noted with a secret thrill), a plain black long-sleeved shirt, and over it, one of Keith’s oversized leather jackets that swallowed his frame and disguised his profile. A black beanie pulled low over his curls. Keith dressed similarly—jeans, a hoodie, a jacket—but on him, it just looked unfairly good, like a rockstar trying to go to the grocery store. He was all lean lines and contained energy, the hood shadowing his face.
Lance watched him zip up his jacket and couldn’t resist. He sidled up, smoothing his hands over Keith’s chest. “So,” he murmured, voice low. “You ready for later? After the doctor gives us the all-clear?”
Keith’s hands came up to still Lance’s, his grip firm. “We’re not discussing this now.”
“Why not? Gotta mentally prepare. It’s been a while. Don’t want you to pull a muscle or anything, old man.”
Keith gave him a flat look. “I’m not old. And I’m not ‘preparing’ for anything because we’re getting a consultation, not a permission slip.”
“Semantics,” Lance sang, grabbing his own bag. Keith just shook his head, a reluctant smile touching his lips.
***
The waiting room of Dr. Ryn’s clinic was a study in serene, alien minimalism. Soft, bioluminescent fungi provided gentle light, and the chairs were grown from a single, twisting piece of smooth, warm wood. It was empty save for them. Lance fidgeted, his knee bouncing.
A soft chime sounded, and a gentle, automated voice floated from the ceiling. “Patient… Kylo Solo. The doctor will see you now.”
Lance’s head snapped toward Keith, his expression a perfect blank of utter disbelief. Keith was frozen, staring straight ahead, his face a masterpiece of pure, unadulterated “oh no.”
“Kylo Solo?” Lance whispered, the words barely audible. He leaned in “Kylo. Solo. What—That’s the alias you picked? Keith. Are you… are you having a stroke?”
“It’s a strong name!” Keith hissed, already on his feet and hauling Lance up, propelling him toward the exam room door. “It’s a classic name, the name of what could’ve been!”
“It’s not classic, it’s a copyright violation from a galaxy far, far away! You better not change my emergency contact to ‘Darth Dad’!”
“It was three in the morning, you were crying over a holocommercial for sentient Star Wars plush toys, and I panicked!” Keith shot back, pushing the door open.
“I was hormonal! You were supposed to be the rational one!”
They bickered their way into the exam room, falling silent as the door swished shut.
Dr. Ryn was already there, seated behind a sleek, organic desk that looked like it had grown from the floor. She was an Olkari, her skin a deep, bark-like brown, her hair a cascade of glowing green filaments that today were pulled into a severe bun. She looked at them over the rim of a steaming mug, her large, luminous eyes holding an expression of profound, exhausted patience. The circles under them were pronounced.
“Good morning, Paladins,” she said, her voice as smooth as polished stone and just as unyielding.
“Morning, Doc!” Lance said, his voice too bright. “You look… uh… tired. Long night?”
She took a slow, deliberate sip from her mug, never breaking eye contact. “It was a perfectly adequate night, Paladin McClain, until I received an urgent communique regarding the… marital relations of two intergalactic war heroes.”
Lance’s forced laugh was a brittle thing. “Ha! Yeah, about that—”
Keith’s hand landed on the small of his back, a silent, firm command to shut up. “Doctor,” Keith said, nodding respectfully.
“Sit, please.”
The exam chair was wide and generously padded. Keith helped Lance settle into it, his hands careful and sure, adjusting the footrest before taking the smaller, adjacent chair meant for partners. He sat stiffly, elbows on his knees, looking like he was waiting for a mission briefing in a hostile zone.
Dr. Ryn set her mug down. “Now. You are here for a consultation. The nature of which, according to my notes, caused you to feel midnight was an appropriate time to call. Elaborate.”
Lance opened his mouth, then glanced at Keith.
Keith was giving him a look that promised dire consequences if he was vulgar. Lance cleared his throat. “Right. Well. We’re seeking… clarity. On… spousal intimacy. During this stage of gestation. From a… wellness perspective.”
Dr. Ryn stared. She blinked once, slowly. “You want to know if you can have sex.”
The bluntness of it, the clinical, unvarnished word dropped into the quiet, serene room, had the effect of a small detonation.
Lance felt his face flush instantly. Keith, beside him, went perfectly still, then shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a muscle in his jaw working overtime. They were both, momentarily, gobsmacked.
“I—well, when you put it like that—” Lance stammered.
“How else would one put it?” Dr. Ryn asked, her tone dry. “You are both adults. You are having a child. Hormones play a huge part for both parties.”
“See? I’m not just horny and dramatic.” Lance regretted as soon as he said it as he slowly turns and sees Keith just staring at him, blankly. But didn’t miss his ears turning pink.
Lance holds back a laugh.
“So. You,” Dr. Ryn pointed a finger at Keith. “You believe intercourse will harm the fetus or the carrier. And you,” she pointed at Lance. “You disagree and wish for a… ‘final verdict.’ Am I right?”
Lance recovered first, buoyed by her directness. “Yes! That’s it exactly! He thinks it’s dangerous. I think he’s being a paranoid, overprotective… wonderful husband. But still paranoid.”
Keith found his voice, rough. “It’s a reasonable concern. His center of gravity is off, he gets dizzy, he’s—”
“Medically, your pregnancy is textbook healthy, Paladin,” Dr. Ryn interrupted, turning to a holoscreen that flickered to life beside her. She swiped, bringing up Lance’s charts. “Fetal development is optimal. Your vitals are strong. There are no contraindications for sexual activity in a low-risk pregnancy such as this.”
Lance’s face split into a triumphant grin. He whipped his head toward Keith. “Ha! I told you! In your face, you doubting Thom—”
“But,” Dr. Ryn continued, and Lance’s celebration froze mid-taunt. Keith leaned forward, a flicker of ‘I told you so’ in his eyes.
The doctor looked between them.
“Your body is undergoing significant changes, Paladin McClain. Ligaments are looser. Your cardiovascular system is working harder. Discomfort is high. The recommendation is to proceed with care. Adjust positions for comfort and support. Listen to your body. Ease into it. It is safe, but it is not a competitive sport. Do not treat it as such.”
Lance deflated slightly, but the core victory remained. “So… it’s safe. You’re saying it’s safe.”
“I am saying the act itself presents no medical danger to you or the child, provided you use common sense, which,” she gave them both a look, “seems to be in variable supply.”
Keith stood up, his movement abrupt. “But there’s still risk. Discomfort, strain, if we’re not careful—”
“There is risk in you helping him out of the bath, Paladin Kogane,” Dr. Ryn said flatly. “There is risk in him walking down a flight of stairs. Life is risk. Your husband is not made of porcelain.”
“See?” Lance said, throwing his hands up. “I’m not being dramatic!”
“You are always dramatic,” Keith shot back, frustration bleeding into his voice. “But that’s not the point!”
“Then what is the point, Keith?” Lance’s own frustration surged, cutting through the triumph. He turned in the big chair to face him fully, his expression turning serious, hurt slicing through the banter.
“Why are you so… repulsed by the idea? Is it…” His voice dropped, vulnerable in a way that made Keith flinch. “Is it me? The… the belly? The way I look now? Do you just… not find me attractive anymore?”
Keith’s eyes widened, horrified. “What? No—Lance, that’s not it. That could never be it.” He ran a frantic hand through his hair, the words tumbling out as if to stop the terrible thought in its tracks. “You’re… you’re so beautiful it’s stupid. It’s distracting. That’s the problem!”
“Then what?” Lance pressed, his voice tight. “If it’s safe, and you still want to… what’s the hold-up? Why do you look at me like I’m asking you to disarm a bomb with your teeth?”
The room went quiet. Keith looked at the floor, his shoulders tense. Dr. Ryn wisely took another sip of her drink, observing.
“I’m… I’m used to hurting people,” Keith finally said, the words quiet, ripped from somewhere deep and raw. He wasn’t looking at either of them. “Or… failing to stop them from being hurt. My hands… they’re for fighting. For blades. I’ve spent so long learning how to be a weapon.”
He took a shaky breath. “I hurt you. By not being there. You had to find out about Sora alone. Back then, I left. For the Blade. And before that… I lost Shiro. More than once. I almost lost you, when I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t present enough.”
He finally looked up at Lance, his eyes blazing with a painful honesty. “Everyone… every parental figure, every constant in my life… they left, or they died, or I pushed them away. I don’t… I don’t know how to be the thing that stays without also being the thing that breaks. I promised you. On the floor of our apartment, I promised I wouldn’t hurt you again. Not like that. And this… this feels like the ultimate test. This fragile, amazing thing inside you… what if I mess it up? What if I’m not gentle enough? What if me being close hurts her or him?”
The silence after his words was thick. Lance’s anger, his frustration, his smugness—all of it evaporated. He saw it then, the true shape of Keith’s fear. It wasn’t about medical safety. It was about a lifetime of loss, crystallized into a terror of harming the most precious thing he’d ever been given.
“Oh, Keith,” Lance whispered, his voice thick.
He struggled out of the big chair, ignoring Keith’s automatic move to help. He stepped into his space, cupping Keith’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You idiot. You beautiful, stupid idiot. You don’t hurt me. You staying is you not breaking. You’re here. You’ve been here for months. You make me pancakes. You carry me to bed.” He pressed their foreheads together. “You’re not your past. You’re not your hands. You’re my husband. And Sora’s dad. And you’re so, so good at both of those things.”
“You still convinced it’s gonna be a girl?” Keith asked, his voice roughened by an emotion he couldn’t name. He tried to shape it into a chuckle, but it came out as more of a whispered breath, his nose sniffling once, softly, in the dimness.
Lance didn’t even look at him, his smile widening into something knowing and sublime.
“Oh, I know it’s gonna be a girl,” he said, his voice a low, confident melody. “That would defeat the purpose of my entire personality. I’ve always wanted to be a girl dad.” He said it like it was a sacred truth, a fundamental law of his universe, as immutable as gravity.
Keith just stared.
He stared, and he was awestruck. He was always a little awestruck by Lance, but now, in this liminal space of waiting and becoming, it was a physical force in his chest.
The freckles seemed to dance with his quiet joy, constellations mapping a happiness so pure it felt like looking directly at a sun. The way his lashes fanned against his skin, the gentle slope of his shoulder where Keith’s old shirt had slipped down, the fierce, tender protectiveness in the way his palm cradled their child—he was a study in softness and strength, in chaos and perfect peace.
He was everything.
He was perfect.
And the sheer, staggering weight of that perfection pressed down on Keith, not with malice, but with a profound, whispering terror. It was the inverse of awe. Because if Lance was this—this miraculous, life-giving light—then what was he?
Keith felt the old, familiar fissures inside him, the fault lines carved by years of being pulled apart. Authority figures who saw a problem instead of a boy. Bullies who smelled loneliness like blood in the water. The vast, uncaring silence of the desert, and later, the cold, sterile void of space. A life that had felt less like a journey and more like a series of fractures, each one teaching him how to break cleanly, how to expect the shatter. He had lost hope in most things because hope was a luxury for people who weren’t built from scar tissue.
Then came Lance.
Lance, who didn’t try to put the pieces back the way they were, but who showed him how the cracks could let in light. Lance, with his relentless, noisy love, had started the slow, painful work of rebuilding something in the rubble. What stood now, where a bitter and lonely boy might have been, was a man. A man who could wake up and feel the sun and think, I am happy. The gratitude for that was a prayer Keith sent up to every cold, distant star every single day—thank you, thank you, thank you for sending me this angel, this miracle, this man.
He wanted to be with Lance forever. He wanted to walk every path beside him, match him step for step through all the mundane and magnificent days to come. He wanted to keep up.
And that desire, that desperate, loving need, crystallized into a single, burning question.
It was a ghost that haunted the edges of every smile they shared, a chill that seeped into the warmth of their bed at night, a shadow that trailed him from dawn until deep into the lonely watches of the night. It lived in the hollow of his throat, behind his sternum, in the quiet spaces between his heartbeats.
The words clawed their way up, raw and terrified, breaking the sacred quiet.
“You think…” Keith started, his voice barely a fracture of sound. He swallowed, the question tasting like dust and hope. “You think I would be a good dad?”
It hung there, not in the room, but in the universe between them—a tiny, vulnerable thing, holding the sum of all his broken past and his desperately hopeful future. It was the question of a man who had only recently learned what it meant to be loved, now asking if he was capable of becoming the source of it.
Lance saw the depth of it—not a question of skill, but of worth.
He reached out, cradling Keith’s face. His thumbs brushed away the first treacherous tear.
“Keith,” he said, his voice a low, solid promise in the quiet. “Look at me.”
Violet eyes, glassy with unshed tears, met his. When their eyes met, Lance didn’t offer platitudes. He offered the simplest, hardest truth he knew.
“You’re going to be the dad you needed.”
The words landed like a gentle strike, disarming and profound. Keith’s breath hitched, a dam cracking.
“You already are.”
That was all it took. He felt Keith shudder, a sob breaking loose from his chest. Lance pulled him into a tight hug, Keith’s face buried against his neck, his arms coming around Lance’s waist—still instinctively careful, even now.
“I’m sorry,” Lance murmured into his hair. “I’m sorry I was such a pushy asshole. I didn’t know… I didn’t know it was all that.” Lance held him, the weight of the future settling not as a burden, but as a foundation. The answer hadn’t just been given. It had been received.
Keith shook his head against his shoulder. “S’okay. You couldn’t have known. I’m… not great at talking.”
“Understatement,” Dr. Ryn commented mildly from her desk.
They both jumped, having almost forgotten she was there. She regarded them, and for the first time, her expression held a hint of something softer than exasperation. “Paladin Kogane. Your concern, while emotionally fraught, is not medically founded. Your touch is not a curse. It is, based on all scans and reports, a source of significant comfort and stability for your husband and, by extension, your child. Stress is a detriment. Connection is a benefit. You are allowed to have both. You are, in fact, encouraged to.”
Keith slowly pulled back, wiping hastily at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He nodded, a slow, shaky thing. “Okay. Okay, I… I hear you.”
He looked at Lance, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. A ghost of his usual smirk touched his lips. “So. Doctor’s orders, huh?”
Lance felt a matching, wicked smirk bloom on his own face. The warmth, the love, the relief was still there, but now it was fused with a rekindled, triumphant heat. “Doctor’s orders,” he confirmed, his voice dropping low.
Dr. Ryn watched the shift in their body language, the way they leaned toward each other.
She let out a long-suffering sigh that was mostly for show. “Wonderful. The sentiment is touching. The tension is palpable. Now, please, take this… renewed understanding and apply it in the privacy of your own space. My office is a place of clinical practice, not… whatever this is about to become.”
Lance laughed, a real one this time, and Keith huffed a quiet chuckle, his arm sliding back around Lance’s waist, his touch still careful, but now with a new, promising certainty to it.
“Thanks, Doc,” Lance said, grinning.
“Yes. Thank you,” Keith added, sincere.
“You are welcome. Now get out. And do not call me tonight. Under any circumstances.”
***
The drive back to Marmora’s Landing was a silent, charged thing. The sleek black hovercar glided soundlessly through the vertical cityscape, but inside, the atmosphere was thick. Keith’s hand rested on the center console, and after a few blocks, Lance reached over, lacing their fingers together. Keith’s grip was immediate, tight, almost crushing. He didn’t look over, his profile sharp against the passing neon, but his thumb began a slow, relentless stroke across Lance’s knuckles.
The private elevator to their penthouse felt like a world unto itself. As the doors closed, sealing them in the mirrored box, Keith finally turned. He didn’t say a word. He simply pushed Lance gently back against the wall, his hands coming up to frame Lance’s face, and kissed him. It was deep and desperate, a silent articulation of everything that had been said and unsaid in Ryn’s office. Lance sighed into it, his hands fisting in the soft fabric of Keith’s hoodie, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them, just the firm, warm pressure and the new, soft curve of Lance’s stomach pressed between them.
The elevator chimed. They broke apart, breathing ragged. Keith’s eyes were dark with want, his lips kiss-swollen. He kept a firm arm around Lance as they stepped into the serene gloom of their entryway.
The door clicked shut. The automated systems hummed to life, but neither of them moved.
Keith’s gaze was a physical weight. It traveled over Lance—the stubborn set of his mouth, down to where his jeans were straining across the fuller line of his hips, the shirt stretched taut over the subtle but undeniable swell of his belly.
“Okay,” Keith said, his voice a low rasp. “Rules.”
“Rules?” Lance arched an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” Keith stepped closer, crowding him back against the door. He didn’t touch him yet. “You feel any pain, any twinge, any hint of wrong, you say it. Immediately. You don’t tough it out.”
Lance’s defiance softened. He nodded. “Okay.”
“And we go slow.”
“I can do slow,” Lance whispered, reaching up to trace the line of Keith’s jaw. His blue eyes held Keith’s, a challenge and a plea mixed together. “Can you?”
Keith’s jaw tightened, not with frustration, but with determination and want. He leaned in, his forehead touching Lance’s. “I’ll learn,” he breathed, the words a vow against Lance’s lips.
Lance’s eyes fluttered.
That was all the permission Keith seemed to need. He moved then, not with Blade-quick efficiency, but with a deliberate, aching slowness that was its own answer. He leaned in and captured Lance’s mouth again, his kiss softer now, exploratory. His hands came up to push the leather jacket off Lance’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. Then his fingers found the hem of Lance’s shirt, sliding underneath to spread over the warm skin of his back.
Lance gasped into the kiss, his own hands pulling at Keith’s hoodie. They broke apart just long enough to tug the fabric over Keith’s head. The sight of him—all big and muscular, sharp abdomens and intense focus—made Lance’s breath catch.
Keith’s attention dropped.
His hands, calloused and warm, slid from Lance’s back around to his hips. He didn’t just hold them; his fingers pressed in, a firm, searching pressure against the new, heavier curve. A soft, involuntary groan escaped Lance. It wasn’t a sound of passion, but of pure relief. The constant, low-grade ache in his lower back and hips eased under the kneading pressure.
“I noticed, you know,” Keith murmured, his voice rough against the skin of Lance’s throat. His thumbs circled the pronounced dip of Lance’s waist, now leading into a hip that was undeniably fuller, rounder. “Weeks ago. When you started… filling out here. When your center of gravity shifted and you’d lean into doorframes like you were relearning how to stand.”
Lance blinked, surprised. “You didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t know how.” Keith’s lips brushed the frantic pulse in Lance’s neck. “Didn’t want to make it weird. But I saw it. Every change.” He said it like a confession, like he’d been cataloging a miracle in secret. “You’re perfect.”
He then dropped to his knees. Lance’s heart hammered, but Keith just went to work on the laces of Lance’s boots, carefully untying them. He eased off the first boot, his hand cradling Lance’s swollen foot, his thumb pressing gently into the arch.
“Oh, fuck,” Lance hissed, the relief so sharp it was almost painful. His eyes fluttered shut.
“That bad?” Keith’s voice was thick.
“Just… full of gravity? And my own poor life choices.” Lance tried for a joke, but it came out as a sigh.
Keith didn’t laugh. He massaged the foot with a focused, clinical tenderness before setting the boot aside and repeating the process with the other. It was so mundane, so utterly practical, and it shattered Lance’s last remaining wall. This was what love looked like now: his fearsome Blade husband on his knees, tending to his swollen feet in a dim entryway.
Once Lance was barefoot, Keith stood. He looped his arms under Lance’s, his hands locking at the small of his back. “Hold on.”
Lance wrapped his arms around Keith’s neck. In one smooth motion, Keith lifted him straight up, chest to chest, Lance’s legs wrapping around his waist. The support was immediate, lifting the weight from his sore feet and throbbing lower back. He buried his face in Keith’s neck with a shuddering breath. “Don’t let go.”
“Never,” Keith gritted out, the word fierce.
Keith carried him like that, straight down the hall to their bedroom. He shouldered the door open and crossed to their large bed, lowering Lance onto the edge with infinite care, as if setting down something priceless.
Keith didn’t join him immediately. He just stood there, looking down, his eyes tracing the lines of Lance’s body in the half-light—the shirt rucked up, the unbuttoned jeans sitting low on hips that had become a soft, wide slope. Lance felt seen, utterly and completely.
“You’re staring,” Lance said, his voice quiet.
“Yeah,” Keith admitted, no shame in it. He reached out, his fingertips ghosting over the rounded curve of Lance’s hip. “I’m trying to memorize it. All of it. The way you are right now.”
“Is it weird?” Lance asked, the old insecurity flickering.
Keith finally met his eyes. “It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.” He said it like a fact. He knelt on the floor between Lance’s knees, his hands settling on Lance’s thighs. “All of it. This…” He slid his palms up, over the new fullness of Lance’s hips, his thumbs brushing the lower curve of his stomach. “It’s where she is. It’s how she’s making room. It’s proof we made something real.”
Lance’s throat tightened. He reached down, tangling his fingers in Keith’s hair. “Come here.”
Keith surged up, kissing him again, deeper, pouring all that wordless awe into it. He guided Lance back onto the mattress, following him down, bracing his weight on his forearms. The kiss broke, and Keith just looked at him, his breath fanning over Lance’s face.
“Tell me what you need,” Keith whispered. “Exactly.”
Lance, for once, didn’t have a sarcastic quip. “Your hands. On the ache. And then… you. However you fit.”
Keith nodded. He started there, his strong hands working over the sore muscles of Lance’s lower back and hips with a pressure that was both firm and reverent. He paid attention to every hitch in Lance’s breath. He kissed the taut skin of Lance’s stomach. He mapped the new, softer landscape with his mouth and hands until Lance was pliant and sighing beneath him, the pain melted into a low, buzzing warmth.
Only then did Keith move closer. It was a careful puzzle of limbs and angles, of pillows wedged and positions adjusted. There were whispered questions—“This?” “Here?”—and breathless, honest answers. It was clumsy and perfect, a slow, patient relearning.
Keith was true to his word. He learned. He learned the new ways Lance’s body could bend, the places that needed support, the rhythm that was sustainable. It wasn’t the frantic coupling of their past. It was something deeper, more profound—a conversation in touch, a re-establishment of connection on entirely new terms. Lance clung to him, not in passion, but in grounding, each point of contact a quiet affirmation: You are here. I am here. This is safe.
When it was over, it wasn’t with a crash, but with a slow, gentle stilling. Keith collapsed beside him, both of them breathing heavily into the quiet. Keith immediately turned, gathering Lance against him, arranging them so Lance was on his side, tucked back into the curve of Keith’s body. One of Keith’s arms was a heavy, secure band across Lance’s chest, the other hand resting possessively on the gentle slope of his stomach.
For a long time, they just breathed. The only sound was the faint hum of the city far below and the slowing syncopation of their hearts.
Lance finally broke the silence, his voice a rough, sleepy murmur. “You learned fast.”
Behind him, Keith huffed a soft, warm breath against the nape of his neck. His arm tightened, just a fraction. “Had a good teacher.”
Lance smiled in the dark. He covered Keith’s hand on his stomach with his own, lacing their fingers together over the place where their daughter slept. “So… no more Blade-monk abstinence?”
He felt the rumble of Keith’s quiet laugh against his back. “Doctor’s orders.” Keith pressed his lips to Lance’s shoulder blade, a kiss that was both an apology and a promise. “And… it was good. To feel you. All of you. Not just… around it.”
Lance understood. Not tiptoeing. Not avoiding. Just being together, in the whole, complicated reality of it.
“Yeah,” Lance whispered. “It was.”
The warmth of Keith surrounding him, the solid weight of his arm, the absolute safety of it—it seeped into Lance’s bones, heavier and more satisfying than any blanket. The constant, subtle ache that had been his companion for weeks was gone, not just masked, but truly soothed away by the careful, learning hands of the man he loved.
“Keith?” Lance mumbled, already half-gone to sleep.
“Hmm?”
“You’re a quick study.”
Another soft kiss, this time to the knob of his spine. “Go to sleep, sharpshooter.”
And Lance did, drifting off not to dreams, but to the profound, waking certainty of being held—body, heart, and future—in the steady, capable hands that had finally learned they were made for more than breaking.
They were made for this.
The silence that settled over them then was unlike any that had come before. It was not the tense quiet of withheld words, nor the anxious hush of fear. This was a deep, resonant stillness, full and complete, like the calm at the center of a storm that has finally passed. The distant, glittering grid of the city through their window was no longer a view, but a witness to the quiet revolution that had taken place within these walls.
Keith’s breathing evened out into sleep first, his exhales warm and steady against the back of Lance’s neck. His hand never left its place on Lance’s stomach, a grounding weight. Lance lay awake a little longer, feeling the unfamiliar yet perfect peace in his own body—the absence of ache, the pleasant heaviness in his limbs, the solid, warm presence at his back that felt less like a guard and more like a harbor.
He thought of the ghost of a question—You think I would be a good dad?—and felt its echo dissolve completely, not answered with words, but settled by the gentle, certain pressure of Keith’s palm over their child. The fear had been a wall, and they had, brick by tender brick, taken it down together. What stood in its place was not something fragile, but something fortified by honesty and choice.
Lance’s last conscious thought was not a thought at all, but a feeling—a profound sense of arrival. They were here. After the distance, the secrets, the longing, the reconciliation, after the worst-kept secret and the sky that waited, they had finally, fully, come home. Not to a place, but to each other, in this new and ever-changing shape of their love.
He closed his eyes. In the dark, Keith’s arm tightened around him, a silent, steadfast vow in the language they were only just beginning to speak fluently. The night held them, and for the first time in a long time, it asked nothing more of them than to rest as the sky waits.