IS THE WORLD SEEING THIS

lance from this witchtrials au

brogitsune and *da bum tss* part 2 - christmassy (hyst) minewt in matching oversized sweaters ! <3

Theo, across recent timescapes. Theo x life: a series of impressions.

Theo is an invasive agent in Hayden's sensory collection. She's trying to not pay him any mind.

She also tried to erase his self-importance by pretending he didn't exist when she knew he watched with his bridge-burn eyes as she and Liam kissed. Found success in his uncharacteristic silence in a moment that was ruinable.

They are standing in dappled shadows on the forest ground, waiting for Liam, who ran ahead to make a call out of Theo's earshot. Theo is sitting by a tree with his knees up and loosely spread, with his hands in between them. His hands, chained: it's simplest hazard control. Effective, though. Hayden feels spiteful as she's walking left to right, throwing a palm-sized rock from hand to hand. Theo looks bored, irked.

''Where are you going to, little Red Riding Hood?'' Theo addresses her, smooth to self-entertain, making her stop mid-throw, causing the rock to hit her palm and fall on the ground. She picks it up and mimes throwing it at him. Success unfound, in how he doesn't flinch. Success unfound, in how he's making this into a story about a little girl and a sneaky wolf.

She considers him. If answering at all would cater to his amusement, or lesser his situational unpleasantries, which she's trying to avoid. But Theo is in the midway of doing nothing and determined to draw attention to himself, the way he has been.

''We're out of flowers, I'm afraid. Would you like some redwood wood, instead?'' Theo offers in a made-pleasant public service voice. Hayden notices that he's siding with the forest, here, scuttling into its floors where he has found purchase through extended stay.

''You know all the tree species?'' Hayden asks. Takes a bite and wills it into a treat for herself, rather than bait. Theo probably meant the tall and non-wiggly tree he's sitting against; Hayden wonders if he ever studied forestry, or if this is werewolfery knowledge.

''I know better things, too. If you come closer, I'll whisper them to you.'' He grins. Lifts his chained wrists as he adds, ''No pressure, though.''

Hayden considers him. Again and again. This is, she guesses, learnt prudency; a refined taste for justice, maybe. Guesses resurrection does that to you.

''Warning, beware of dog,'' she says.

Theo looks at her, eyes hooding and mouth neutralising. He shrugs, looks sideways. Attention, lost. Trade, declined. Secretful threat traded for blankness, if anything. Hayden, it seems, does not entertain in Theo-ways.

—

Theo Raeken, it turns out, has a finitude to his spread of catastrophe. Sheriff Stilinski watches cross-armed as running-mouth-boy exposes the culprits of murder; aggravates them like it's his best expertise until they say things they tried not to say and so saves his own slate from police-worthy additions.

Stilinski watches as Theo, for some inexplicable reason, lingers in the police department. Theo is sitting on one of the reception benches, eating a bag of mixed nuts from the vending machine. One would think it's ill-advised, that as soon as Parrish released him, Theo asked Parrish to buy him some goods from the vending machine, said he was detained unfairly. Deprived of food for this short but uneasy time. Didn't have his belongings on him. But it mustn't be nonsensical; it must be some behavioural tactic of making himself appear unconcerned. As having clear consciousness, innocence, all of those.

Stilinski resumes watching through the screen as Theo's chewing slows down when an officer with a police dog walks to the machine. He watches Theo's frowned, suffering, doubtful expression, staring into the dog's eyes like he can't take the dog seriously. The officer stops fishing change out of his wallet with a metal scoop in his cupped hand to shoot Theo a questioning look.

''Everything alright, son?'' the officer jingles the change in his hand, looking Theo over.

Theo's gaze doesn't even change when he looks up. Doesn't turn into a stranglehold of a gaze, either. ''Does your dog bite?''

The officer considers Theo, the sagged, unruffled spectre of him.

''No need to worry,'' he assures. Starts inserting the coins. He then turns to Theo in an afterthought. ''Is someone picking you up? You need anything?''

''Oh,'' Theo breathes, ''for real? Would you? Just something to eat? I've been stuck here waiting.''

Stilinski watches as Theo picks up a protein bar from the machine drawer. Flavoured water, a second later. Probably, apathy comes easily to him. He must not think in any understandable way; rather, he must think unfeelingly. Kid's got— not a care in the world.

—

Liam is holding a bouquet and inspecting its flowery contents. Frowning at the petals he's scraping at, glowering at the buds he's poking.

In the aftermath of the ceremony ran on the anniversary of Liam's school in the decorated sports hall, his mother is standing by the chairs in unison with another boy watching her son.

She knows him from a photo Liam showed her, a boy new in the school, softly named: Theo. It was evident that Liam took the photo discreetly, which she commented on and which Liam denied. She notes the distance at which Theo keeping and approaches him.

''Don't worry, he's not keeping secrets from his friends,'' she says. ''He doesn't have a girlfriend, at least not that I know of. I was the one who gave him the flowers.''

''Oh?'' Theo says. ''I see.''

He puts his hands in his pockets. He's probably shy. This happens sometimes, with high-school boys, they can become clumsy with themselves. She feels motherly talking to them in moments like this; motherly and pleasant in her efforts to engage adolescents when they are dithering.

''I think he's reconciling masculinity with flowers,'' she comments.

He smiles. Smirks, more like it. They must be close.

''Good colour choice,'' he comments on the orange of the flowers.

She nudges his arm. ''Go talk to him when they're done taking photos.''

Theo shakes his head, shrugs once. ''Nah. I will be leaving soon, anyway,'' he says, and she drops her hand from his arm. He's probably a little shy.

—

Mediterranean sunrise comes with a surprise: a man awakening on the ground a few steps from the barely-formed footpath. A man, or maybe younger, his Mediterranean awakening accompanied by the smell of fig trees, and all. Kind red soil.

He's naked. He's slowly wiping a hand across his lips. You know, suddenly, that this is a complication. The circumstance makes his body looks like an involuntarily stripped body. Perspective changes: red soil is now needled soil. Acrid tones sour the sunrise.

''Hey,'' you call, stepping closer in your sandals and a coral-printed towel around your neck, feeling unsuitable for the demands of the situation. ''Hey. Are you okay? Should I call the police?''

He's pushing himself up. Not looking at you. Not mindful of the resin at his back. This is indicative, you think, of something, because you're mindful of the way road dust is making your hair dry and webby, while his attention is this narrow, or overall absent.

He looks up, then, at you. ''What?''

A surprise gifted by a foreign agency; not Italian, then. You switch to English and try to make it not clumsy.

''I'll call the police for you,'' you assure him. Scramble to find your phone in your tote bag.

''D'n't call th'police,'' he says. He isn't trying to cover where his body is exposed.

''I don't want to assume anything,'' you say, feeling odd and performative. ''But— Look. I can just call the emergency number and they can direct you to a centre for sexual assault.''

Body, bodily manuscripted into the soft soil. He looks like he's processing slowly. Gets distracted inspecting his hands. Is that blood, you wonder, realise, really, it all just getting worse and fraughter. In between his fingers.

''Don't call th'police,'' he says. ''Was jus' drunk.''

''Is that blood? On your fingers.''

''I jus'. D'n't call. Did s'me things I shouldn't have.'' He reads your face, then says, ''Not like that. T'myself.''

Heat is lowering to the grounds of the morning and your sandals are light on your feet, escape-hairs pleasant, pine trees your favourite. And the hostility-seen boy is trying to act alright.

''It's okay,'' you say, wondering if it is; something complicated about the okayness of not-okay. You squat down, to balance the eye heights. ''I can call the hotline for—''

''No, n't—. Just stupid, no police. Please.''

''Do you want some water,'' you say, taking it out of your bag, and he takes it. Uncaps and smells it, blinking with his nose above the bottle opening, before he shakes his head a little, and starts drinking. Your phone is still in your hand, but you're unsure. You give him your second non-swimly shorts and wait until he overcomes his hesitance and gingerly takes them.

''You don't have to tell me,'' you insist. ''But I'm sure that there's someone who—''

''Thanks. It's okay, you can go now.'' He starts moving to get the shorts on, then swiftly straightens his back, inhaling deeply and looking up. Must be avoiding some hidden ache.

You hesitate, phone in your hand, legs starting to feel stiff from the position.

''I could drive you someplace. My car is ten min—''

''Thanks, but I'm okay now. You can't help,'' he interrupts. There are cases like this one, right, people using caustic means for secret-maintaining ends.

''Are you sure?'' you press. ''I could go away while you're talking to—''

''You're not helping,'' he says, monotone now, now operative and controlled to be alkaline. He's looking at your eyes fixedly, and you stop hesitating. ''You should go.''

Ground gives. You shake your head and start walking away, leaving him with your shorts and thinking then good fucking luck, honey.

You turn back one more time. He's looking at you leaving with unfocused glossy eyes, and you wonder, surely not for the last time, how deeply and stickily swamp-lodged he must be.

—

A hot guy is walking in the chest-high sea and doing little dives. Grazing the water surface with his fingertips in between and wiping salt from his eyes, before diving again and re-salting his eyes, like some deliberately mindless-seeming cyclical mechanism. Salt for maintenance, salt a nuisance.

Now he bends his knees and only submerges up to his chin, and you imagine he's sensing freshness at his nape.

''You just have to relax,'' you say loudly from where you come to stand in the water to your ankles, ''and you can probably hold your breath for longer than that.''

He stands up and turns until he spots you. You walk closer until the water is at your waist and he's looking at you like someone unexpectedly interrupted. Unexpectedly perceived, unfortunately. A popular kid being addressed by an unpopular one.

''You wanna teach me how to swim?'' he asks and smirks a little, and you shrug.

''If you feel like you can't stay underwater for more than five seconds, it's probably because you're panicking. You can hold your breath comfortably for at least fifteen seconds, I dare say.''

He looks at the glistening in the water, looking weary.

''Can I,'' he says, more of a response made to be unrevealing than a question.

''One thing I'll say,'' you say, untying your hair to avoid breaking it when it will be wet and to be casual, maybe; mitigate the upfrontness and possible insinuation, ''is that your body looks mad functional. Don't take this in any funky way.''

''I won't,'' he says.

—

Theo is in no space. Some telephone line space.

Should I be taking this personally, Liam texts him. He knows that Theo has been straightforwardly ignoring his messages. He hopes, actually; hopes Theo hasn't run into any of his long-known non-friends who see his face as a face, fanged, and not eyes, often confused, tongue, often tied, responses, often belated. Hopes that Theo isn't not answering because of some surviving anachronism from his past, but rather because of something new. That would be more manageable.

He also hopes that Theo isn't not answering because he is succumbing to his self-damaging instincts, even though that would mean simmering resentment towards Liam; even though that would likely be the best possible option in the precarious array of options in Theo's life.

Liam texts, did you know that if space was infinitely big and infinitely old, it would be white? I don't really get why, do you?

—

You have a boy couched in your living room. His name is Theo. Picked him up on a staff-only fire escape. It would be a leisurely sight, now, a tracksuit-hoodie-boy sitting right next to a drying rack, which he said he didn't mind. If it wasn't for your rapid heart. Heart: heated, speaking in unit-free measures. Heat: a smooth, unfibrous thing.

''May I,'' he murmurs, and you lean in.

It's a classic student situation: a breathless undertaking to the backtune of wine in tea mugs. He selected a Sierra Nevada mug with a setting sun. Came with the flat.

''Add me on Facebook,'' you say. The two of you haven't even done much, but you feel so hooked, by the fire-escape boy who moves in a way so self-assured and touches indoor objects warily. ''Or Instagram. Wherever you want.''

''I don't use social media,'' he says. He uses his hold on your hand and your finger to push his hair out of his eye. You like the way it parts and hits his temples.

''Phone number?'' You suggest, more joking than not. Exchanging phone numbers feel more joke-like than not.

''No phone number,'' he says. Must see your expression, shrugs and says, ''Guess I'm too old for technology.'' He smirks at the dry look you shoot at him, knowing your age of twenty-three to his twenty-two. He's saying too old and you don't buy it. He carries no weariness in his jaguar body. He takes his lower lip in his mouth. ''What if,'' he then says, ''I'm a vampire.'' He touches the tip of his tongue to his upper teeth.

''My favourite paranormal activity,'' you say.

''Too bad,'' he says, grinning. You look at his ajar lips and think: too bad.

''Your canines are sharp, though,'' you say. ''At least.''

He grins wide. Pointedly and slowly leans towards your neck with an open mouth, until teeth make contact. You feel your smile dropping when his phone beeps. He hesitates for a beat and then leans his forehead on your chin, just breathing there, and you know you are both thinking about him saying no phone number.

''But none for me,'' you say. Because of all the places your bodies have been touching, a beat of silence means: five heartbeats of him staring at his phone, engulfed in the jacket he discarded on the floor by the couch, and you staring at him. And then he leans over, easily shifting your weight, until he can kick the jacket, some, not really achieving anything.

''Another vampire,'' he says, then, on the side of unapologetic. Luckily, you are known to be unresentful. Good at not taking things personally. ''From another brood.'' He places his hands back on your hips.

''Hm,'' you say.  It's fine. The monomania of the green-eye boy is temporary. He's hot, but your desire never lasts, anyway.

—

There's a guy on your bus ride, on the opposite side of the passage, one seat forward. Your age. You noticed the generic niceness of his face.

He's drawing a sinusoidal curve on the fogged window. Moves his hand further right, where the window is still fogged. Starts drawing vertical lines, carefully, some methodology to it, the lines parallel to each other. He pauses after he draws four. Huffs, twists his smile into one that is hiding and downturned. He crosses the four lines with one that is horizontal, then adds another vertical line to the side.

You feel yourself smile. He drops his hand, shakes his head a little. Looks through the window at the frost-covered barren brown fields, away from his prisoner day-count. It's funny. He's funny. You look away.

—

It's a short, crude thing. Like this:

A fictitious boy stumbles out of a bare-walled building. Languid, unrestful body. Unleisurely, water-logged body. A tired backstreet play-doh thing. Young.

''Hey,'' you call. ''You. You good?''

The night is warm, humid. A post-rain road construction night. A night for cicadas, if you drive further out.

He inhales in the way of catching breath. Squints at his watch, eyes go glassy. Looks at the moon overhead, then squints at you. And you— you feel awake now.

You look him over, the sugarburn boy with a backwards baseball cap. The trouble of a tooth cavity, which means: okay, if you have some money. Some reckless uncare, too. He's watching you. You inhale slowly, but it turns out all tell-tale anyway. He must see the appeal you feel, in how he licks his lips and tilts his head.

''Interested?'' he asks.

You hesitate. Feel for your jacket pocket with your wallet in it. Lift it without taking it out, clear enough.

He nods. Clears his throat.

''Can you play nice?'' he asks. Teasing, but also not.

You can.

He nods. Looks at his watch. You follow him.

—

You pick up your pretend-sugar fake-care service by a closed ice-cream stand, its inviting light sign shining red on his face. It's raining lightly when you pull up and he doesn't have his hood up like he knows the wet hair strands sticking to his forehead make him look good. In the car, he has no song requests when you ask.

''How can I service you?'' he asks.

—

''What should I call you,'' you ask.

''No need to call me,'' he says.

''What if I want to,'' you admit. Not subtle and elusive. If I may be so bold as to in the back of your mouth.

He pauses, thinks. His gaze is saccading empty spot to empty spot and you know the only type of name you'll get is a fake. You'll take it, as a consolation purchase.

''Theo,'' he says.

—

Alec answers the knock with a toothbrush in his hand.

''Theo. Jesus,'' he breathes.

''Hello,'' Theo responds, overly carefully-crafted for the simplicity of a greeting, but Theo has never carried himself as though he was simple. ''I brought you those,'' he hands Alec paper sheets folded in half. ''I got my hands on some werewolves. Could you give those to Scott?''

It's more automatic than not, when Alec takes and unfolds them. They are black-and-white prints of photographs of ID's.

''You did?'' Alec says, still dumbfounded, still in the act of being interrupted. Habit-mindedness sliced in half. ''How?''

Theo shrugs. His face furrows for a beat, then he fiddles with the door handle, pushing it down twice.

Alec looks at the goods in his hands: a toothbrush, werewolfy profiles. ''Do you want me to tell him that they're from you?''

Theo looks conflicted. That's fair; it's a conflicting state of circumstances, or what is it that Liam told Alec. Maybe Theo turned to Alec because of the implied similarity: both well-accustomed to doing what it takes. Maybe Theo is finding some comfort in that; like Alec would recognise that Theo is a runaway object, or a throwaway one, only having made himself a weapon because he had been made into one first. Like Alec would recognise that Theo is trying to pay his dues. Or maybe Alec is misjudging and Theo isn't seeking comfort at all, which is what Malia thinks. Guess Alec is a little soft for softer scenarios.

''Jesus,'' Alec says again. ''You were gone so long. You didn't say anything. Have you—'' He hesitates, frowns a little. ''Does—Ah, well, you know. Does Liam know?'' He was going for tentative with this one before he swerved. Tending to the habits of skittish wolves.

Theo is looking past Alec's shoulder, distanced and glassy. Alec thinks of dolls, their eyes amiss in that they are unseeing and custom-built. It's a thought too cruel, unless it's sympathetic.

Theo shakes his head, slowly, and exhales, touches his temples with his index fingers, then drops them lower and presses them over his jaw muscles.

''TMJ pain?'' Alec asks.

Theo drops his hands. ''What?''

''Oh. The jaw joint,'' Alec points to his own.

Theo shrugs. ''It's just tender. This muscle,'' he taps.

''Have you been stressed? TMJ problems are common for young people. Can happen because of stress. Stress can cause teeth grinding.'' A clumsy explanation, but Alec can't re-order its parts now, just hopes Theo takes it. Hopes Theo makes his skin onion peel and shows something less dry underneath. And Theo:

Theo looks at him expressionlessly, for a beat, and then exaggeratedly sad-faces. Pouts, closes his eyes, nods slowly. ''I've been stressed,'' he says.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32225941

Yeah. We call for you, trailer!

Pidge is fourteen. She and Keith are pressed against the Garrison wall, both a little breathless despite not having moved for half an hour. The memoir is taking place on the other side of the wall, outside, beautiful day. They can hear everything. This is the first time she's alone with Keith. It's funny how a sentiment brings you closer instantly; a tragedy to call this all-consuming loss a sentiment.

''I could sneak you in, at the end,'' Keith offers, seventeen and blood simmering.

''No. I don't want to see his face,'' she says and immediately feels horrible.

She draws a forever sign in the dry soil and it intensifies her pure agony like she thought it would. She stretches her long socks further past her ankles, hair still long and tied into low buns. She doesn't feel like herself. Her brother was a half of her self-definition.

''It is now appropriate to pause for a moment to reflect on the huge impact the crew will continue to have on humanity’s aspirations. We extend our deepest sympathy to everyone inspired by their spirit.''

Dust is rising from where Keith is thumping his fists on the ground with a devastating frequency. His eyes are clenched.

''Hey,'' she says, lowly. Collecting ignition to continue, firestarter petroleum oozy. But Keith says, ''Yeah.''

He splays his hands on the ground. Looks up, continues looking up. It's too bright for that to be comfortable. She fixates on the bruises on his knuckles and the blood around his fingernail.

''You have blood on your fingernail,'' she says. Keith brings his hands up, stoic and turmoiling at the same time. ''Right thumb,'' she says.

They have come up with a post-mortem communication code, okay? Matt said if one of them died and became a ghost, they would knock three glasses over. It's so so horrible. Keith lays a hand atop of her head.

''Perhaps this is the nature of heroism. Striving to achieve something that is beyond our ability. Even being the best doesn’t protect you from errors. Perhaps that in itself honours space and space exploration.''

Keith clenches his fists again. He had said Shiro would never. He’s too good for errors.

''I guess,'' she swallows, ''I guess we are the only ones who—'' The only ones with this erroneous feeling. This fucking mistaken grief. ''Who believe in them more than that,'' she finishes.

''Well, that's awkward,'' Keith jokes. They smile at each other, vaporous.

''We will now play a special song – the last song recommendation Matthew Holt sent to our station on Earth. Panic Vertigo by The Wrecks.''

Oh no, she thinks. Her mind spills into a stream of no no no, when Keith growls: ''Let's get the fuck away.''

He's already dusting off. He doesn't offer a hand and Pidge is grateful.

At fourteen, the Garrison is holding a memoir for the lost crew and Pidge’s hands feel unstable when she drinks from glasses. On the way to the ceremony, she and Keith climbed off his motorbike at a gas station made for boys like Keith, rogue, creases of their jeans sharp, boots strangely clean. Keith bought them canned coke and she was grateful.

 *

 She's pulling a yellow pepper apart, thinking, quite uselessly: maybe the illusion of strength stems from weakness. She squished it until it cracked and now the seeds are falling on the counter.

She's a half of a person. But, in contrast to the missing half, an idea is forming within her. In contrast to the missing half, Enceladus is still her favourite moon. It helps her think: Keith, from whom she hasn't heard for weeks, is a cyrovolcano. And she won't remain a flyby. She'll be a rover.

She calls the Garrison three times to reach him and carries her phone as a weight in her pocket for three days before he returns the call, bleeding apprehension.

''Hello?''

''Keith,'' she says, solemn. ''Keith. Can you steal something for me?''

 *

 Pidge is fifteen and a boy called Lance makes her doubt her insight all over.

She stops in a corridor when she sees him now, well past sleep-time. Lance hovers two fingers above the skin of a girl's hand.  His eyes flicker to hers, watchful, intent.

''How does that feel?'' he mutters with a ghosting smile.

''You're not touching me,'' the girl says through the teeth of her grin. Lance smiles elastically in a way that makes Pidge feel like she can snap.

The girl clears her throat, mouth a contour of a smile, and then Lance, too, turns. The girl pulls her hair in a tail, then releases, and Pidge watches it swing behind her back.

''Hi,'' Pidge says, ''Lance.''

''Hi, Pidge.'' He grins, pulls the girl's hand behind his back and holds it there with both hands. ''Look at that. Won't tell if you won't.''

Pidge runs her fingers through the hair at her nape. She thought familiarisation would come more slowly. Not letting go of the girl's hand, Lance pulls a key ring from his pocket, spins it around his finger. It's something kitsch, lowbrow and vibrant and nostalgic. She isn't like that. He's vibrant and she compares herself to extraterrestrial objects.

''Won't tell if you won't,'' she repeats.

 *

 She can't fall asleep, just keeps thinking, defined, almost geometrical thoughts. It's often like this. She just lies frustrated.

She thought it would be easy, that she would uncover the assembly of concepts of her and re-cover them with a new sheet. Instead, she is stuck. What drives science forward is the universality of laws. Eyes open, duvet light on her chest, she is stuck. Can't go forward. She can't develop herself, no universal laws apply.

A week ago she broke a plastic fork without meaning to and didn’t know what that meant.

 *

 Lance walks into the dark dining hall where Pidge sits slouched and they both start.

''Oh, uh, hey. Pidge. Wow, right? I didn't know the dining hall was unlocked at night, but looks like you've known. What are you reading?''

She glances down at her tablet. She's coordinating outputs of Garrison detectors. The device on the backside of the tablet is reading the academy’s data analyses. Lance comes close enough for its light illuminate him and she tilts the tablet away from him, towards her stomach.

''Wikipedia,'' she lies. He grins.

''Is this referring to your, what it that, a tablet?'' he points at the special offer sticker in the corner of her tablet that she scraped from a sandwich wrapping.

''No,'' she says, ''It’s referring to me.''

''Yeah? How so?''

How funny that a person so whole is asking her this. ''You want me to tell you why I think I'm special?''

''Sure,'' Lance crosses his arms.

Her neck cracks when she tips her head up. Maybe this: she has, in a way, cracked all the joints in her body, cracked her everything, new shape recuperating under the always-loose clothes. Who is she? Primordial soup of a person. Chemically potent. An isomer inverted. And can’t stop thinking about that. The transition, the hoax, has made her the embodiment of metacognition.

''I cognise about my cognition,'' she says. Lance’s eyebrows shoot up and it makes her want to cross out her answer. ''I’ll find aliens,'' she covers up. Something less irritating, less out of reach, and no less sincere. Lance beams, whole body moving illogically with enthusiasm.

''Me too! Man,'' he says, closer now, and Pidge concludes magnetism attracts him to things, never repels. ''Please tell me you have a plan. Humanity has lived so long without aliens, it’s time.'' He straightens up with intent. ''Are you going to cognise something for the Garrison? Or, I mean, if we can reach Kerberos. I mean. Maybe we’ll have the tech to go further just when I’m allowed to fly higher than fifty thousand feet.''

''Yeah, well. Icarus only flew too close to the sun because his wings were shit.'' Lance grins, but then tilts his head.

''You look upset,'' Lance says – because he seems to live on the outside of himself. She shakes her head. Typing tempestuously from her home floorboards, she thought: the Garrison would be a she-unknown zone. She’d be a hoax, and people wouldn’t know her. But actually, no. She can give what she can give.

''Some officers don't take girls seriously,'' she says.

''Oh,'' Lance sounds surprised. ''Is there someone you like?''

''No. That girl, what's her name? Do you take her seriously?''

''The one from the hallway?'' Lance asks and it makes her feel infinitely worse. ''Whoa, dude. Yes, I take Alleine seriously. I'm not just, I don't know, playing. I have respect.''

She sweeps her electronic chips into a pile on the tabletop. She’s not trying to be inflammatory. She just feels her bedrock being attacked.

''They have internal worlds too, you know.''

''Dude. I know.'' He folds his arms and she doesn’t know what to say. He half-laughs, looking to the side, arms unfolding. Okay, adventure over for tonight. See you around. Nice talking to you, Pidge.''

''Lance,'' she calls. He turns, tilts his head a little. ''I like your confidence. Keep it up.''

''I like yours,'' Lance smiles, just by the door, when the door swings open, an officer stepping in.

''Ah,'' Lance breathes. Straightens up. ''Sir.''

''Good evening, cadets,'' an officer Pidge doesn’t know barely glances at her before settling on Lance. Crypsis, she thinks. ''McClain. Are you testing the admissions?''

Lance takes in the scattered electronics, glances at Pidge. ‘’I — Pidge was teaching me, sir. About – structural aircraft repair procedures. After today's simulation I thought I could benefit from it, and I feel – devoted—'' he stumbles over devoted three times, and she feels her body jerk. Lance looks horrified.

''Bring your devotion to class tomorrow. And don’t test academy rules. Two minutes to clear up.'' Lance keeps his eyes on him as he leaves, breathing in slowly. Shiro was a Garrison commander and she has met him twice. She’s sure Shiro would use euphemisms.

''Jesus fucking Christ,'' Lance says.

''Whatever you want to believe in,'' she replies. Lance huffs.

 *

 In her head, she once calls her inner voice her articulatory control system. Then thinks: that’s enough. Her insight told her that this person-creation would lead her further than any human has ever been. And her insight is good: she’s picking up data she doesn’t know what to do with. That’s good. Her insight was a carefully crafted thing and she absolutely loves that Matt and Keith are the two people who'd never tell her you're overthinking this. It’s for them. She doesn’t own three glasses, because she believes: in Matt, in herself.

 *

 It’s her foresight that can’t be trusted much. She talks to Lance and doesn’t feel very real. Maybe she should start listening to music.

 *

 ''Hunk,'' Lance says, back straight and voice loud, ''do you know Pidge? He's a romantic.''

''I'm not a romantic,'' she snaps, climbing carefully over the bench with her tray. Hunk is sitting opposite of Lance and now scoots along the bench and ends up in front of her. His relaxed arms, elbows on the table and hands clasped, look warm.

''Sounds like a compliment, but. Lance, you dick, what did you do?''

Lance grins while chewing. Like Michael Jackson. ''I meant it positively. But I still trade these bad boys—'' he lifts a bottle of juice, ''to compensate. Want, Pidge?''

''No. Yes,'' she snatches it Lance’s hands. She likes the knowing between him and Hunk. It’s different from her, and from Keith. They are both somehow not old enough for it, maybe; don’t have enough real niceties.

''These were out when I was a child, can’t believe I’m getting them in my dream school, too,'' Hunk says. ''Like, the smell. Smells like childhood.''

Treat and threat are such similar words, she thought while drinking coke on a curb with Keith, smelling her way into childhood. And now she thinks it again.

''Good god,'' she jerks, her fork screeching against the plate.

''Whoa. You doing okay?''

''Yeah,'' she clears her throat, a cover-up, a swallow-down. Before her insides disseminate. ''I just lost track of – time,'' she finishes lamely.

''Oh,'' Hunk says. ''Track of time is a good thing to lose. If I were to lose something,'' he smiles.

 *

 Lance chews like a Hollywood star and isn’t afraid of heights and she is volatile. But maybe she’s past the impact-heavy stage of moon formation. Pidge is fifteen, her hair is short, and she’s the first microorganisms bursting to life. She’s the detection of some geothermal activity. Still uncertain, but onto something.

 *

They are perched and tense above the extraterrestrial sample curation building. It's the most perfect of surprises. It's Shiro.

She breathes in. She sends the location to Keith, the rushed word: Shiro. Coordination and causation are her blood type, after all. It's nothing new, to be an in-group spy. An infiltrator. They all start at the explosions.

''No way,'' Lance says, strained, hype-high. ''That guy is always trying to one-up me!''

The desert-night wind cools the sweat at her hairline to a suggestion of a headache. It's all happening very fast. When she speaks, it's taut and dusty.

''Who?''

(on ao3)

crankifying and decrankifying

Ronan manifested beautiful cars and beautiful birds and tenderhearted brothers

Lance lifts the walkie-talkie to his chin. Shiro's.

Yeah – he recognises the weightlessness inside his body: it's a funeral feeling.

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