quiznak × klance

i.

i. It has been one day since I defeated Zarkon. And the other paladins, too, but the Galra's huuuuge loss wouldn't have given me this much satisfaction if I were just some bystander. Shiro called me the Sharpshooter for a good reason.

Now, most of us are lounging around. Hunk has made several energy-draining adventures to the kitchen, all within the hour, to retch over some fresh nutrient pudding -- his stomach had endured enough of Coran's creations and unnecessary vomiting to actually worship the gelatinous pseudo meal. I think it's supposed to be equivalent to steak and greens on Earth, but Coran wouldn't know. Shiro won't stop fidgeting because of Zarkon's traumatizing mental connection with him and the Black Lion, so we've all gravitated away from Voltron's head to let him resurface on his own. I feel bad for the guy and can't imagine what Zarkon must have done to make him and his lion feel so vulnerable (I saw with my own eyes; they were really starting to get along!); captains like Shiro shouldn't ever be shaken so badly. Meanwhile, Pidge, Keith, and I are all sitting on an in-ground sofa, Pidge lying in reverse with his back on the seat and his legs over the headrests. Keith and I are engaged in a heated staring contest while the little dudette rants about the advanced techno wizards that the Galra people were fortunate enough to employ. Allura and Coran are working to repair some dents in the ships while we heroes gladly take up their offering of chill time. Although, personally, I think chill time is only slightly efficient now that I've envisioned the beautiful silver strands of Allura's silky Altean headdress sprawled over my bare chest as she lays ergonomically in my arms.

"But the flux combusts on that thing were phenomenal! I should have recorded a visual to replicate some for the castle," Pidge rambles. "You think Allura would allow it after the failed turbo boosters?" Keith flinches at that last part, but not dramatically enough for Pidge to see -- I smirk as I come out victorious.

"Words, words, words. I never did like the taste of them," I sigh, crossing my ankles over one another to intensify my relaxation mode. I feel the grace of my eyes shutting.

"What?" the others question in unison; I peep one eye from Keith to Pidge and back again, forgetting that neither of them understand the language of cool.

"Are you saying I talk a lot?" Pidge accuses me.

"Never mind. So... what about that flex-thingy?" I hum, waving my hand at Pidge to signal his resumption. His head shoots up to display an unimpressed expression.

"The flux combusts?" he asks, his eyes narrow but his brows as high as can be, all while speaking in a monotonous tone.

"Yeah, those."

Pidge lowers his head, probably to loosen the strain on his neck. "I get the feeling you're not the people I should be telling this to. How's life going? Do you feel accomplished or what?"

"You could say that," Keith chuckles. "It's about time the universe's only defense league catches a break. What used to be our biggest threat is now a fling of the past, like a Garrison breakup or the loss of a favorite band."

"You're so emo, it sickens me," I complain. "Besides, I'm supposed to be the poetic one."

Keith's metallic grey eyes dilate when they land on mine, and the breeze of tension between the three of us whips the tips of his floppy mullet. "Why's that, big shot?"

"Because I'm the most popular one, duh. And it's Sharpshooter."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" Keith rolls his eyes.

"I've righteously earned my title," I shrug. "As have you, Dropout."

My heart speeds up as Keith reaches over Pidge's core to jab at my arm; there's not enough couch space for me to evade, so I follow my instincts and yank harder on his arm. He falls forward a bit but doesn't liberate my limb; the obstacle in between us lets out a squeal, "Guys. Oww! I'm not a punching bag!" when I accidentally drive my elbow into his kneecap. After that, I see tiny scratches on my hand, and a reddish coloring has been welcomed to my left forearm, which feels as hot as my face does due to the friction. Accordingly, I release my death grip on Keith, and the two of us laugh merrily.