Disclaimer: We do not own Voltron.  Any of it.  Damn it all.

In Ale Veritas . . .

Cliff leaned back against the bar, letting the shadows hide him as he waited. This time, he was going to get what he wanted. If Jeff was too stupid to see what anyone without blinkers could see . . . well. That was his loss.

It wasn’t hard to spot his quarry, either; Shannon always walked into a bar like it was a home away from home. Or maybe just home. But it was all right—a few voices called out to him, in horrid imitations of Irish accents, and he gave those he knew a wave and a bright smile. Then he glanced around, and started when he caught sight of Cliff.

The smile didn’t fade; in fact, it seemed to grow as he made his way to the bar. He nodded at the barkeep, received a Guinness and settled in next to Cliff, matching his posture. “It’s surprised I am to see ya here,” he commented, and took a gulp. Then he grinned at Cliff sidelong. “But it’s good, too.”

Cliff grinned back at Shannon, something inside him unwinding at the casual acceptance. “Good to see you too.” Though . . . damn it. He was known for his sliver tongue—why did it always turn to lead around Shannon?

Shaking his head at himself, Cliff’s grin turned rueful before he hid it behind a sip of his tepid beer. “Why surprised?” He shut his mouth before more useless words spilled out. Yeah, right. At this rate, Jeff would get a clue before he managed to do anything...

Shannon arched one dark brow and took another pull of beer. “Well, you haven’t been here in a while,” he replied. Then he shrugged, and pointedly did not ask why, choosing instead to grab a handful of pretzels from the bowl on the bar.

Cliff sighed, and slouched deeper against the bar. No way in hell was he going to answer that unspoken question. Too bad he didn’t have Jeff’s consistent disregard of such questions to hide behind. Maybe Jeff had picked a better camouflage; after all, he had Shannon chasing after him with the dedication of a dog on the trail of a fox.  Though Cliff was starting to uncomfortably feel like a fox himself.

Shoving his hair off of his forehead, Cliff shrugged. “I like seeing new people, sometimes . . .” Wincing, Cliff downed the rest of his beer. Damn it. This wasn’t working; he was just digging himself deeper and deeper. Time to cut his losses. Again.

Instead of letting Cliff make good his intended escape, Shannon grabbed his arm and nodded again at the bartender. A bottle and another glass appeared—the bottle of Foster’s and the pint of Guinness—and Shannon shoved the bottle into his hands. “All right, over there.” He nodded toward an empty table, conveniently located in the corner.

Trapped, Cliff could only hope that Shannon didn’t hear his sigh as he wove his way to the indicated table. Cliff sat down in the chair that had its back to the wall. He was not at all surprised when Shannon turned the other chair around and straddled it. To disguise how it affected him, he looked away, and noticed a nearly empty bowl of stale popcorn on the rickety table. Trying to give himself something else to think about, he emptied the kernels onto the table and started arranging them into patterns along the seams of the boards.

Acutely conscious of Shannon’s unwavering eyes, Cliff abruptly abandoned the kernels when he felt the tremors start. Wrapping his fingers around the bottle, he absently licked the lip of it, before letting the smooth draught go down.  Regaining a bit of his composure with the buffering of the alcohol, he managed a smile at Shannon as he set the bottle gently down on the table.  Playing absently with the label, he lifted an eyebrow.  “So, what are you going to do now that the Explorer has been retired?”

Still watching him, Shannon shrugged.  “I don’t know.  What do ya do in retirement when you’ve gone the length and breadth of the galaxy?  Travel?” He gave a quiet snort, and took another pull of his drink.  “I s’pose that there will be always be positions open for pilots, even ex-combat pilots.  Or . . .”

Cliff glanced at him when he trailed off.  “Or?” he prompted.

It was Shannon’s turn then to study the condensation on his glass.  He trailed a fingertip through the beads of sweat rolling down the outside of the pint glass.  “Or I could always re-up.”

Cliff forced himself not to tense up.  “Why would you do that?”

“Why the hell do you think?” Abruptly, Shannon tossed back what little remained of his Guinness and not-quite slammed the glass back on the table.  The kernels Cliff had abandoned bounced and skittered onto the floor.

Shannon just stared at his empty glass, shoulders hunched slightly.

Paradoxically, Cliff calmed down at this flair of Shannon’s famous temper.  Reaching out, he rested one hand on Shannon’s shoulder; light, ready to pull back at any sign that his touch wasn’t welcome.  “Jeff?”

“Who the hell else would it be?” he muttered, barely audible in the white noise of the bar.

But Cliff still heard the words clearly, and did not let himself betray the way the words made him shrivel inside.  He even managed to squeeze Shannon’s shoulder in a comforting way.

Shannon flinched away from his hand, though.  “I don’t need your bloody pity.”

Cliff closed his hand harder on Shannon’s shoulder, adding a small shake for emphasis before setting him free.  “No pity.”  Sitting back in his chair, he chugged back more of his beer, letting the alcohol cushion the pain and his self-control keep any evidence of it from showing in his body language.  For one brief moment, he thought about getting up for another round – but he didn’t want to give Shannon a chance to bolt.  It sounded like he needed to vent, more than anything else.  “So he decided to re-up?”

“Of course he did.”  Absently, Shannon ran a fingertip around the mouth of his glass.  “What else could the Golden Boy do?  Not for him a life Earthbound, grounded and miserable . . .” He snapped his mouth shut so hard that Cliff heard it clearly.

Unable to help himself, Cliff murmured an addendum to Shannon’s list. “Or safe...”  Sighing, he raised his voice. “Shan—what do you want to do?”

“What do I want?” He spun the glass in his hands, as if expecting more Guinness to appear in it by wishing.  Without looking up, watching the light refract from the rapidly evaporating beads of water on the glass, he muttered, “I want . . . I just want to be with him.  If that means I have to re-up and kiss the brass’s asses . . . I will.”  He glanced up at Cliff, a split second of eye contact, then turned away on his chair, searching for a barmaid.

Every word in Shannon’s soft brogue hurt, sharp bright pain that stole his breath with its intensity.  The wistful, determined loyalty and selfless love clear in Shannon’s face and in his every gesture wrapped a drugging hopelessness around him.  Why?  Why Jeff?  Why give and give for no return, for someone who never, ever noticed . . . ?  Sagging back against the wall, Cliff downed his Foster’s with one long gulp.  “I got it.  You just hold the table, ok?”  He had to move.  He couldn’t sit here, and say the right things, not now.  And he wasn’t drunk enough to ask the questions that he desperately wanted answered.

Shannon nodded shortly, eyes fixed on the floor, and Cliff’s chair scraped as he pushed it back, the noise jarring.  His hand brushed Shannon’s as he took the empty glass, and he shivered.  Quickly, he beat his retreat to the bar, hoping the other had not noticed.

He signaled the bartender for refills, then turned to take a covert glance back at their table.  Shannon sat alone, looking off to one side, and Cliff could clearly see his sharp profile.  There was an aura of . . . sadness surrounding him, almost palpable even at this distance.  It was a wonder no one else saw it.

And it makes him so very . . .

His thought was interrupted as the bartender pushed the stout and another bottle at him.  He tossed a bill on the bar and wended his way back to the table.

Maybe . . . just maybe . . . if he got drunk enough, he’d forget everything.  Forget that he wanted answers, forget the questions, forget the piercing sorrow he saw in Shannon’s eyes from that too-brief moment their eyes met.  Forget that he wanted what he couldn’t have.

Dropping the glass in front of Shannon, Cliff slouched back into his seat.  Chugging back the beer until he was sure his face only showed what he wanted it to, he stretched out and nudged Shannon gently.  “So.  If you can even imagine it—what would you do if, rather than following Jeff, he was willing to follow you?”  Yep.  He certainly had had enough to drink.  He gulped more beer, for the cushioning, and so that he wouldn’t see Shannon’s expression.

The complete silence that fell when he had finished speaking told him just how unexpected the question had been.  Lowering his bottle, he risked a peek across the table.

Shannon’s mouth was open slightly, and he was simply staring.  “If . . . he . . .” Realizing that his face showed every bit of his emotion, he wrenched his gaze away from Cliff, back down to the table, to the puddle that had formed when the glass had been so carelessly set down.

But even with his head bent, Cliff could still see the lopsided smile that twisted Shannon’s lips.  “If he would follow me . . .” His eyes flicked up for an instant, and then back down.  “I’d do any damned thing he wanted me to do.”

Cliff was just barely not drunk enough to snap.   It helped that he managed to stopper his mouth with the beer.  Dropping the bottle with a distinct *thunk* on the table, he managed a playful smirk.  “You realize... You did not answer the question, don’t you?”

“What’s to answer?” Shannon’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and he continued to study the grooves in the table.  “Because I would do anything he wanted.”

“C’mon, mate,” Cliff began, but Shannon flinched at the disbelief in his tone, and he couldn’t continue.  The idea started to penetrate his alcohol-sodden mind that maybe . . . maybe Shannon really couldn’t think of anything.  To be so wrapped up in someone else that you couldn’t even see your own desires anymore . . .

Yes, Cliff could understand that.

Even if he didn’t agree with it.  At least Shannon had it better in that his object of abject devotion was merely oblivious, rather than completely in love with someone else . . . Cliff tilted his bottle up and swallowed more beer down before he could stick his foot in any further.  One corner of his mouth quirking up, Cliff focused his blurring vision on Shannon.  He was on his way to being very, very drunk.  Hangover hell drunk.  Evidenced by the way he couldn’t help asking more, even as each answer hurt; the same way people poked at sore teeth just to make sure the pain hadn’t decide to leave.  “Ok, then.  What do you wish he’d do with you?”

Toying with his glass, but not drinking, Shannon snorted again.  “I’m thinkin’ that’d be damn well obvious.”

Shrugging, Cliff let his smirk widen. “Get it off your chest, eh? Before you’re stuck in confined spaces with him, never knowing if he’s just around the corner, or on the other side of walls with not-quite-enough sound proofing.”

He had the dubious satisfaction then of watching Shannon's face turn red, but whether it was in anger or simply in uncontrollable response to the images his words evoked, he couldn’t say.

His bleary gaze dropped to Shannon’s hands, clenched around his glass, fingers turning white.

“Just once . . .” Shannon’s voice was tight, strained.  When Cliff looked up, he saw Shannon had squeezed his eyes shut.  “Just once, I want him to admit that he’s noticed me.  That he feels something for me.  That I mean something more to him than a comrade in arms.”

Cliff straightened, not even aware of having slumped.  Shannon was shaking, and he was certain that it wasn’t just that his vision was beginning to double.  “Shan . . .?”

But Shannon went on, as if he hadn’t heard.  Maybe, Cliff reflected suddenly, maybe he hadn’t . . .

“Just once, I want him to kiss me . . .” His breath hitched then, and he stopped, head bent, hiding his face.

Cliff shut his eyes.  Just once . . . The words echoed inside of him.  Loyalty and love, in their purest forms.  No carnal desire, no coarse language, just . . . sweetness.  Acknowledgment.  Shannon wished for so small a thing, and Cliff couldn’t think of any way to give it to him.  Not while almost drunk enough to pass out, nor when sober—that was how far gone he was, that he’d tried to think of ways to give Jeff to Shannon, despite how much it hurt.   But.  Jeff wasn’t and wouldn’t be here.  And he was.

And he was no Shannon, to long sweetly for someone.

Knowing quite clearly that he would regret this once he sobered up, Cliff slid closer, and gently threaded his fingers into Shannon’s soft hair, urging Shannon to face him.  “I’m not him.”  Easily and slowly, due in part to the alcohol, Cliff bent down and lightly brushed his lips against Shannon’s, letting his tongue come out for a swift taste for remembrance.  Pulling back, he forced himself to study Shannon’s expression.  “But I notice you.”  Folding his hands on the table, Cliff refused to back down, and waited out the stunned surprise.

And he waited for several long seconds, while Shannon just stared at him.  The alcohol he’d consumed left him feeling . . . disconnected, somehow.  He’d read once about how veterans of earlier wars, non-space wars, had had limbs amputated, because there was no other way to save their lives.  Those veterans had sworn that they could still feel their legs, or arms, as if they were still attached.

And watching Shannon’s eyes harden . . . he understood how those veterans had felt.  He could still feel his heart, but he’d just cut it out as effectively as with a scalpel.

When Shannon finally spoke, it was only to say, “Thanks for the beer,” in the distant, polite voice of a stranger.  Quickly, leaving his glass nearly untouched, he stood, not caring that the chair nearly tipped over behind him, and turned for the door.

Well. That answered that question.  At least he had a taste of Shannon. Even dulled by beer and smoke, still, he had a taste. It would have to last him.

Stamping down his hurt, his pain, his unwanted, undesired love, Cliff wrapped a hand around Shannon’s elbow.  “Sit.  Drink.  It won’t happen again.”  Knowing that Shannon was inches away from forcibly yanking his elbow free, Cliff sighed.  “Look . . . Just . . .  Tell me about your assignment?  Since you re-upped and all.  And who else joined you?  Catch me up on what I’m missing.”

Reluctance in every line of his body, Shannon sat back down, twisting his arm from Cliff’s grip as he did so.  “I haven’t re-upped yet.  I . . .”

Cliff sat back.  “Ah, but you said you’d follow him . . . so of course you’re going to.”  He tilted his head back, and grinned foolishly at the ceiling as it started a lazy spin.  “I wonder . . . if I re-upped to follow you . . . what would you do . . .”

Shannon stood once more, his movement fast enough to startle Cliff.  He straightened again, much too quickly this time, and his stomach decided it was time to rebel.  Eyes wide, not having realized he’d consumed that much, he put out one hand, trying to keep the world from turning upside down on him.  Because that surely wouldn’t be good . . .

And his hand made contact with something warm and solid, and he held on tightly.

“Lightweight,” Shannon muttered, slinging the arm he’d grabbed up over his shoulder.  “Come on, Cliff, I’m thinkin’ it’s time for you to be gettin’ home.”

Cliff laughed softly, letting himself hang on Shannon without clinging, enjoying the warmth, knowing with the ruthless part of himself that unfortunately remembered every thing he did while drunk, that this would be the last time.  Shannon’s reaction was more than enough answer to the half-hearted thought of following him back into the fold of Galaxy Garrison.

He’d be lucky if he got any messages from Shannon, after making such a fool of himself.  Weaving unsteadily, holding onto the warmth that was the only stable part of his life right now, surreptitiously inhaling the unique body-scent of Shannon buried under the bitter smoke and alcoholic fumes, Cliff let himself be led back to his rooms, managing a drunken wave at Shannon’s helplessly responsible face, before shutting the door firmly between them.

And collapsing into a puddle, much like his dreams.

***

Blearily staring at his vid pick-up, Cliff let the demons that the alcohol had released ride him one last time. Shedding his shirt, mussing his hair, he poked at the vid until Jeff’s messaging kicked in.  “Jeff—hear you’re re-upped—congrats!  Remember to enjoy yourself, hmm?”  He blinked slowly at the screen. “Yep. I’m drunk. And—I kissed Shannon today.  He’s very sweet under that fire, you know.”  Rubbing his hand through his hair, Cliff stifled a yawn, stretching slightly. “Right—don’t forget to mail me.  The unclassified stuff, anyway.”  And he shut the link down.  There.  Hopefully, that was direct enough that Jeff would at least think.

~owari