What Might Have Been

Author’s note: Once again, I have stolen the title from a song (in this case, by the group Little Texas), but this isn’t a songfic.

Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron.

I’m such a fucking coward.

I’m sitting and pacing by turns in the small bridge of my ship, a scout-class ship that we bought and refitted after the war. Now it’s my home away from home.

Our home, traveling through the stars, aimless and carefree. Except for right now.

In addition, I’m smoking like I haven’t in years, one bang right after another. It’s the reaction, I know, and I’m still trying to calm myself down.

It just isn’t working. I keep kicking myself, both for my cowardice and my stupidity. I nearly burn myself each time I try to light a cigarette, my hands shake so.

Damn it, I knew you lived here. This isn’t anything I shouldn’t have expected. I thought I did expect it, thought I was prepared for it. I had the chance to pay you back, to make you bleed for all the anguish you caused me . . .

And I didn’t take it. Why?

The air around me is hazy from the cigarettes. I opened the hatch a while ago, hoping that some of the smoke will clear out by the time we have to leave in a few hours. The last thing I need is him reminding me how poor smoking is for my health.

At that, I sink down into one of the pilot’s chairs again. I hadn’t forgotten about him, sleeping alone in our bed tonight, but I hadn’t considered what he was going to think about this development. I curse myself again, softly, not wanting to wake him, though I know the bulkhead is fairly well soundproofed. I don’t want to tell him, especially since I haven’t figured it out myself yet.

A quick stop on Pollux just to top off the fuel and get a few hours’ rest, in the middle of the local night, that’s all this was supposed to be. I was skeptical, but reluctantly agreed to his suggestion. He had even offered to oversee it, with an earnestness that seemed out of place, though I knew he only wanted to spare me the possibility of seeing you. I scoffed, and said, "When we get there, it’ll be just before midnight. The chance of me meeting up with Sven is so remote as to be nearly impossible. You can sleep, I’ll handle it." And I’d caressed his pale cheek, smiling reassuringly at him, telling him that I loved him.

Oh, God, I do love him. I love him more than anything. I don’t want to lose him.

What had possessed me to wander out of the spaceport, into the city? I just wanted to be around people, to lose myself in a crowd for a little time. No matter how much I love him, sometimes there are just some needs he can’t meet.

Especially now, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind, and I can feel the sob deep inside my throat, trying to escape. I take a deep drag to forestall any more.

I’d been there in the bar for about an hour. I had filled my desire for anonymous company, and had just decided that it was time to leave. I didn’t want him to wake up and not find me with him. But before I could move, you arrived. I knew it the instant you walked in. Every one of my nerves started screaming your presence, just like they always used to.

Before you betrayed me with her.

My thoughts started running in circles though my head, a million miles a minute, so fast I almost couldn’t get a handle on them. I wondered what you were doing here, how you knew that I was there. There was no possible way; even the ship was registered under his name, not mine.

Then the memory of the hurt and the anger welled up again, of the day you’d returned. Damn you, I had waited for you! I hadn’t touched anyone, nor allowed myself to be touched, because I loved you! I’d known in my heart that you weren’t dead, and I was right. You came to me that night, your first back, and I was so overjoyed to have you alive and in my arms that I didn’t see your hesitance. When I finally noticed you weren’t kissing me, I was confused, then I saw how miserable you were, and I knew.

You had fallen in love with Romelle. The fact that she was a woman was almost incidental. You had chosen someone else over me. God, that hurt, that hurt so much. I hated you.

I was so paralyzed by my memories that I almost missed that you were frozen, too. You were staring at me; I could feel your eyes traveling over my back. What were you thinking? The hairs on the back of my neck were standing straight up, as you watched me. Maybe you didn’t know it was me? Should I let you know? For just one second, I debated facing you, telling you I still hated your guts, watching your face crumple in agony. Hurting you again as you’d hurt me.

But I didn’t. As soon as you turned away, distracted, I ran. Now, I’m here, wondering what the hell I’m doing, what I’m feeling. All I know for sure is I don’t want revenge anymore.

That surprises me to no end. I’d lived for revenge for so long . . .

I stub out the cigarette, and stop myself from reaching for another. They’re not helping, and I’m only killing myself. I blow the smoke toward the ceiling, watching it curl and billow and finally fade away into nothing.

That’s it, I realize. I don’t hurt anymore. It’s just the memory of my pain, my recalled bitterness . . .

When had I healed?

"Keith?"

His soft call brings me to my feet, and I’m halfway across the bridge before I even know it. My love. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, studying me. His brown hair is tousled, and he’s shivering in the cool night air flowing in through the hatch, wearing only his sleeping trousers. His blue-green eyes are intent, not at all like he’s just woken up.

"What are you doing up, Lance?" I scold gently, putting my arm around his shoulders to guide him back to bed. "You need your sleep if . . ."

"I missed you," he smiles up at me through his bangs. He always knows just what to say to defuse my irritation, and I have to smile back.

"All right, I’ll come to bed. Just let me secure the hatch." Leaving the lingering smoke trapped, I follow him to our "stateroom". My mouth must taste of stale cigarette smoke, but he kisses me eagerly as I crawl into bed beside him. For all his interest, though, he falls back to sleep quickly, a fitful doze that leaves me no doubt of the pain he’s in, of how exhausted he is from fighting it. I stroke his hair back from his forehead and let my tears flow silently. This is the only time that I can cry, even as I cradle him in my arms.

I don’t want to lose him. The old scout doesn’t travel as fast as the Lions, no matter how much we’ve tweaked it. Oh, God, please, let me make it back in time . . .

There are times . . . there are times when I wish you’d waited, that you’d returned to me as whole of heart as you’d left. When I’m feeling selfish, when I can feel Lance’s pain twisting through my guts as if it were my own . . . those are the times when I long for what might have been, between you and I.

And then I look into his beautiful eyes, and I know that what you and I might have had is nothing.

***

February 11, 2002