Chapter Text
Have you ever woken up from a long sleep with an aching migraine and delirium? Try waking up from death.
Upon opening his eyes to see the tanned skin of his alien friend before him, lance winced. His head hurt — horribly. He couldn't recall half of what happened, even more so, he couldn't hear a thing. Well, not for a few moments at least. A loud shout was heard, then an ear piercing ringing filled his ears, his head already throbbing with an unexplainable ache.
"Allura! Is everything alright over there?!" He heard. Hunk, Hunk's voice. When did he get here? How was he so close. No- it was his voice, but he wasn't there. The intercoms. Was he in his lion? The lions. The mission.
It all came flooding back to him, and as Allura stood, he reached out to ask her something — did he really die?
"We can talk later Lance," Allura spoke in her strong Altean accent, breaking his train of thought and causing him to halt his movements. "We have to finish this mission."
Lance watched as the woman left, his brows furrowing as he slumped back into his seat, his mouth agape. Later? Was death a later topic? He couldn't think properly — how could he? He just died! Or - did he? Would his friends act this way if he really did die? No, no, they'd care. They'd show concern, certainly. He was being dramatic. Maybe, just maybe, he only passed out shortly. God, he hoped that's all it was.
So, for the rest of their mission to repair the Galran shield — something that confused Lance; he could've sworn Voltron was against the Galra — Lance waited. He waited until later, past the repair, past the interaction with the Galra who watched over the base they'd fought so hard to protect and repair, past the docking in their hangars, past the process of removing their armor, eating a meal, relaxing, training.
At some point, Lance himself forgot he was waiting for someone to bring up the topic. Not that he'd forgotten it, of course he didn't, he couldn't. His head hurt too much. He simply realized something; if he truly did die like he thought, surely his friends would show concern. They were his friends after all, why wouldn't they?
So, for the rest of their day — or night, he couldn't tell time well when the castle-ship was perusing the dark and starry galaxy — Lance acted like nothing happened — just like everyone else did, and soon, it was time to return to their rooms for rest.
Lance walked into his room, listening to the familiar mechanical woosh of the door closing behind him as he headed into his bathroom. He first stripped his clothes, staring in the mirror and finally entertaining his underlying fear. If he did die, or get as hurt as he'd assumed he did; wouldn't he have scars? And God, did he have scars.
Seeing the dreadful marks that marred his skin, he stumbled back, having to brace his stance on the wall behind himself. His eyes were wide as saucers, staring at his reflection as if he were staring at some stranger. A stranger who looked exactly like him, only slightly different.
The scars made it seem like he was electrocuted, or something of the sort. Seeing it was enlightening, since he couldn't remember how exactly he'd blacked out - or died? - during the mission. The scarring started at the center of his chest, branching out in long sparks of what looked like lightning. It spread across his chest and abdomen, dancing along his skin in beautiful patterns, linking to his arms and ending just below his elbows. The scarring on his back was a large middle point in his lower back, branching up to the nape of his neck.
He'd seen his legs weren't too badly scarred, the scarring from his chest reached down to his thighs and started up from his feet to his ankles. It also didn't reach any further up past his collarbone, aside from the scarring on the back of his neck.
He wanted to scream.
So, if he had the scars, if his head and body ached horribly, if he couldn't remember half of what happened before waking up, does that mean he truly did die? How long was he dead for? How did it happen? Did anyone but Allura know? Did anyone care?
Lance looked away from the mirror - deciding anything was better than staring back into his unfamiliar reflection - and readied the shower. While he bathed, the onslaught of his repeated back-to-back thoughts plagued his mind.
He died. He actually died, and no one said anything about it. The entire situation made Lance feel sick, so much so that he could barely stand straight. He shifted to sit down, bringing his knees up to his chest and burying his head between them. He felt as if someone were holding onto his lungs, squeezing so firmly that it constricted his breathing just enough to where he felt breathless - then it let up. This feeling would come and go, an inconsistent and dreadful sensation.
After a long while of sitting and thinking to himself, Lance finally felt tired instead of sick. He stood, wincing when he felt his head throb with his movements. He shut off the shower faucet, furrowing his brows together as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed his towels. One around the waist, one atop his head, wrapping his hair.
He dried and clothed himself, making lazy, quick work of his skin and hair routines before heading back into his room. He shut off the lights and walked to his bed, sitting down and staring at the wall. It was one of those long stares, the kind where a person is completely void of any thought, staring before themselves wordlessly...probably looking insane.
It was around ten minutes later — it felt like thirty — when he finally died down, tilting his head to the side and sighing quietly. His body was sore and almost felt as if it was buzzing, his head throbbing with pain. He briefly wondered what exactly happened, how he'd ended up in a situation that led to his death. Why it happened. He could ask tomorrow, he would.
And soon, he fell asleep.