“Here, lay down in my lap.” ( @atlaslived <3!! )
Platonic Requests for Affection || @atlaslived
The best way to describe the day so far is “a lot”.
Pidge can’t quite put her finger on why; although, that implies she’s actually been thinking on it instead of just running with this frustration. Hunk should’ve known better than to wake her up early just because he “finally” figured out space-quiches (Since when was that even the agenda?), like how Lance shouldn’t stick his stupid, pointy chin into every little thing that has nothing to do with him (Why doesn’t he go “What’s the matter” himself).
Then you have Allura thinking she can use that “more diplomatic than thou” voice on whoever (As if Pidge hadn’t been studying her tactical weaknesses and verbal tics), and that little seed of irritation—sitting smack-dab in the center of the girl’s forehead ever since she woke up—flares into outright anger. Nevermind how confused everyone looked or her empty stomach, Pidge stormed right out of there and back to her room.
She planned to throw herself back to the blankets, which she did, but after about 8 minutes of stewing, it became woefully apparent that she was up for the day. Just for that, her pillow was thrown at the wall. Pidge still keeps to her bed as she leans down to snatch up a ratty, old notebook from the floor. Of all the things going right today, she manages to open it up right where she left off last night: in the middle of some notes.
They’re part reminders for her ongoing projects, part mixed-matched pieces of different ideas about other types of equipment and weapons. All with a few doodles thrown into the margins, ranging from swords to kitty faces. Pidge winds up penciling those in, again, while reading over everything. She’s trying to remember where her thoughts were, last night, before falling asleep, and she must’ve read over everything at least three times when Shiro opened up her door.
Her shoulders bunched up like a cat arching their back, even if she ultimately expected this.
She surmised either Shiro or Coran would come down for a “talk” about her “attitude”. Which, after sitting on everything for a while, and maybe having Green rumble at her a little, Pidge could see how she might’ve overacted this morning.
That doesn’t mean she’s just gonna up and admit she’s wrong just because Shiro has that “you’re worrying me, kid” look on blast; instead, she huffs to herself and scoots further into the alcove of her bed. Pidge is hunched over, now, too—basically centering the entirety of her focus into getting the whiskers of her cat doodle just right. All signals translated to one clear message: I don’t want to talk about it.
Shiro must’ve never taken any courses over body language, though; because, Pidge hears him start to step over all the little messes in her room. Not even her laundry seems to trip him up, and within a handful of ticks, Pidge feels the weight of her mattress shift as Shiro takes a seat next to her.
The grip on her pen goes tight; she’s just scribbling out little ink blotches at this point, telling herself over and over not to look over at Shiro. She’s actually glad he came to talk to her, rather than the princess-biased Coran. Pidge is done with yelling, she agreed that, at least, had been over the top; however, she’d probably scream if she heard anything along the lines of, “That’s not how you talk to a princess.” Shiro wouldn’t ever say anything like that, though. He’d just look at her and be able to channel all his concern and disappointment into one glance, and she’d completely fold.
So she scribbles more. Harder, faster, harder—until the page tears.
The tear runs through her ruined drawing and straight into her notes. At that, there’s this tight pinch right in Pidge’s chest. She wants to shriek and throw the whole book at the wall; her knuckles go white around her pen like she was trying to crush it first. Pidge sits there like that for a tick, tense as can be before ultimately letting go.
The back of her eyes were burning, and it’s like a relief button had just been hit.
“I didn’t mean to.. blow up like that.” Pidge finally spoke up. She let her pen and notebook fall to the wayside so she could swab up her face. No tears or snot yet, but she could feel them coming on, and wanted to hide that fact—as if the sniffle at the end of her words wasn’t damning enough. “I’m just really tired.”
It feels like such a bullshit excuse. Shiro’s been real quiet so far, he probably knew that she recognized her own screw-up, and was just waiting for her to crack. Well it worked, and he could go head-long into whatever lecture he had prepared about how tiredness isn’t an excuse for being brusque.
That’s what she’s mentally preparing herself for, anyway, so consider her surprised when Shiro offers her his lap instead. The look she gives him is incredulous, like she’s reminding him that she’s not 9 anymore, but Shiro seems to just shrug that off. Pidge keeps staring for a few ticks before going down with a sigh.
She assumes the same position she always did whenever they went on family road trips, and Pidge would opt to sleep on Shiro’s lap since Matt had sad, skinny thighs until he was 17. First, she smushed her face into the side of his lap, then curl her arms up beneath herself.
It left her all scrunched up, but she was warm, and maybe this was because of the old memories that were starting up in the back of her head; however, it felt like those tears from before were being shaken loose by laying like this, too.
At first, they’re just burning at her eyes again, but before she knows it, she feels them starting to pool until her vision blurs. It wasn’t just some excuse, she really is tired.
Aryn’s started pushing her in the training hall more, and their last mission didn’t really go well—Voltron’s shield took so many hits, Pidge felt her own bones rattle. Then you had the rebels running their own patrols, so communication between Pidge and Matt had been sparse for the last two quintants.
There were so many other things, like not getting any real down-time or some obnoxious thing one Mamora agent said to her last week (What was it again?), but it all came together into one big, accumulative wave of exhausting. Heavy, sore exhaustion that ran through muscle, marrow, and every feasible fiber.
Pidge doesn’t have a lot of words to fit to it as much as little bursts of emotions, all crudely shaped where they pulse in her head with a raw center. She’s actually said it, though; she’s tired, and the full extent of her lassitude finally settles.
A warm stream starts up across her face, and she sniffles again; this time the sound is wet and strained against the lump in her throat.
She winds up shifting a little, so she could wrap her grip onto the fabric of his pants. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.”
