Plance One-shots

1943

1943.

Pidge had received the letters not long after Christmas day.

All three of them.

Her hands struggled to open each envelope, her heart pounding against her ribs whilst her eyes scanned each one through hazed eyes.

Matt...

Missing in action.

Her father...

Missing in action.

She paused to compose herself before reaching for the third letter, unsure if she could bring herself to read whatever words the ink spelled out. Her mother was sitting at the dinner table, head in her hands as she sobbed.

Pidge swallowed the acidic taste in her throat as she tore open the last envelope. She allowed her thumb to glide across the smooth paper, index finger tucked just underneath the fold before she gently flicking the letter open. Her eyes ran across the black ink.

Lance...

Wounded.

A sharp inhale entered her lungs, bringing with it another flood of tears. Sinking to her knees, Pidge held the now crumpled letter against her bump, letting herself weep quietly at the thought of her injured husband.

There was little chance that he would make it back alive.

****

Several months later, Lance found himself stood outside a house. Winter and Spring had come to pass, so his eyes were flooded with green as he scanned his surroundings.

This was nothing like the war.

War was cold, dark and forced an overwhelming feeling of loneliness on the shoulders of men. The men he had known... and lost. Lance's chest ached as he fell into a reverie. He had been one of the lucky ones, only losing one leg and having his vision damaged for a few months.

Others wouldn't be coming home.

Blinking away the beginnings of tears, Lance steadied himself of his crutches. He let his eyes wander down to his legs, brow furrowing at what he saw. He still wasn't used this. Yet, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes found the beginning of his garden path. Weeds had threaded themselves into the stone, but the flowerbeds were still as pristine as they day he left. Lance's shoulders jolted as he laughed.

Typical Pidge.

Pidge.

Hobbling with as much dignity possible, Lance slowly made his way up the path and to his front door. He raised his hand to knock, but found himself hesitating. His arm outstretched, terribly awful thoughts ploughed their way into Lance's mind.

What if she had moved on? What if she thought he was dead? What if she'd moved away? She hadn't written to him in the last month, surely something must be wrong?

Slowly, Lance's hand dropped down onto the wooden door. The sensation beneath his fingertips caused a shudder to rip down Lance's spine. In an instant, he became overwhelmed and involuntarily knocked his knuckles against his front door. The action was familiar, warming his cheeks, nose and brow.

Silently, he waited.

Lance's mouth twitched has he heard footsteps approaching, floorboards creaking under foot.

In one swift motion, the door swung open.

Lance's lungs faulted in his chest.

Blue eyes melted into amber, them continuing across the woman's face in a state of awe. Though his vision was blurred, he was still able to distinguish the woman's features.