#d0gbless encouraged this

So because the “Shiro wearing Crocs” hell is suddenly kind of a thing again, I dug up these two old snippets of an unfinished oneshot I wanted to write last year when I first imagined the horrible image. Dunno if I’ll ever have a chance to really finish it, so here it is under the cut:

It’s not like they never have visitors. The extra seats at the dining room table serve a purpose outside of placating Shiro’s insistence that “dining room tables don’t only have two chairs, Katie,” to which Pidge had reminded him that they spent most of their time eating take-out on the living room couch. But impressing Mrs. Holt is high on the list of things Shiro takes seriously, somewhere below ensuring that Pidge is in actual bed past 2:00AM and above having a landline “just in case.”

Pidge didn’t even know they had a home phone for a good two years and the dining room table is more of an extension of her desk at this point, but whatever. The point is that they have a table, with chairs, and occasionally? People sit at it. People who aren’t them.

People who are usually Keith, or Hunk, or Lance; occasionally Coran or Allura, sometimes even Kolivan, though his presence is usually reserved for the holidays. Pidge can always tell who’s visiting by their shoes alone, something one unconsciously learns to do while spending the better half of a decade in space with a group of individuals with vastly different tastes in fashion. So when she sees the unfamiliar pair of black Crocs lined up neatly next to Shiro’s boots in the entryway, she doesn’t know who’s in their house, but they need to leave—immediately.

Shiro rounds the corner then. He’s got a half-empty pint of Ben & Jerry’s Milk and Cookies in one hand and his cell phone in the other. His hair is a bit longer than usual, certainly overdue for a trim, and he’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a plain heather gray t-shirt; casual, even for him, who spends most of his days lounging around the house. But for a fleeting moment, all Pidge can think about is how stupidly handsome he looks, even in desperate need of a haircut and wearing his laundry day clothes—

Until he slips on the shoes.

——

Lance, of course, does not disappoint.

“Please, Pidge.”

“Say it and I swear you’ll be singing falsetto for the rest of your life.”

“I–I can’t. I have to.” Lance is two seconds away from completely losing his shit. He’s talking to Pidge but his eyes are locked on Shiro’s feet as he stands at the counter, blissfully unaware as he pays for his and Pidge’s part of the bill.

“Let me say it, just once. Please,” Lance begs.

“No.”

“Once!”

Pidge digs her boot into his shin when Shiro makes his way back to the table.

“You wanted chocolate, right?” he asks Pidge, voice hopeful and brows furrowed.

Pidge nods and accepts her brownies. “Yeah, thanks.”

Shiro takes his seat. Pidge can practically feel the need to be a jackass radiating off the moron to the left of her. She glances at him from the corner of her eye to confirm that, yes, he is in fact about to implode.

Shiro pulls apart his donut. “You guys want to try this?” he asks, and Lance–God fucking dammit, Lance–can’t help it.

“What are those?”