#and literally I don't know how to feel

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 19

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is heading to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: I hope this chapter makes you all feel as much as it made me feel.

---

Our world may have shattered. But I promise, we will put it back together again. Piece by piece, no matter how long it takes, no matter how much I grit my teeth in pain. With bare, shaking hands I will gather the remains, even if they shred my skin until I bleed. I will not give up on you if you don’t give up on me. 

I won’t give up on me. 

You told me once that it will be hard, that it will hurt, and it does. But no matter how hard it is, no matter how much it hurts, every moment is worth it to see your face when I wake up in the morning. Every moment is worth it to hope that someday, I’ll just be me again. And you’ll be you and we’ll be us, carefree and fearless and madly in love as we find the next adventure. The next small step. The next giant leap. The next stop on the road to everywhere and nowhere. And everything will be back to normal. 

Normal. 

Everyone keeps saying that the hurt and the hard stuff is normal. That everything I’m going through is normal. That the pain and the confusion and the fear are normal. 

But how can it be?

When my normal is so unachievable with the way I am now. Major Bucky Egan. Artemis commander. Wild, reckless, competent.

Broken.

I don’t know what normal is anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel it again. I don’t know what to do if I don’t. Sometimes I think it’ll be unbearable. And sometimes I think, if we can’t find normal, we’ll just redefine it. You and me. We can do that, can’t we?

It does hurt. It is hard. Some days I feel like I’m drowning, and some days I feel so fuckin’ alive. It’s like I can’t keep up. Like I’m sprinting into the future until I run off a cliff, just waiting for the ground to reappear again. I need you to remind me why it’s worth it. I need you to remind me why I fought so hard to keep breathing. I will fight tooth and nail to make our life whole again, as long as you’re there to guide me home. 

We’re all made of stardust, you like to say. And when I look into your eyes, I see it. I feel it. The stuff of shattered stars and baby universes and every atom that has forged this existence in which we live. Every breath that’s ever been taken. Every speck of sunlight that’s ever brightened my day. It’s all right there, staring back at me when you look me in the eye. And you smile. And I feel like I’m drowning, for once, in a good way. 

Maybe our world nearly crumbled to pieces, but it’s still turning. I see it when I look at you, and it gives me the hope I need to keep going. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. We made it this far, and we will make it farther. I promise you, we will find a way to put our future back together. We’ll find normal, whatever that means. 

Our world may have shattered, but I promise we won’t. 

—

December 18 Nassau Bay, TX

Bucky doesn’t know when he started calling Gale “Angel.” 

He called him “Buck” from the moment they met, two lanky kids sizing up their new college roommate, couldn’t be more opposite and yet Gale Cleven was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. All other men, women, ruined for him the moment he set eyes on that perfect fucking angel with the soft, unsure smile and the messy blonde hair, bright blue eyes locked on the stars just like Bucky’s.

“So what’d’ya say, Buck?” he asked that first night, clapping Gale on the shoulder like they were already old friends. “Wanna see what this college town has to offer?”

“My name is Gale,” Gale muttered back. All Bucky could do was hum noncommittally, because it didn’t even matter. Sure, Gale Cleven had always been, would always be Gale Cleven. But from that moment on, he would also always be Buck. 

From that moment on, they were tied to one another. Even if Bucky never, even in his wildest dreams, could have anticipated how beautiful their life would turn out, they belonged to each other. Their names said so.

Buck. And Bucky.

But, angel? He can’t remember when that started for the life of him. 

That’s what he’s thinking about as he sits alone on the living room couch, staring at the unadorned Christmas tree in their bay window. It sits tall and proud right in the center so you can see it from the street. They pick one out every year, wandering through the Christmas tree lots with a far too critical eye, carefully selecting the perfect one to take home and decorate for the holiday season.

They were late getting it this year, and it still doesn’t have a single ornament on its branches. When Bucky was in the hospital, it hardly even occurred to Gale to decorate for Christmas, much less to buy a tree. He wasn’t exactly in the holiday spirit. After all, the tree was always something they shared. After all, Gale wasn’t sure they’d ever share it again. 

But with Bucky home, their undecorated house suddenly felt so incredibly wrong.

Sure, the guys had taken it upon themselves to string up the lights along the roof the day Bucky came home, but no one had touched the boxes of interior decorations stored in the shed in the backyard. That same day, once everyone had gone, Bucky looked sadly around the house and said “It’s almost Christmas, Buck. Why does it look so… un-Christmassy in here?”

Gale went outside that very moment and started hauling boxes in from the shed.

They spent all afternoon hanging wreaths on the doors and displaying the various decorations they’ve accumulated over their lifetime together. Christmas candles and reindeer figurines and garland and colorful lights to hang around their window. They hung three stockings on the mantle of the fireplace they never use: a white one for Gale, a red one for Bucky, and a green one with paw prints all over for Pepper. That night, while Bucky watched and tried not to fall asleep in his chair, Gale made sugar cookies that filled the house with the scent of vanilla and a certain joy that had been missing for weeks. He hummed as he baked, blushed when Bucky pointed it out, and repeatedly had to smack Bucky’s hand away when he tried to eat the raw dough. 

When, after being home for a few days, Bucky insisted that they needed a Christmas tree, Gale was bound and determined to find one. Usually, they get their tree a good few weeks before the holiday, when Bucky finally convinces Gale to give in to the Christmas spirit. This late, Gale was worried the lots would be picked over, leaving nothing up to Bucky’s standards. But they kidnapped Benny from his house down the road, and the three of them drove out around the Houston area. They had to go to three different lots, but eventually, they landed on something promising.

Gale pushed Bucky between the rows of trees in his wheelchair, turning left or right or backtracking according to Bucky’s whims. Gale was getting nervous that this lot would be a bust, too, but damn near the end of the last row they walked down, Bucky pointed enthusiastically to a tree in the corner, just a hint taller than the others around it. “That’s the one!”

“How can you tell?” Benny asked skeptically as they approached the tree. Gale looked it up and down, studying its trunk, its height, the integrity of its branches. Bucky stroked the dark green needles, smiled brightly, and he nodded. He didn’t answer Benny. Because when you know, you know.

So Gale shelled out the money for their last-minute tree and they got it strapped to the top of the car. Back at home, once Bucky was settled on the couch with Pepper and Meatball, he watched dutifully as Gale and Benny hauled it in through the front door. “Be careful,”  he called out as they struggled to maneuver it into the living room, Benny yelling back a “Fuck you.” As they placed it in the stand in front of the bay window, Bucky helped by saying things like “A little to the right,” or “It’s leaning too far forward,” or “Turn it so we can see its good side… no, the other good side… Benny are you blind?”

Pepper definitely did not almost knock the tree over before they could get it secure or start trying to eat the pine needles as they fell onto the floor, and she definitely didn’t try to drink the water out of the base once or twice or over and over and over again. Bucky definitely did not laugh when Gale came away covered in pine needles himself, specks of green stuck in his blonde hair. And Benny definitely did not flip Bucky off for his ‘unnecessary commentary’ and ‘false sense of superiority.’ 

Their house finally smelled and felt like Christmas, and that was the first day since coming home that Bucky actually felt normal. Or at least like he could feel normal again. Eventually.

The whole process of acquiring the tree drained him, though. Then the next few days weren’t so stellar; he felt sick and lethargic, the brain fog making it hard to focus on anything or move real well. Gale was at JSC for several hours every day, so Marge spent her afternoons with Bucky, “working remotely” even though they mostly ended up watching movies and gossipping. Bucky declared he didn’t need a babysitter, but having her around quelled some of his anxiety, reminded him that he was fine, that low points were part of the healing process and not indicative of his future, not signs of worsening.

So here they are, days after they brought the tree home, and it sits, green and bare, in front of their window. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but Bucky feels like he’s been awake for ages, his brain and body getting tired even though he’s done a whole lot of nothing all day. Gale went to JSC in the morning, but he came home after just a few hours because Bucky texted him I miss you, come home. 

Months ago that text would’ve gotten an eye-roll emoji.

Months ago, Bucky wouldn’t have even been home alone long enough to miss Gale, instead spending all his time in sims or doing training exercises. 

Now, though, those words are enough to make Gale stop whatever he was doing and leave for the day. Bucky felt a little bad about it. It wasn’t his goal to make Gale actually blow off work to come home, truly. Especially because, so far, it’s a pretty good day. His head feels clear. His hands aren’t shaking as bad as they were yesterday, he doesn’t feel nauseous, the pain in his leg is dull enough that he can push it to the back of his mind. He feels… okay.

He sits on the couch with Pepper. She hasn’t let him out of her sight since she came home, dedicated to watching over him and trying to make him smile. He strokes her soft fur and stares at the tree, and he wonders if somehow plants can see, too. Then he wonders if, since the tree was cut down days ago, it’s technically dead, and it therefore doesn’t matter if it can see or not. Then he wonders if, since they have to give it water, it’s technically still alive, and it’s their job to keep it that way for a while.

Like life support.

Like Bucky on Orion. Or in the hospital.

IVs and oxygen and antibiotics and cooling blankets. Beeping heart monitors. Concerned voices. Flashes of fear. Unbearable pain. And his crew’s pure determination not to let him die… You just keep pushing through, alright? Whatever you need to do, Bucky. It’s alright.

“John? You okay?”

Bucky shakes his head. Then he nods, tilts his head as he looks at the tree again, trying to refocus his vision so it’s not just an amorphous splotch of green shrouded with visions of a blurry crew cabin. He feels like he can still hear Curt’s voice ringing in his ear.

“Yeah,” he says absently. He looks over at Gale, who is leaning against the wall in the entryway to the living room, arms crossed over his chest. His hair is messy from running his hand through it too much, but his eyes are bright, the corner of his lip quirked up in a smile. Bucky tries not to stare too much at the way his fitted gray sweater accentuates the muscle in his biceps, then he remembers that Gale is his husband and he’s been ogling him for 15 years. “Just some morbid thoughts about the tree.”

Gale gives him that nuanced look of questioning, amusement, and exasperation that was tailor-made for Bucky, perfected over the years since they met. “Do I wanna know?”

Bucky doesn’t give him a choice. “We killed it. But then we put it on life support.”

Gale squints at him, then at the tree. He considers the water filling the base of the stand. “Okay, sure.”

“We’re holding it captive,” Bucky goes on. “But it needs us to live.”

“It’s a tree,” Gale says slowly, stifling a laugh.

“It’s gonna develop Stockholm syndrome.”

“... it’s a tree.”

“And that means it doesn’t have feelings?” Bucky crosses his arms and exaggeratedly mimics Gale’s facial expression, which is shifting more toward exasperated.

Gale pushes away from the wall and crosses the room to stand in front of Bucky. Bucky grabs onto his waist, one hand on either side, and pulls him close, so he can rest his forehead against his abs. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Gale says. It’s fond, though, and he strokes his hand over Bucky’s hair, pausing at the patch that was shaved. It’s nearly grown back now, hardly noticeable as it blends in with the rest of his curls. 

Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Gale’s been telling him that since the day they met. But here they are, married, standing in front of a Christmas tree in a house that they bought together. Gale is officially stuck with him. “Maybe decorating it will make it happy,” Bucky offers.

“You sound like Maggie.”

“I can only hope to be half as smart as that little girl someday.”

Gale looks down at him. “Will decorating the tree make you happy?”

Bucky looks right back up at him, a bright, love-struck grin on his face. “Happier than an astronaut on the moon… even before he almost dies.” Gale goes tense before rolling his eyes, and he flicks Bucky lightly on the forehead. “What?” Bucky asks innocently. “Too soon?”

Gale kneels down in front of him, taking both of his hands in his own. “Too soon,” he agrees. Bucky pulls one of his hands to his lips, though, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. It never fails to make Gale smile, at least a little bit. “Fine,” Gale relents. “I’ll get the ornaments.”

Bucky turns on a Spotify Christmas playlist while he waits, and by the time Gale comes back with the box of ornaments, they’re both singing along to Winter Wonderland. Pepper hops off the couch, wagging her tail in excitement to reflect the relaxed, cheerful energy of her people. Bucky reaches down and grabs both of her front paws, lifting her up so she’s balancing on her hind legs. He moves her paws back and forth like they’re dancing, and he serenades her until she howls along with him.

“Baby girl’s first Christmas,” he thinks aloud as he lowers her back to the ground so she can run over to Gale.

Gale scratches under her collar and kisses the top of her head. “First Christmas as a family,” he agrees, and it makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat. “Now come on,” Gale says, and he helps Bucky to his feet, carefully supporting his weight as they take the few steps over to the tree.

They start by stringing lights around it, Gale winding them around and around as Bucky helpfully – or sometimes unhelpfully – holds them in place, standing with most of his weight on his good leg and a crutch under one arm. Finally, they reach the end of the final strand and get them plugged in, lighting the tree up in soft yellow-white.

Bucky leans against the wall beside the bay window and watches Gale pull an ornament from the box. Every year, it’s the first one to go on the tree – a small glass angel. It belonged to Gale’s mother, and it’s one of the only things he still has from his childhood home. He looks at the tree as he holds it delicately in his hand, trying to decide which branch is worthy. Bucky points to a sturdy one front and center, and Gale nods, carefully slipping it over the pine needles. Bucky watches his lips move, and even though he can’t hear them, he knows they’re the same words that Gale whispers every year: Merry Christmas, Mama.

Bucky hops away from the wall, leaving the crutch behind, and he takes Gale’s hand gently in his. In a moment of sad, loving silence, they look at the little angel in its rightful place on the tree. Bucky has an urge to reach out and touch it, but he doesn’t trust his fingers not to knock it off, shatter it to pieces. “Hey Buck?”

“Mmm?”

Bucky looks at his husband, wondering if he should even ask. “When did I start callin’ you angel?”

Gale thinks for a second, studying Bucky, and then he chuckles quietly, a breathy little huff of laughter. “Of course you wouldn’t remember.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gale lets go of his hand and kneels down to rummage around in the ornament box, deciding which one should go next. “You were drunk.”

Bucky points to an ornament – a space shuttle wrapped in Christmas lights – and Gale pulls it out and hands it to him. “That… that tracks,” Bucky acquiesces. The ornament has a gold string instead of a hook, and his fingers shake as he tries to get them through the loop. He bites down on the inside of his cheek as he tries to concentrate, but eventually Gale has to stand up and separate the loop for him. He tells Bucky to spread his fingers out wide, and he hangs the ornament on them so the loop stays open enough to slide onto a branch. Bucky slips it onto one somewhere above the angel. 

“Thanks,” he whispers self-consciously. Gale wraps an arm around his lower back and kisses him gently on the lips, trying to take away the little bout of disappointment. It’s okay, the kiss says. You’re doin’ just fine. It makes Bucky smile again. “So, I was drunk?”

The story goes that Buck and Bucky were at a college party. This was sometime during the second semester of their freshman year, maybe at the end of spring break, but Gale isn’t clear on exactly when. It was before the big push toward finals, and before the two of them started dating. Now, make no mistake, Bucky had been shamelessly flirting with Gale since the day they met. But Gale didn’t like the idea of jumping into a relationship as soon as he started college, and certainly not with his roommate, a wild-card flirt with a disregard for rules despite being in ROTC. From day one, they were a package deal, to the point that Gale’s pretty sure everyone thought they were dating anyway, but he refused to give them a chance, no matter how Bucky tried to convince him. 

Anyway, Bucky was, in fact, drunk at this party. There was a lot of beer. Some crappy vodka shots. Some shitty concoction they slapped with the label of jungle juice. Bucky was – still is – a fan of beer pong, and Gale is sure he had just lost a game. Bucky claims that that can’t be possible, because he dominated at beer pong, even drunk as fuck. 

Either way, after he was done playing, he wandered over to where Gale – sober – was sitting on a couch with some of their friends. They were playing Space Invaders on the PlayStation – he maintains that it wasn’t nearly as good on a console as it was as an arcade game, but Gale Cleven was, admittedly, something of a legend at it despite having zero interest in any other video game ever made. Bucky collapsed down on the floor in front of Gale, so he was sitting cross-legged facing him, and he rested his chin on Gale’s knee, staring up at him with wide puppy-dog eyes. The distraction made Gale lose the game, and he looked at Bucky in exasperation, asked him what he wanted.

Bucky smiled at him, soft and drunk and in love. Just like he still does now. “I must’ve died and gone to heaven, ‘cause you’re the prettiest angel I’ve ever seen.”

Here in 2025, a small, nostalgic smile plays at Gale’s lips as he recounts the story, his gaze a little far off, lost in the past before he blinks and tilts his head. He looks at Bucky like he’s seeing the entire temporal roadmap of their lives. All at once, they’re college kids and young aviators and thirty-somethings with wedding bands on their hands. They’re them.

Buck and Bucky.

“I don’t remember that at all,” Bucky chuckles, blushing as he stares at the little angel on the tree, holds tighter to the angel in his arms.

“I know,” Gale says. “But you’ve been callin’ me that ever since.”

Bucky looks over at him. Tall and lanky but stronger than anyone would ever know. Messy blonde hair. Pretty blue eyes, light freckles splashed across his cheeks, perfect lips. Everything is softened in the dim glow of the Christmas tree lights. “You are.”

“I’m what?”

Bucky presses his hand to Gale’s cheek, and he kisses him again, soft and slow. “The prettiest angel I’ve ever seen.”

They take turns hanging ornaments, selecting the perfect spot for each until every last one is on its designated branch. Gale helps Bucky here and there when his fingers won’t cooperate, and sometimes Bucky does it all on his own, small little victories. Some of their ornaments are just collections of colorful bulbs from department stores, bought when they brought home their first Christmas tree and realized they had nothing to put on it. But they have personal ones, too. Some are air and space themed, planets and planes and bulbs painted with constellations. Then there’s ornaments from places they’ve visited, like a turtle from Honolulu with a pineapple wrapped in Christmas lights on its back, or an Eiffel tower from France. They have reindeer and snowflakes and gingerbread men and a Star Wars ewok in a Christmas sweater. 

Bucky is balancing on his good leg, focusing hard on placing the ewok on a branch on the side of the tree, when he realizes that Gale isn’t beside him anymore. Once he manages to get the metal hook secured, he looks over at the box, where he finds Gale kneeling on the floor. He’s staring at Bucky with a funny expression on his face, eyes a little glassy, and he’s biting at his lower lip.

“You okay?” Bucky asks.

Gale blinks, and he seems to realize all of a sudden that Bucky is looking at him. He rubs a hand over his eyes and nods. “Yeah. Yeah. All good.”

You’re here, he wants to say. You’re here, decorating our Christmas tree. Your leg is broken and you can barely stand and your fingers won’t work and sometimes you forget where you are but you’re here and for a while, I didn’t think… didn’t dare to hope…

You’re here. 

It stopped him cold. Because just for a second, he couldn’t quite believe Bucky was standing in front of him, putting an ornament on a tree. It made him feel sick and sad and so incredibly happy at the same time and there was nowhere for that emotion to go. But he can’t say that.

There’s no words for that. It’s something you can’t know unless you’ve lost someone. Unless you’ve come too damn close to losing someone.

It’s something Gale knows too well. Has known for too long. Feels too deeply.

But he’s never found the words.

Bucky can’t move real well on his own, so he holds his hand out, and Gale stands up to take it. He steps in close until they’re toe to toe, a single breath being shared between them. It’s so natural for Bucky to put his hands on Gale’s hips, where they belong, but for once, it’s his turn to wrap his arms around Gale’s neck, needing the support to stay standing. Gale’s hands easily find Bucky’s waist, and it feels backward, but it feels good. Safe. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas is playing, and Bucky starts swaying, taking Gale with him until they’re dancing in their living room.

It’s starting to get dark outside, and the lights on the tree glow and reflect in the window, sending dancing, twinkling golden specks across Gale’s eyes. It smells like pine. Like home on Christmas morning. Bucky lets his head fall tiredly against his husband’s shoulder, lets the warmth overwhelm him as he nuzzles against his neck. 

Gale’s smooth voice softly, delicately blends with the music. “So hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now…”

When the song ends, the energy is sapped from Bucky’s body, but he feels more at peace than he has in months. Gale leans down to pick up the last ornament, a Christmas tree shaped frame with a picture of the two of them. He delicately slips it onto a branch. “There’s something missing,” he observes, even though he knows full well what it is.

Bucky is typically the one to put the star on top, but he frowns down at it when Gale hands it to him. His eyes flick down to his leg and then back to his unsteady hands. “Buck…”

“You can do it,” Gale insists. “I’ll help. Come on.”

He shifts so he’s behind Bucky, his chest pressed to Bucky’s back, and he holds him steady with a firm arm around his middle. His other hand lays over top of Bucky’s, guiding him, and together, they lift the star onto the top of the tree. 

—

Bucky kneels down in the alien regolith, his knees crashing unceremoniously to the surface, and, carefully, he scoops up a small, peculiarly shaped moon rock. Lifting it closer to his face, he inspects it through the glass of his helmet. He’s suddenly glad he decided to take this extra hundred or so yard trek away from the rover in which they drove out to the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere meaning far enough away from Starship that he really hopes said rover doesn’t break down or some shit way out here. He can see the lander rising in the distance, but it would likely take too much oxygen to walk all the way back.

“You think we got enough?” Curt’s voice buzzes over the coms, and Bucky looks up, searching for the other astronaut. He’s met with nothing but the horizon and long, dark shadows peeling off the craters in the distance. He can see the Earth, perpetually rising over the lunar south pole. Even from way out here, he can make out the browns and greens of the continents, the white, wispy weather systems looping in seemingly random yet surprisingly predictable patterns around the planet’s curvature.

“Comin’ up behind you,” Curt clarifies, and Bucky can hear him grunting as he tries to navigate the rocky terrain around them.

Rather clumsily, Bucky turns in a half circle, nearly tripping over a divet in the grainy surface. He clutches the rock in his gloved hand. Their second full day on the moon, and he still isn’t used to the one-sixth gravity or the awkward way of moving, even after months and months of training for it. He retracts his gold-coated radiation-blocking visor when he sees Curt bunny-hopping toward him, carrying the scooper that they’ve been using to collect rock samples. Bucky is carrying a large sack that they’ve been dumping the bigger rocks into. Their materials for smaller soil samples were left on the rover so they could do a more thorough pedestrian survey.

“What, tired of pickin’ up hunks of rock?” Bucky asks. He opens up the bag so Curt can dump a few more into it. They look to be mostly anorthosite, though they’ve also found a lot of what Mission Control calls breccias, rocks made of other rocks that were smashed together during meteoroid impacts. 

“‘M tired of you wanderin’ off with the fuckin’ bag.” Curt bumps Bucky’s shoulder. “Get your head on this planet.”

“Moon ain’t a planet,” Bucky retorts. He shoves the bag forward. “You hold it then.”

Gale: “Surface crew, be advised, you have about two hours of oxygen left.”

Bucky: “Copy, angel.

Bucky looks down at the rock cradled in his palm. Curious, Curt crowds against his side and peeks over, so close their helmets bump.

Curt: “Oh so your head definitely isn’t on this planet.”

Bucky: “Fuckin’ shut it.”

Curt: “Buck, be advised, your husband-”

Bucky: “I said shut it, smartass.”

Curt holds up his hands, but Bucky can see the sassy grin on his face.

Curt: “Geez, sorry, commander.”

Bucky shoves him playfully, amused by the lack of force it takes to make Curt stumble back in this microgravity. Rolling his eyes, he keeps the rock clutched in his hand as he heads for the rover.

He’s nearly there, headed toward one of those eerie, long shadows and the rover parked just in front of it, when he blinks, and the world changes somehow.

It’s dark. Bucky looks around, his boots sliding in the fine, dry soil. He can see streaks of sun illuminating the ground far, far away. Wasn’t he just over there? How did he get so deep in the shadows?

Gale: “Major Egan, be advised, you have about 75 minutes of oxygen left.”

Bucky squints, trying to see ahead of himself. He presses the button of his flashlight, smacks it. Why won’t it turn on? “Curt?” He starts walking in the direction he’s facing. He can’t even see where he’s going. Is he still near the rover?

Blink.

His heart rate is too fast. He needs to control his breathing, or he’s gonna run out of- 

Gale: “Major Egan, be advised… your oxygen…”

Bucky: “Buck? What was that?”

Gale: “John? Are you there?”

Bucky: “Gale?”

Silence.

An alarm is sounding in his helmet. He clutches the rock in his palm, finds that it’s gone. When did he lose it? Where did he lose it?

He stops in his tracks and turns in another circle. The slope of the ground beneath his feet is strangely familiar. “Curt?”

Silence. 

Okay. Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine. 

Blink.

His flashlight flickers to life, and he finds that he’s alone. Somewhere at the base of Shackleton Crater. The ringing in his helmet is getting louder as he unsteadily walks across the slippery rise towards the rover. Something in his brain is screaming at him not to get on it, but he doesn’t see what choice he has, out here in the middle of nowhere, alone and with his oxygen depleting fast. 

Bucky: “Houston? Do you copy?”

Gale: “Can you hear me, Major Egan?”

Bucky: “Yes, yes Buck. Do you copy?”

Gale: “Bucky?... gonna be… just breathe… Bucky?”

Blink.

Bucky feels his lungs constricting. His vision is fading in and out as he turns on the rover. That alarm won’t go away; it’s getting louder, louder, louder.

Gale: “Don’t… the rover… Ple-. John.”

Bucky: “Gale? I can’t hear you.”

Bucky feels like his heart might beat out of his chest with how fast it’s going. He can’t breathe. He can barely see. Where is Curt?

Gale’s voice is ringing in his ear when he feels the impact crush his body into the ground.

If iron can kill a star it sure as hell can kill you. A supernova in the dark.

“John, darlin’, come on, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Bucky’s eyes snap open with a gasp so deep that it sends him straight into a coughing fit, withholding oxygen from his lungs until tears stream down his cheeks. Gale’s steady hands help him to sit up, and Bucky grapples to find purchase on his arm, his fingernails scraping fragile skin as he desperately searches for something to hold onto, to ground him. When the coughing subsides, he holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Look at me, John.”

Bucky blinks as Gale tilts his chin up, and their eyes meet in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He feels the weight of gravity holding him down. A full 9.8 meters per second squared. He feels the soft blanket brushing against his bare abdomen. He feels the itchy cast on his right leg, which is throbbing with pain. He feels Gale’s hand brushing back his sweaty hair. He feels the mattress shift as Pepper whines and tries to lay down in between them, and he feels a small, reassuring weight on his hip as she rests her chin on it, watching with wide eyes.

His hand is shaking so bad as he reaches out to her, resting it on her head. Something soft. Something real. “W-What day is it?”

Gale shifts so that he’s pressed close to Bucky’s side, and he pulls him in so he’s laying propped up against his chest. He takes Bucky’s other hand and rubs soothing patterns across his knuckles. “It’s December 23rd. 2:30am. You had a pretty bad dream.”

“Clearly,” Bucky mutters, but he tries to let himself relax. He feels like he can’t move, and everything aches like he got crushed by that rover all over again.

“You feel okay?” Gale asks. Bucky realizes he’s trembling because of how tense he’s holding himself. He tells himself that he will not cry over this, but Gale wipes a tear off his cheek anyway. “You didn’t take the max dose of your meds, so I can get you more if you want. Or maybe some water?”

Bucky shakes his head and more fully tucks himself against Gale, holding as tight as he can to his husband’s hand. “Just stay, please.”

Bucky feels Gale press his lips against the side of his head. “Always.”

—

December 23

A lot of people assume it would be really difficult to sleep in space. In reality, though, the sleep Bucky got on the station was some of the best in his entire life. In zero gravity, there’s not much sense of direction. No real up or down. Close your eyes and you could be facing any which way, so it doesn’t matter what orientation the sleeping bags are in – mostly, they’re upright against the walls of the cabin. They sleep strapped into them so they don’t drift away, and once they get used to the zero G sensation – and the increased sinus pressure and the flashes of EM radiation – having nothing weighing them down feels like sleeping on a goddamn cloud. 

Orion was similarly set up. At least, on their moon-ward bound trip. The trip back Bucky doesn’t remember so well, and what he does remember was rather unpleasant. As for Starship, he couldn’t complain. The hammocks they slept in were the same as those on Orion, except on the moon they had some semblance of gravity to contend with. Bucky and Curt are military men. They’ve slept in worse accommodations, and the quiet of the moon, the darkness of the cabin, made for a pleasant, if eerie, stay. He could look out the window and see the cosmos beyond, stretched out to infinity with constellations sewn together in the fabric of space and time. He could count the stars until he lost his place, until his eyes drifted closed, and he fell asleep knowing that he was exactly where he’d always wanted to be.

If Bucky’s ever had trouble sleeping, it’s been right here on planet Earth.

He yawns as he sits in a chair across from a news reporter in their living room, and it makes his ears ring. He slept terribly last night, isn’t convinced he got even a couple hours of real shut-eye. After that nightmare, he couldn’t sleep. His heart rate was too high and his head was pounding. If he wasn’t in pain, then he was having a coughing fit that had his chest aching and his face burning. Or Gale had to help him stumble to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Or Pepper was moving around too much and making too much noise. Or there was too much goddamn noise in general even though there was nothing but the rustle of leaves outside.

By the time the sun came up, Gale tried to convince Bucky to stay in bed and rest until OT. Bucky had agreed to an interview this morning – his first since splashdown – but Gale insisted they could just reschedule. Bucky was so pissed off, though, that he threw in the metaphorical towel and refused to stay in bed. Now he wishes he’d listened, because the lack of sleep makes absolutely everything worse.

He pushes through the interview with a cocky grin, a level voice, hardly even a cough. It’s easier in the morning. He manages to hide his shaking hands and stay focused. 

He felt a pressing need to let the media see his face. The rhetoric over him going to the moon in the first place – and then over him nearly conking out up there and whose fault it was – was just too damn loud, and he needed to shut it up. So Gale helped him shower and gel back his hair and get dressed in a white t-shirt and a NASA flight jacket. 

He lets the cameraman get shots of his cast, because he isn’t hiding the fact that he got hurt up there – he’s not about to feed those conspiracy theories. He talks openly about his injuries and the TBI. He answers painful questions about what he remembers, what happened, what it was like. He talks about his good memories of the moon, too, trying to remind people of why they’re going. 

“A lot of people are wondering if a new lunar program is too risky,” the interviewer says. “I think we’re all wondering. Is the risk worth it?”

“It is absolutely worth it,” Bucky insists. He watches her glance down at his broken leg, at the way his fingers shake as he grips his knee out of the camera’s view. But he looks right at her. “Sure, space travel is dangerous. We’ve known that since the 50s. But we’ve learned so much. And we have so much to gain-”

“Even at the expense of your life?”

“I’m here ain’t I?” He can see that she isn’t sure what to say. If she should point out the obvious – that he almost wasn’t. So he goes on. “Listen, did this-” he motions to himself – “suck? Yeah, it sucked. But I’d go back. This program is exactly what science and the public need right now; we are doing amazing things. And you know, I’m glad it was me up there, working through these problems.” Bucky rubs a rand over his mouth as he thinks about how he wants to say this.

“You wanna talk about risk?” he asks. “Of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, the thing that did was so small – a bad wheel on a rover. It could happen to any of us here on Earth. It was just… wrong place wrong time. You better believe that NASA’s learned from that. And you better believe the reason I’m here right now, actually functional, is ‘cause I had a top tier crew up there. Curt, man, he saved my life every second of every day. And Rosie, that’s a true professional, right there, keepin’ my ass alive. Alex came in and took over when I couldn’t do my job, and he did it beautifully. My crew, my team on the ground, my husband, I am so lucky to have had such an amazing team working to get me home. And that’s what we do at NASA. We have the best of the best, and we are dedicated to making every mission as successful as possible.”

He takes a deep breath, looks at the interviewer, at Gale, at the camera, back at the interviewer. “And, well, we’ve learned a few lessons. Sure. We learn something new every time we go up, whether it’s to the station or to the moon. And NASA will take those lessons and use them to make expeditions safer for future astronauts.”

The interviewer looks a little taken aback by his answer, in a good way. Like she’s in awe of him, and it fuels his ego just a bit. “And speaking of future astronauts,” she goes on. She glances at Gale, off screen. “The commander of Artemis 4 is Major Gale Cleven, your husband. Do you have any reservations about him going into such a dangerous situation?”

Bucky laughs, and he laughs more when he sees Gale’s raised eyebrow. “Buck? Listen. I mean, sure, he’s my husband. I love him with everything I have. I worry about him all the time. I worried about him when I was the one dyin’. But we both know the risks. We’re astronauts, and we’re Air Force. We’ve been throwin’ ourselves into danger since we met.” He looks away from the reporter, towards Gale. “Buck Cleven is one of the best pilots in the world. And he’s a hell of an astronaut. He’ll get the job done, and I’ll be here for him when he comes home.”

By the time the reporter and cameraman leave, wishing Bucky and Gale happy holidays, Bucky feels like he’s lived through a whole day even though he’s only been awake for a few hours. After having to focus and act like cocky Major John Egan for so long, he completely zones out as Gale helps him get ready to head to occupational therapy – his second appointment in the last week. He hardly even remembers getting in the car, or walking through the door.

He didn’t want the media to see it, but he’s still in the early stages of a healing process that will likely take months. The pain has been slowly receding, but it won’t leave him be. His fine motor control hasn’t improved since he was in the hospital. The brain fog gets better and worse, better and worse, accompanied by mood swings.

He has another appointment for a CT – or is it an MRI? He can never remember which is which – just a few days after Christmas, to see how the TBI is healing. Right now, he isn’t particularly hopeful. He won’t talk to Gale about it, doesn’t want to utter the words aloud, but he’s terrified that he’ll never get better. He’ll be stuck just shy of normal forever, never again to feel a jet’s power in his hands or look down on this Earth from space. 

“John? John, can you hear me?”

“Bucky?”

Bucky blinks, and he sees his OT across from him, staring at him in worry over top of their current activity set-up – a bunch of objects of varying sizes on the table and a small basket to his right. Gentle fingers are stroking his hair back. 

He looks down at his hand, clasped firmly in someone else’s. Wonders why his fingers aren’t shaking anymore. “You with me, sweetheart?” The second voice says.

Gale. It’s Gale. 

Bucky tries to squeeze Gale’s hand back, but he can’t get his muscles to work right. He glances up at his husband, who looks just as worried as the OT as he kneels beside Bucky. “There you are.”

Bucky frowns and pulls his hand away. “Sorry,” he mutters.

The OT smiles at him. Too perky. “No worries, hon. It’s normal.”

Bucky is tired of hearing that. Because nothing about any of this is normal. But he sighs and nods, because it’s not worth fighting. He looks at Gale. “I’m alright,” he tells him. Gale looks skeptical, but he kisses Bucky’s cheek before returning to his seat in the corner of the room, where he’s been observing. Every once in a while the OT has him come over to show him how to help Bucky work on these skills at home. 

She reaches across the table now and puts her hand over Bucky’s. His fingers are shaking again even though he isn’t even trying to do anything with them. “I just need you to focus for a little while longer.” 

He nods again, stifling a yawn. “Yeah,” he says. Even though, right now, he’d rather do literally anything other than this, fighting with his brain and body to accomplish something as simple as squeezing a piece of putty or writing his name on a whiteboard. 

But she told him when they started: these simple tasks are the first hurdles on his road back to the cockpit. “You will fly again,” she promised. “But this is where we start.”

Bucky doesn’t understand how she can be so certain. He’s always been a cocky son of a bitch; at least, that’s what people tell him. So why doesn’t he feel cocky now?

But no matter how badly he just wants to crawl back into bed and hide from the world, the words of Gene Kranz echo in his head: “Failure is not an option.” They have guided him his whole life, and he isn’t about to let them go now.

He picks up one of the objects. It’s a square building block, the biggest on the table and the easiest to grasp. His hand shakes, his brain too exhausted even for this, but he manages to drop the block into the basket. Then a stress ball made to look like the Earth. Into the basket. Then he picks up a small toy jet, not even as long as his hand, and his fingers struggle to wrap around the textured plastic. 

But he can see the pattern in these objects, the subtle way the OT is trying to keep his mind on the prize, and he takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, focuses with all of his energy on gripping the toy. In his head, he can’t let this plane fall before it reaches its target. Can’t let it tumble out of the sky. 

—

By the time they leave the outpatient clinic, Bucky isn’t feeling much like holiday cheer, no matter how many festive decorations they put up in the lobby. He’s on crutches today, with his balance and strength slowly improving, but he’s starting to feel overwhelming fatigue set into his whole body. The world feels off-kilter around him, and he has to focus too hard on each step. Gale stays right by his side as they make the slow, slow progress back to the car.

Bucky slumps in the passenger seat, not even complaining when Gale reaches over to buckle his seat belt for him. As tired as he is, though, he notices when they don’t turn the right way to go home. “Um. Buck?”

“We have another stop to make.” Gale doesn’t even take his eyes off the road.

Bucky thinks about the road they’re on. The direction they’re going. “No. No, Buck. No.”

“I just need to grab something from my office. We’ll be in n’ out.”

“I don’t wanna go there.”

Gale sighs. “You can’t avoid it forever, John.”

Bucky scowls and crosses his arms. His eyes flick over to Gale before he looks away, out the passenger side window. “Haven’t even been home from the hospital for two damn weeks.”

“Usually nothing can keep you away. Remember, I had to beg you to come home for dinner.” Gale stops short of saying before our wedding. He doesn’t want to fight right now.

“That was before.”

“So?”

Bucky clenches his jaw, digging into the way it makes his head hurt the harder he does it. “I’m kinda fuckin’ broken right now,” he points out, motioning to his leg and his head, waving his useless fucking hands. “Did you forget? Don’t really think they’re expectin’ me at work.”

“It’s not just work, Bucky,” Gale says, his voice level despite his frustration. Bucky, admittedly, has always admired that: Gale’s ability to sound calm even when Bucky himself is being a prick. “It’s your family.”

They don’t speak the rest of the drive.

“This is Mock-up,” Bucky observes, unimpressed, as Gale slows down approaching the parking lot for a large, warehouse-like building. The lot is mostly empty two days before Christmas.

“Benny left some files in there. Asked me to grab ‘em.” Gale glances over. “Wanna come in? They’ve got the HALO module set up. Not complete, but it’s kinda surreal.”

The hint of excitement that creeps into his voice makes Bucky’s heart a little lighter. His husband has done little but worry and fuss over him the past two weeks. There’s something here that feels “normal,” whatever that even means for them. And Bucky’s glad Gale has that. Really, he is. But it’s also the antithesis of everything Bucky’s brain is feeling right now.

He shakes his head, closes his eyes and sighs as Gale puts the car in park. “Not today.”

It took some convincing, but in the last week, Gale has finally started spending more time at work, catching up on training protocols, reorienting himself to Artemis 4 in the wake of 3. He never stays the whole day, but he’s trying to find that sense of normal, even as neither of them know if or when it will come. He insisted on taking off today to take Bucky to occupational therapy, and yet here they are anyway. At the space center. 

The place Bucky has been avoiding. Gale may be chasing normalcy, but Bucky can barely stand to think about the Center right now. He thinks about the mission enough, that’s for damn sure. Gale has offered to bring him a couple of times, but Bucky always says no. He isn’t ready, even just to visit. He can’t walk, for fuck’s sake. He still has a lingering cough and was still sick up until late last week. His brain still gets all weird and he can’t even buckle his own seatbelt. He’s rather useless, really. 

He can’t stand the idea of being here, when absolutely nothing about him is up to those NASA standards that landed him here in the first place. He can’t stand to be here when he doesn’t know if he’ll ever make it back. They wouldn’t let him go, he knows that. If nothing else they’ll stick him at a desk, make him a flight controller, maybe put him in some directorship role. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

But John Egan wasn’t born to sit at a desk.

Gale unbuckles his seatbelt. “Are you sure?”

“Didn’t wanna be here at all,” Bucky mutters. The idea of seeing the vehicle mock-ups fills him with some drifting sense of anxiety that he can’t get a grip on. Part of him thinks that if he could just see them, he’d feel better. If he could just run his hands over Orion’s hull. Wander through Gateway. Feel the awe of what they’ve done here, what they’re doing… maybe everything would feel okay.

Or maybe it would send him spiraling.

Gale nods quietly, trying to hide his frown, and Bucky has half a mind to feel bad at the attitude he’s giving his husband when he’s done absolutely nothing wrong. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” Gale tells him. Then he opens the car door, steps out, and Bucky watches him walk toward Building 9, leaving him alone in the car with Christmas music playing softly on the radio.

Ever since they started pre-launch quarantine, Bucky has been with at least one other person at almost all times. Since he survived re-entry, there’s always someone watching over him, trying to help him, making sure he’s comfortable, that he’s okay, that he’s still alive. Sometimes he finds himself just wishing everyone would leave him be. 

And yet, being left alone never feels as satisfying as he thinks it might. Usually, it just makes him feel on edge, unsafe. He doesn’t get why. He never once had an issue with being alone before Artemis. But since he came home, every time he finds himself left to his own devices, he feels hollow, dizzy… scared, maybe. And now isn’t any different. His leg hurts from all the activity today. He has a headache. He misses Gale the moment he’s out of the car and wishes he’d just gone in with him.

He picks up his phone, and he tries to choose some social media app to scroll through, but his fingers shake, his muscles and brain too exhausted from therapy, and it makes him grit his teeth in anger as he reminds himself not to violently throw solid objects in his husband’s car. Instead, he unthinkingly slams the phone down on his leg, sending ripples of pain through it that make him scream “Fuck!” into the void of this lonely, empty parking lot.

He hates this. He knows he should be grateful for his life. He should be grateful that he came away with so few permanently debilitating injuries and symptoms. He knows he should be grateful for all the people who have worked tirelessly to keep him alive, for his crew and his husband and the flight controllers and the hospital staff… He has so much to be fucking grateful for. 

But he just wants to be Major John “Bucky” Egan again – carefree, limitless, adrenaline junky, wild child. One of NASA’s favorite pilots.

He wants to be the man who put humanity back on the moon. Not the man who almost died on the moon.

He wants all of the pain and the fear to stop. He wants everyone to stop worrying about him. He wants to stop worrying about himself. He wants to stop feeling too much and too little at the same time all the damn time. He wants… Fuck…

Chalk it up to a bad day. A bad night. This is just what happens when he doesn’t get enough sleep right now. Yet another thing that the doctors tell him is “normal.”

Michael Bublé’s voice comes on over the radio, low and soothing. I’ll Be Home For Christmas. Please have snow and mistletoe… And presents on the tree… 

It reminds Bucky of Gale, and he turns up the volume. He remembers Gale singing this song to him in the hospital, one of his first truly lucid moments here on Earth. There’s something warm about it, and also something haunting. He stares out the window at the massive building in front of him. The vehicle mock-up facility.

God, Bucky feels like he’s spent a whole lifetime in there. Training to go to space. To the moon. He logged hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of hours in that Orion sim, running through every possible situation they could encounter.

He remembers one day, early this year, when they were in there for hours. Gale, Benny, and Helen were running the sim for the four crew members, and they were absolutely crushing them, sending them into impossible situation after impossible situation. Bucky, Curt, Rosie, and Alex were all exhausted, half delirious probably. But they wouldn’t give up. Just kept on going, insisting they needed to “run it again, run it again.” 

They were over their scheduled time, but at JSC, what the lunar crew wants, the lunar crew gets. So they kept on going. “Don’t you think you oughta take a break boys?” Gale asked them through the coms.

“Fuck no,” Curt responded, taking the words right out of Bucky’s mouth. “We ain’t leavin’ ‘til we start actin’ less like a buncha kids playin’ spaceman and more like we belong here.”

“Don’t even think about throwin’ somethin’ easy at us,” Bucky added. 

Before the CAPCOMs could start up a new sim, though, Marge came in, pulling Gale aside. Bucky could hear it through the coms. He was flaking on his scheduled interview, she told Gale. The crew wanted to run more sims, he replied. They went back and forth, bickering like siblings, as the whole crew stifled laughs inside the mock-up. Finally, Gale agreed to give the reporters waiting outside a moment of his time, staying silent when Marge reminded him that he’d already agreed to it days ago.

“Bucky, how’s it feel to know that your fiance’s already got a wife?” Alex teased. 

“Pretty sure Marge wears the pants in that relationship,” Rosie chuckled. 

Bucky reached behind him and threatened to sock both of them in the face. 

“Well fellas,” Gale’s voice cut in. “Let’s see if you’re laughin’ in thirty minutes.” They could hear as he gave Benny and Helen instructions. “Run them through scenario 22C. If they’re not done with that by the time I’m back, they need to do some serious review of their spacecraft if they wanna be home before Christmas.”

“Don’t worry, angel, I’ll be home for Christmas,” Bucky reassured him, smiling as he settled back into his seat. In exaggerated tones, he started to sing, “You can plan on me…”

Fuck, he misses those days. When they were all so cocksure, on the precipice of making history. He felt lighter, then. Now, he doesn’t even know how he feels. When he feels fine, he feels good. When he feels low, he feels fucking low. Like he’s scraping at the sides of a hole in the ground, trying to climb back out. Like he fell into Shackleton crater instead of down it.

The world around him feels a little blurry now, and he squints his eyes as his ears ring, some feeling of nausea rising up in his stomach. 

Gotta be home for Christmas. 

Promised to be home for Christmas. 

Not gonna be home for Christmas. 

The pieces of what happened in Starship don’t fit together right. The border between conscious or unconscious was so blurry. Alive or dead. Dead or dying. Wanting to live or wanting everything to stop. 

But for some reason, that moment in the sim broke its way through the haze one day. Or night. Or somewhere in between. Don’t worry, angel. I’ll be home for Christmas.

And all Bucky could do was lay there, half alive, knowing he needed to wake up wake up wake up but he couldn’t. His brain wouldn’t focus. But through the pain and the fog, the understanding that he probably wouldn’t make it home to his husband for the holidays after all rang in his ears with a deafening volume that sent what was left of him spiraling into panic until he couldn’t feel any of it anymore. 

He remembers Curt’s voice cutting through, drifting like mist around him. “His heart rate is spiking… oh god, what the fuck…”

And then Bucky was gone again, flickering out like dying starlight. I’m sorry, angel

He distinctly remembers knowing that he was about to die. 

“Hey, hey now.” Bucky is startled back to reality by a hand on his cheek, a thumb stroking away a tear he didn’t realize even fell. “What’s wrong?”

He blinks, feels more unshed tears force their way between his eyelashes. His body doesn’t feel right. His head. He looks out the window, finds the SVMF staring back at him, not the lunar landscape. 

Christmas music is still playing. He looks at Gale, can’t remember him getting back in the car. Why can’t he remember him getting back in the car? Surely he should’ve noticed. He looks back out the window, trying to sort it out, but his brain won’t work right and he doesn’t understand what just happened. 

He can’t breathe. His chest feels fluttery, his limbs somehow disconnected from the rest of his body, like he’s floating. But he’s on Earth. In a car. At JSC. He’s not in space. He’s not in space not in space not in-

His face feels hot. 

He needs oxygen. Why can’t he breathe? 

“You’re alright, darlin’, look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Gale’s voice is steady, but Bucky can hear the subtle trace of nerves winding through it. “Look at me,” he says again. So Bucky does, and the way Gale smiles at him, relief and worry mixing together, starts to clear the noise swarming in his head. “There you are,” Gale whispers. “Take a breath, okay?”

Bucky parts his lips, tries to say that he can’t. But Gale takes his hand and presses it to his own chest, takes a deep breath in, out. “Feel that?”

Bucky nods. 

“Good. Now breathe in with me.” He feels Gale’s chest rise beneath his hand, and, shakily, he draws breath into his own lungs. Because he’s alive. On Earth. With his husband. 

Christmas is in two days. He made it. He fucking made it. 

“There we go,” Gale is saying, and Bucky’s senses start to calm down. They breathe together, in, out, in, out, for what feels like ages. “Feel okay?” Gale asks.

Bucky nods. “Yeah.” He looks away from Gale, pulling his hand away from his chest but letting their fingers lock together. “I just… I dunno. I get lost… up there. Sometimes. I-“ he shakes his head. 

“It’s alright,” Gale tries to say. He’s been good about not pushing Bucky to talk when he doesn’t want to. 

But Bucky needs to say certain things. Talking is supposed to help or some shit like that. “No. I just… I promised you I’d be home for Christmas, y’know?” He laughs shakily to calm his nerves. “There was a point, on Starship, when I didn’t think...”

Gale stays quiet as he looks out through the windshield, his face giving nothing away even as his stoic, silent expression says everything anyone needs to know. Bucky looks down at his lap, letting his words hang suspended inside the car, their echo mixing with Have a Holly Jolly Christmas on the radio. He tries to curl his fingers into a fist, stretches them back out, watches them shake. They both know there was almost a reality, just millimeters to the side of this one, where Gale would’ve spent Christmas grieving. Where Bucky made him a widower.

One where not a single Christmas decoration adorned their house and Benny and Marge had to drag Gale out of bed, hold him up even as he tried to tear the world down, hold him tight when he didn’t think he’d ever be whole again. 

There’s no words for that. There’s so. many. almosts. It still makes both of their blood run cold, drives both of them to a fearful, grateful silence, stops them short at even the most mundane parts of their day. And there’s no words.

So Gale just nods, squeezes Bucky’s hand tight. They’re here now. It’s Christmas. Those almosts, they don’t matter. They can’t matter, even when they try to matter with all their might. Gale glances over with a wobbly, barely-there smile that grounds Bucky to this planet, calms the storm, reins in the tides. It doesn’t fix everything, but it makes this moment easier. “Come on,” he says. And he puts the car in drive. 

—

When they park in front of the astronaut office building, there’s significantly more cars filling the lot. Gale turns off the car, unbuckles his seat belt, then reaches over and unbuckles Bucky’s. Bucky glances over at him. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Gale sighs, looks down at his lap, and runs a hand through his hair. Bucky knows he’s been less than cooperative since they left the house. He started the morning by refusing to eat breakfast, refusing to talk about anything that was bothering him, and after the interview, Gale basically had to carry him to the car because he didn’t want to go to OT. But no matter what, Gale isn’t giving up here.

“Please just come in with me.”

Bucky slouches down and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Cause I’m asking you to.”

Bucky frowns. “Buck.”

“Bucky.”

Bucky works his jaw and rolls his eyes like the petulant child he’s pretending to be. But he meets Gale’s eyes, sincere and hopeful and just as tired as his own, and he feels the fight leave his body. “Fine.”

Gale nods, opens the door, and asks, “Do you want the crutches or the chair?” Both are stowed away in the back. 

“Might fall over if I have to use the crutches for another minute.”

He doesn’t know what he expects, walking back into JSC for the first time since the day he left for quarantine back in October, but they don’t get far before he realizes that Gale needing to get something from his office was a load of bullshit. And yet, no matter how much he’s been actively avoiding everyone in his life, Bucky can’t deny that seeing them all lifts his spirits, at least a little.

The lobby of the building is filled with holiday decor and NASA personnel wearing Santa hats, but the banner strung across the wall says “CONGRATULATIONS ARTEMIS III” and the massive sheet cake on a table to the side has their crew photo plastered on top of it. Behind it are four large portraits displayed on easels – their Artemis portraits, to replace their ISS ones. The entirety of Mission Control is here. Every single person who kept Artemis III online, kept Bucky alive. He spots his crew, all three of them, chatting with Harding and Croz and Benny. 

“What the fuck?” Bucky whispers, and Gale laughs as he wheels him toward the crowd of people. 

Curt spots them, grabs Rosie and Alex, and they start heading for Bucky and Gale. “There he is!” Curt exclaims. “Our commander.” He gently shoos Gale away, taking over the job of pushing Bucky himself as Rosie and Alex flank him on either side.

“What is this?” Bucky asks.

“Our party,” Curt tells him, like it’s obvious. “We never got our welcome home celebration, since you had the nerve to almost die and all.” 

“Attention everyone!” Alex calls out. “Please welcome home, from the brink of death and the expedition of a lifetime, Mission Commander, Major John Egan!”

The upset from just minutes ago starts to melt away as Curt brings Bucky to a stop, and everyone in front of them raucously applauds. Four crew members stand – or sit – in a line; Alex, Curt, Bucky, Rosie. American astronauts. American heroes.

“Thank you, thank you,” Bucky calls out, waving his hands in the air like a king addressing his subjects. “I know how devastated you all would’ve been to lose your best pilot.”

Everyone laughs, even though the memory, the fear, the dread of losing Bucky Egan is still fresh in their minds. The almost. The what if. It’s something that he would’ve said before, too, over far more trivial things. Something normal.

“But it’s Christmas,” Bucky goes on. “I’m alive. We had a hell of a mission, and we’ll have many more! So let’s fuckin’ celebrate.”

Cheers go up around the room, and Bucky’s crewmates clap him on the shoulder and ruffle his hair. Chick ducks through the crowd to get to him, and Bucky finds himself looking up at this man who he’s looked up to for years, who gave him this dream life to run with, who John and Gale have come to see as family. 

“Hey Chick, you comin’ over for Christmas?” Bucky asks as the man puts a hand on his shoulder. Somewhere behind the wheelchair, one of the crew members – Bucky thinks Rosie purely by how gentle the hands are – puts a Santa hat on his head, and Bucky has to shove the pom pom at the end out of his face.

Chick nods. “You can count on it. Wouldn’t miss your wife’s cooking for anything.” Bucky can’t help but laugh, a real, bubbling, joyous laugh that surprises him after the day he’s had. Chick chuckles, too, and he leans down to wrap Bucky in a half hug. “Welcome home, son,” he says quietly. “Can’t tell ya how glad I am to see you back here.”

Bucky’s heart lurches, caught off guard by the emotion those words stir in him, and he finds himself hugging Chick back, holding on tight.

He thought he was home when he landed in the Pacific, blue skies and sunlight above. He thought he was home when Gale wrapped him in his arms, warm and strong and safe. He thought he was home when he rolled through the front door of his house, when he saw Pepper again for the first time.

He thought he was home already. But turns out there was still a missing piece.

He looks around at his friends, his chosen family, gathered in the astronaut office building of Johnson Space Center, celebrating him and his mission. He looks at his Artemis portrait, at how happy and competent he seems. He looks at the spaceflight photographs and astronaut portraits adorning the walls all around him. A history of spaceflight – a history of everything he ever wanted to do and be – and he can’t believe he was scared to come back here.

Because now, really, he’s home.

—

December 25

John gets a full night of sleep on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t even wake up until Pepper is standing on his chest, licking his cheek, wondering why the hell he’s still in bed. His alarm clock, which hasn’t been set since he’s been home, says 7:30am. Bright morning sunshine is streaming through the window. 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s Christmas. It never really feels like it when he wakes up down here; he misses the snow. The cold. He misses waking up on Christmas morning to a blanket of white, teasing Gale for being wrapped head to toe in a blanket on top of his sweats.

“Buck?” Bucky groggily looks over to the other side of the bed, shoving Pepper away. But other than her, it’s empty. 

“Gale?” He calls out again, kicking the blanket off with the foot he’s capable of moving. He grunts as he sits up, seething through his teeth as he tries to get his broken leg off the bed. He feels a strange, unbidden sense of panic rising in his chest as he realizes he’s alone. “Gale?”

He eyes the crutches resting against the wall by his nightstand, just barely out of his reach, and Pepper whines, like she’s warning him: don’t do it. 

His husband clearly knows him too well, because he comes barreling through the door, sliding on the hardwood in his socks with a spatula still in hand, eyes wild and worried. He’s wearing Bucky’s Yankees sweatshirt, and it’s dusted with flour. “Stop right there,” he commands, pointing the spatula at Bucky. 

Bucky freezes as he’s leaning over, reaching for the crutches. He looks at Gale, and he laughs at the messy morning baker look he has going on. The panic instantly drifts away. Gale motions with the spatula, telling him to sit back down. Bucky puts his hands up and watches as Gale calmly walks around the bed, grabs the crutches, and hands them to him. Then he helps Bucky climb laboriously to his feet and get the crutches positioned under his arms. 

“Good?” he asks. 

Bucky nods. Good enough to get out of the bedroom at least. “Are you making pancakes?”

“Feel up to it?”

Bucky is very, very up to it. Last time he had pancakes, he still couldn’t eat without getting sick, but his appetite has been coming back, and holiday pancakes sound like the best idea Gale’s ever had. They eat on the couch with the TV turned to one of those channels that shows a Christmassy fireplace all morning and plays Christmas music in the background, and they argue about the best pancake flavors and toppings and whether or not butter is necessary if you use syrup. Gale went all out while Bucky slept, apparently, and Bucky is shocked he didn’t wake up to all the noise he surely made in the kitchen. There’s plain pancakes and blueberry and chocolate chip and banana. Three flavors of syrup and fruit to top it all off. It’s too many pancakes for them to even eat, but Gale didn’t know which kind Bucky would want this morning – he has a new decided favorite every time they make them – so he just made it all.

Bucky could kiss him. And he does, lips sticky and sweet with syrup and blueberries.

Gale even made a mini pancake that he tears into pieces and feeds to Pepper when they’re done. She eagerly licks each piece from between his fingers before trying to get at the leftover syrup on his plate, and he has to shove her away. As he stands to clean up, though, Bucky reaches his hands up and waves them insistently until Gale reaches back down to haul him to his feet.

“What?”

Bucky smiles and pecks him on the lips, their noses bumping. Then he kisses him again, clutching onto him for balance as he presses closer and closer and gently bites at Gale’s lower lip.

“Hey now,” Gale whispers.

“What?” Bucky asks innocently. Another kiss. Deeper. Gale tastes like chocolate and maple syrup. Bucky grips his soft hair between his fingers as best he can. “Thanks for breakfast,” he breathes.

Gale smiles against his lips. “Merry Christmas.”

They’ve had gifts stacked under the tree for a few days now, Gale having finally gotten around to wrapping Bucky’s, once he was sure he’d be able to give them to him after all. Bucky had to ask Marge to help wrap Gale’s – otherwise, they all would’ve been stuffed haphazardly into gift bags since his fingers fumbled too much with the wrapping paper and scotch tape. They open them after breakfast, throwing crumpled wrapping paper at each other or kissing each other silly in thanks in between. For Bucky, there’s a 2025 Yankees World Series sweatshirt, a baseball signed by Aaron Judge, whiskey glasses that say I went to the fuckin’ moon, and a few new vinyls for their record player. For Gale, there’s a new flight jacket, new headphones for his morning runs, a fancy travel mug, and plane tickets. “We’re gonna go on our honeymoon,” Bucky tells him. “I know it’ll be over a year overdue, but when you come home from Artemis 4, we’re gettin’ outta here, doll. You and me.”

Gale hugs him tight, tucking his face against Bucky’s neck, and he doesn’t let go for a long time.

Finally, there’s a gift from Marge that she tucked in among the others when she came by to help Bucky the other day. Framed prints of some of their favorite wedding photos – their first look, the moment before their kiss, Pepper crashing it, and their first dance. They stare at those photos just as long as they did the first time, and for just a moment they can almost – almost – believe that they’re just typical, run-of-the-mill newlyweds, nothing special other than the fact that they see the whole world in one another.

Even Pepper gets presents, spoiled almost as much as a real child. She gets treats and bones and several new toys. There’s a new frisbee that Gale tells her they’ll play with later in the backyard. And there’s a new stuffed cow squeaky toy that he gives her immediately. He even gets down on the floor to wrestle and tug with her, mimicking her playful growling noises and making Bucky laugh as they make even more of a mess of the shreds of wrapping paper scattered about.

Once all their presents are open, they sit surrounded by the carnage. The fireplace is still on TV, and Pepper lays in front of the tree gnawing on a new bone while Gale sits on the floor in front of the couch, his head resting against Bucky’s leg. 

“Hey,” Bucky says. He’s idly playing with Gale’s hair, but he lets go as Gale tilts his head and flicks his eyes up towards Bucky, even though he can’t really see his face. Something about it makes Bucky’s heart flutter; they’ve been together nearly half their lives, and these little moments still make him feel warm and nervous and so, so lucky. “I have something else for you.”

“Oh?” 

Bucky nods. “A couple things, actually. They’re on the shelf in the closet. In the corner behind my briefcase.”

Gale narrows his eyes skeptically, but he slowly, reluctantly gets up and walks to their bedroom, his socked feet shuffling tiredly on the hardwood floor. “Be careful,” Bucky warns. “They’re fragile.”

Gale comes back with two square boxes, neither one wrapped. The larger one is about eight inches wide and covered in protective fabric. The other… is a ring box.

“You do know we’re married, right?” Gale asks. “Or did the TBI affect your memory that much?”

“Thought we said it was too soon for jokes,” Bucky shoots back. He motions for Gale to set both boxes on the coffee table and sit beside him. “Now, I know we’ve talked a lot, since I’ve been back. About, y’know, what happened. And feelings and shit. But, before you open them, I just… I need to say it again.”

He takes a deep breath and coughs weakly when it aggravates his chest. Gale takes his hand, and it makes Bucky feel stronger even as it makes the words harder. It’s Christmas, and he desperately doesn’t want to bring the mood down, but he needs to say this in order for everything to make sense the way it should. The way he wants it to. “When I was up there,” he starts, focusing on keeping his voice measured. He looks Gale in the eye. “I thought about you every day. Constantly. And not just ‘cause you were on the other side of the coms. I meant what I said in my vows. I went to the fuckin’ moon, but marryin’ you was the best thing I ever did. And not just ‘cause I got hurt real bad up there either… I really do think you kept me alive, Gale. And, I dunno, I-I can’t help but think that I should’ve died. I th-thought I was gonna die. I was so sure…”

He breathes slowly, carefully, forces himself to smile, tells his heart to calm down, and he tilts his head like a nervous tick. Too much emotion and nowhere for it to go. Gale grips his hand tighter, telling him it’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.

Bucky swallows thickly. “And it’s been hard,” he admits. “It’s been so fuckin’ hard since I’ve been back. And I know it hasn’t been easy for you. I know that. But I am so grateful, too. That I made it home. And I’m grateful to you, every day, even when I don’t say it. So this, uh.” Bucky motions to the two remaining gifts on the table. “It was planned before I even set foot on the moon. But it feels so much more important now.”

Gale opens his mouth to say something back, but Bucky shakes his head. “No, just… can you just open them? The big one first.”

Gale chuckles a little nervously, raising an eyebrow in confusion, but he reaches for the larger box. Bucky tells him to be careful again, leave it on the table and just take off the fabric covering it.

“John,” Gale breathes out as he pulls off the protective cover. He’s so stunned that he pulls his hands away from the display case sitting before him, not wanting to damage it. His lips part again, and he doesn’t even know what to say as he leans over closer to the glass. “This- You brought this-”

Bucky can’t keep the grin from taking over his face, and he nods, satisfied and excited in that giddy kind of way when you know you gave someone the best gift they’ve ever gotten. It mixes with the emotion still filling the air between them, making his voice a little strained as he tries to explain. “It’s a moon rock.”

Gale looks back over at him, eyes wide in wonder. “You found it?”

“Picked it out special for you,” Bucky tells him. It was the only part of his dream the other night that was real, Curt teasing him as he looked down at a perfectly shaped moon rock cradled in his palms. Now sitting in the center of a display case, it’s dark gray in color, and it’s shaped roughly like a heart. When he found it on the surface, he so carefully packaged it up in its own bag, and he labeled it with a sharpie, ignoring every one of their protocols: ‘FOR BUCK CLEVEN FROM HIS HUSBAND.’ 

“It’s amazing,” Gale says, still in complete awe as he studies the rock. That doesn’t even begin to describe what he’s feeling right now, but it’s yet another thing that he finds he doesn’t have the right words for. “How’d you even get it away from NASA?”

“Curt really came through,” Bucky laughs, and that’s all he can say because that is legitimately all he knows. He points to the black velvet box. “Now open the other.”

Gale wants to stare at the moon rock forever, but he picks up the box as instructed. When he flips it open, he quirks an eyebrow. “It is a ring.”

“Pull it out and bring it over here.”

Gale leans back on the couch, letting his weight fall against Bucky’s side, and Bucky wraps an arm over his shoulders. Gale pinches the ring between thumb and forefinger and holds it up so they both can see.

“So, I understand if you’re attached to the wedding band you already have,” Bucky starts to say. “But, see that line?” He points to a mottled dark streak with a glimmering, glittery sort of quality going all around the middle of the silver band, about a third of the width of the entire ring. Gale rubs his thumb over it, just like he does to the one already on his finger, and it makes Bucky smile. “It’s an inlay. From that rock.” 

Gale follows Bucky’s finger, which is pointing to the moon rock so casually sitting on their coffee table. Because that’s a typical thing in any American household, right? “How…?”

Bucky shrugs. “Helps to have good contacts at NASA. Had geology take a sample from the rock, and turns out one of their guys does this kinda thing as a side gig. Obviously, usually with things found on Earth.” It also helps to have almost died on the fucking moon; people tend to want to do things to please you after that.

Gale blinks again, staring at the ring. His brain isn’t working right, like he’s short-circuiting. But it’s in a really, really good way, instead of the doomed universe-collapsing feeling that he was experiencing in this living room a month ago.

“Well put it on,” Bucky insists.

Carefully, Gale removes his old wedding band and slips the new one over his knuckle. It fits perfectly. “I… John.” He doesn’t know what to say. 

“I know you’re going to the moon, too,” Bucky tells him. “But I wanted to bring you back something anyways. Somethin’ outta this world for my beautiful wife.” Gale rolls his eyes, but Bucky goes on. “And I know it wasn’t easy for you, startin’ our marriage with me jetting off the planet. God, you started our marriage not sure if you’d ever see me again…”

Gale bites his lip as he hears Bucky choke on the words, but Bucky takes his hand, and he meets Gale’s gaze even though they both feel like tears could well up in their eyes at any moment. “But these missions, they’re a part of us. And I want you to remember the good of it, not just the bad.”

Gale looks at the rock, at the ring. His heart doesn’t know what to do anymore, and he feels like it’s lodged in his throat. He rubs his thumb over the band again, feeling it beneath his skin. A piece of the moon to carry with him. A piece of Bucky. He looks up at his husband, and he sees the depths of the universe in his eyes.

Stardust.

Later today, their house will be full again, with their crew, their friends, Chick, even Maggie and Jane and old Mrs. Mason. But for now, Gale tucks himself against Bucky’s side, and Bucky mindlessly messes with his husband’s fingers as they exist in this moment together. For now, it’s just them and Pepper, sitting on the couch in the comfort of their home on Christmas morning. 

Some semblance of normal. 

A world can shatter. But piece by piece, it can be put back together again. 

I’ll Be Home For Christmas is playing. 

“John?” Gale says. 

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” Gale looks up at Bucky, then down at his ring finger. He twists the new ring around and around until Bucky grabs his hand, lifts it to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles. 

He looks up at Gale as he does so, clear eyes and a soft smile. “I love you,” he says. “To the moon and back.”

---

---

Epilogue

[almondcroissantsandink]

watching gravity falls for the first time at the request of my little sister and i just watched a tale of two stans and CRIED

[keferon]

“Mistakes on mistakes until” ch 69 spoilers below!

Ahahahahahahah here I go again

Mistakes on mistakes until until I can draw Jazz with my eyes closed

I woke up, checked my phone, woke up for real and decided that whatever plans I had for this day yeah no they can wait a little bit kfkgnfk

Also. Consider listening this while reading. Or don't who am I to tell you what to do~

[inkskinned]

there are a lot of posts out there that are positive and healthy coping mechanisms for handling the holidays. this is not one of them :)

i think there's like. going to be times in your life you will be stuck in a social situation that you cannot escape from gracefully. i do not know why the internet doesn't believe these times exist. it's not always just that your physical safety is at risk - sometimes it's legit like "i just don't currently have the energy or time to put in the effort of responding to this." sometimes it's a coworker you hate so much. sometimes it's just like, fine, you know? like you know you can handle your aunt when she's cheerily horrible, but if you actually set a boundary around her, it's going to be weeks of fallout with your father.

i don't know why people think the answer is always just "cut them out!" or "don't let them get away with that!" because ... the real world is tricky and complicated. i think kind of a lot of us have an internal "radiation poisoning" meter for certain people. like - i'm talking about the ones who are absolutely giving you gradual ick damage. like, you can handle them, but you'll be exhausted.

and yes. you absolutely should listen to your therapist and the good posts about handling others and set good boundaries and take care of yourself. prioritize peace.

HOWEVER :) ...... since im often in a situation with a Gradual Sense of Ick person i cannot just "cut out" of my life (without losing someone else precious to me) - i have sort of developed the most. maladaptive form of mischief possible. because like, if i'm going to have to listen to this shit again, i like to have a little bit of private fun with it.

now! again, i am physically safe, just mentally drained by this man. you should only do this with people you are not in danger with. which leads me to my suggestions for when your Unfortunate Acquaintance shows up and says oh everyone pay attention to me.

my favorite word is "maybe!" said as brightly and happily as possible. whenever the Horrible Person starts in on a topic you do not want to go further with, particularly if they make a claim that you know to be inaccurate, do not respond to it. you and i have both tried to actually argue with this person, and it hasn't gone well, because this person just wants the drama of an argument. however, "maybe!" gives them literally nothing to go on. it is incredibly disarming. they are used to people having some response. they know they can't prove what they're saying, and maybe! treats them like the child they are. it dismisses them in the politest way possible.

i like to say maybe! and then, in their stunned silence, immediately change the subject. this is because i have adhd and i will have something unrelated to talk about, but if you can't think of topics fast enough, i recommend just pointing to something and saying, "isn't that lovely?" because fuck you let's bring in some positivity.

by the way. that second trick - of pointing to something and stating an opinion about it? - that just works on its own, like, 70% of the time. i picked it up from teaching preschoolers. it's an intentional "redirect". it stops children crying and it also stops grown adults from finishing their explanation on why women belong in kitchens. dual wielding!

keep it silly for yourself. i absolutely do not care if people think i'm fucking stupid (it's more fun if they do) and as a result i will purposefully misunderstand things just to see how long it takes them to realize i've completely removed them from the subject at hand. when they say "women aren't funny" i get to be like. "which women." "all women." "all women in america?" "no in the world." "like the mole people? the people in the world?" "what? no. like, alive." "oh are we not counting the mole people?" "what the fuck are you talking about." "you don't believe in the mole people?"

similarly, i play a personal game called "one up me." my Evil Acquaintance literally knows this game exists (my family & friends caught onto it and now also play it) and it always fucking gets him. i don't know why. you have to be willing to be a little free-spirited on this one, though. the trick is that when they make one of those horrible little bigoted or annoying comments they are always making, you need to go one unit weirder. not more intense, mind you - just more weird. "you don't look good in that dress." "yeah, actually, my other dress was covered in squid ink due to a mishap at the soup store." "you shouldn't wear such revealing clothes." "wait, what? oh shit. sorry, your son tears off strips when no one is looking and eats them. i swear it was longer before we left the building."

the point of "one up me" is to completely upend this person's narrative. we both know this person likes setting up situations where you cannot "win" and then they really like telling other people how badly you handled it. in a usual situation, if you respond "please don't say something that rude", you're a bitch. but if you let it happen, you're letting yourself be debased. they are not usually expecting door number three: unflappably odd. because what are they going to say when they're telling everyone how badly you behaved? "she said my son eats her dresses" ".... okay?"

if you can, form an allyship with someone whomst you can tagteam with. where they can pick up on your weird "soup store" story and run with it.

the following phrase is amazing and can be deployed for any situation: "oh, be nice :) it's the holidays!" i do not know why this works as often as it does. i'll say it for the most random shit. i think this is bc most of the time these people know they're being impolite, they just like to fight.

godbless. when in doubt, remember that you could always start stealing their pens.

the whole point of this is - if you can't escape. maybe see how long you can just be. like. a horrible little menace.

[lazylittledragon]

i'm in one of those phases where i really wish i believed in manifesting and spellcasting and things like that bc you know when you want something so bad you're literally praying for the universe to let it happen

[moongothic]

Crocodad AU where immidiately after having left Dragon and his baby boy Crocodile finds an 11 year old Robin. And while he's 100% only recruiting her so they can make a beeline for the Poneglyph and Pluton in Alabasta by the two of them... Crocodile accidentally sorta kinda adopts Robin.

At this point Robin's been running for her life from the Government for three years so her deep trust issues and fear of betrayal are starting to take root in her little heart. Like perhaps they haven't taken fully over yet, and being still a child I'm sure Robin might've still had that genuine hope that she could find a safe place to stay in. But I'm sure the though of "what'll he'll do with me once he gets what he wants?" would be nagging at her at the back of her mind. Meanwhile Crocodile's struggling between the pain and hurt he's already gone through and given him his trademark trust issues, as well as the aftermath of The Dragodile Divorce. But he also has his Fresh Paternal Instincts and probably misses his baby. So when given a small, scared child who is running for her life, being chased by the very same Government that'll want his son dead if they ever find out about him... Yeah that might fuck with your brain a little

You know this post was supposed to be just that first paragraph and just a few footnotes from the following two paragraphs. And then I kept on Having Thoughts. And I kept on writing them down. And oh no what happened when did this post get so long (Look I was going to either kept on writing my Additional Thoughts in the tags or I just put them in the actual fucking post)

Like considder this: based on this one SBS, we can kinda tell that if Crocodile was given a chance to raise a child, that child would be a spoiled little shit, right

So in this scenario, where Crocodile's looking after lil Robin, would he be kind of torn? Unsure how to feel about her?

Because on one hand, this strange child would have the potential to not only ruin his plans, strip him of his Shichibukai Privileges by outing him and his plans to the World Government, but also put his son in grave danger by extension (if she found out about him having been involved with the Revolutionaries and/or having a child). But on the other hand, his paternal instincts could make him want to spoil this poor little girl rotten. But only because he needs to (perhaps literally) buy her trust so she'll behave. No other reason, he doesn't feel sorry for her one bit, no sirree. (But maybe he did feel sorry for her, since his son could very well end up exactly like her. Poor little thing) (Which is why he needs to nuke Marijoa out of orbit as soon as possible, no matter the cost, and this child can't get in the way of Crocodile protecting his son) (But also this is a child. Like how bad could she be. Besides all he really needs to do to win her trust is be nice and make her feel safe, right?)

Of course, while I'm suggesting Crocodile could have some parental instincts, realistically, he hasn't actually spent any time being, you know, a father to a child (looking after his newborn for an unknown though short amount of time aside), so it's possible he wouldn't even know how to parent Robin even if he wanted to, would he? (Like taking care of a newborn and an 11 year old kid aren't the same either) So if he was kind of just emotionally flipflopping between No Trusting Ever and It's Just A Kid for God's Sake, Crocodile trying to be nice to Robin to make her feel safe and then telling himself to stop being so soft and vunerable... Yeah that would make for an absolute mess of a relationship. (Not to mention, let's be real, dude's a scary motherfucker too, and a bloody giant compared to itty bitty baby Robin. He could keep on accidentally scaring the shit out of Robin (who would be On Fucking Edge To Begin With) by just Being Himself. Like for example, can you fucking imagine if he caught Robin trying to cheer herself up with a little "dereshishishi" only to tell her to stop because "it was stupid"? 'Cause I can imagine him doing that, and boy howdy would that make Robin feel bad)

Or who knows, maybe Crocodile was just Born To Be A Dad, maybe he just Fucking Gets It. Like Crocodile is canonically pretty good at manipulating people to do what he wants them to do (see: how he played Vivi like a fiddle), so knowing Robin's position and understanding how she feels, maybe he COULD completely nail how she needed to be treated. Not being too familiar but still making her feel safe and happy, knowing exactly when to be stern and when to spoil her, etc. Dude just goes off and wins the Dad of the Year Award while being a deadbeat dad himself. The only thing Crocodile would have to worry about then would be making sure HE doesn't get too fond of her. And certainly that could never happen, he's so in-touch with his own feelings and so grounded, he's not a softie, get outta here. Or maybe he does but never realizes until it's too late and good luck backpedalling on those emotions now dumbass

Alright so, the reason I went on that whole rmble is just that like. I'm so interested in the relationship Robin and Crocodile already have in canon. I'm so facinated and curious about how the two feel about each other, considdering they did spend 4 whole years of their lives together as criminal business partners, though neither ever trusted the other. A partnership that was only ended because Robin betrayed Crocodile, out of her own trauma. (God, I want to see these two "reunite" so bad, I want to know how they feel about each other now after the timeskip and Robin joining the idiot in flipflops who foiled Croc's plans)

My question here is just that... if they had met 13 years earlier, would things have been different? Especially if Crocodad Real? Because as I mentioned in the begining, Robin would've been on the run for only 3 years by this point, as opposed to 16 years before running into Crocodile. Simultaneously, this would be before Crocodile went onto spend an entire decade all alone, slowly losing his marbles in his emotional solitude. They'd both be emotionally traumatized, yes, but would it have been as bad in this scenario? Like I did start this post kind of joking about Crocodile adopting Robin, and for clarity's sake I don't think they'd have like a father-daughter relationship nececarily. But it would be a strange relationship still, because we'd have two broken people, both struggling to trust anyone. One who had lost her mother and her only friends, leaving her all alone and afraid while running for her life. The other a father who had just given up his son whom he probably missed dearly. Both having these holes in their hearts from loss of family, holes that could not be filled with replacements. But could they find comfort in each other anyway, because they still as people occupy similar roles to their respective loved ones? If they both could just get over those trust issues?

Okay I've been going off on the Emotional Side Of Things for this AU Concept, THERE'S PLOT TOO

So if Crocodile did pick Robin up like 19 years ago, that should be before he set up base in Alabasta, long before he had built is homebase and financial empire etc.

Now the thing is, while we don't know when, where and how Crocodile learned about the Ancient Weapons, Pluton specifically and how the lead on it would be in Alabasta... Considdering Crocodile did once upon a time aim to become Pirate King, it would make perfect sense if he had learned about Poneglyphs during his past adventures, as he would have needed to get the Road Poneglyphs to find One Piece. And while the World Government did bury the truth about why Ohara had been burned down and why Robin had been given her bounty (remember, the WG claimed it was because she had sunken a fleet of battleships, which she had not, it was because she could read the Poneglyphs), considdering this is a Crocodad AU specifically, you could totally make an argument Crocodile could've learned about what actually happened to Ohara from Dragon and co. So, just to make this AU work, you could just assume Crocodile learned about the concept of the Ancient Weapons from Dragon. And who knows, maybe he overheard the truth about why Robin had been given her bounty from Dragon too (maybe Dragon was able to get intel from Garp in secret) or while going to Marijoa himself to attend a Shichibukai meeting or something IDK.

Maybe he learned about Pluton being in Alabasta before finding Robin by accident, and maybe they made a beeline for Alabasta the second Croc recruited Robin. Travelling takes time and the guy would've most likely had to find an Eternal Pose to Alabasta just to get there (also canonically Robin didn't enter the Grand Line until her 20s so they should've met in West Blue probably, since that's where Ohara was) Or maybe Crocodile had to haul Robin around for a few months while looking for That Missing Piece of Information that would lead him to Alabasta. (Imagine the two travelling from like island to island, library to library, Crocodile trying to find that leads while Robin's just so excited about ALL THESE BOOKS (she's helping too with the research) (but to her, research is playtime, so she's just having the time of her life) (Also, notice how Crocodile's Theoretical Child is a fucking loser ass nerd? Yeah Crocodile would encourage Robin reading and studying, surely. And that would be fucking cute))

But like, once they set sail to Alabasta...

Sure, Crocodile could try to do it The Slow Way that we know he tried in canon, building trust and creating his little empire etc. But also, in canon, Crocodile couldn't have jumped into action head first because without Robin, even if he had found the Poneglyph he couldn't have read it and found the location of Pluton. Crocodile choosing to do it the slow way may have been partially because he didn't have much of a choise and it could've felt like the smarter move long-term.

But in this scenario, he already has Robin. Yes, he could do it the slow, secure way.

But what'd be there stopping him from infiltrating Cobra's palace and kidnapping him (in the night, when nobody suspects a thing), demanding Cobra to spill the beans lest Crocodile kills him and/or his pregnant wife* (*Vivi was born 10 months after Luffy so depending on how long it's been between Crocodad leaving Luffy behind and this scenario... Yeah either the wife is there, still pregnant, or there's a newborn Baby Vivi)

Like it'd be a risky move but depending on how ballsy Croc's feeling and how confident he feels in being able to kidnap the king without being noticed... Yeah he could probably do it. And I'm sure he'd have no problem killing Cobra either, if anything it'd be required if he didn't want the Government to find out he was out to find Pluton, and god knows Cobra would tell on Crocodile if left alive. I could see Crocodad being maybe a little iffy about killing Baby Vivi though (it's not like the newborn baby could report him to the WG anyways), but if nothing else, he just needs to be able to pull off the bluff of his life to convince Cobra to do as he's told. And we all know Crocodile's good at convincing people.

The only question is, how would Robin take that?

Watching Crocodile go into Full Murder Mode, hearing him say he'd kill a pregnant woman/a newborn baby if he didn't get what he wanted? Like yeah, I'm sure 11 year old Robin would be fine with that, that wouldn't make any alarm bells go off in her head at all, it'd be fiiiine. IT WOULD NOT BE FINE, SHE'D BE SCARED SHITLESS. That fear of "what will he do with me when he gets what he wants"? Well, Robin may not have found the answer to that question in particular, but she certainly found the answer to the opposite question, and it's not good

So say Cobra, kidnapped (perhaps with Baby Vivi) by Crocodile in the night, guides the two to the Poneglyph under the tombs. Crocodile puts Cobra out of his misery because he's not needed anymore. And he asks Robin to read the Poneglyph for him.

Robin, who has spent the last little while, be it weeks or months with Crocodile, him having become her "guardian", the thing keeping her safe. Crocodile, who has now shown how cold blooded and cruel he can be. Robin, who might be scared out of her mind. Of him.

And the Poneglyph says Pluton, the thing Crocodile wants, isn't there. It's in Wano.

What's she going to do?

EDIT: I wrote a sequel post, enjoy

[egophiliac]

did you know that in one of dorm epel's voicelines he mentions he once got lost in pomefiore and ended up in a creepy basement. it's never mentioned again or given any clarification and i think about it every day

that comes up a couple of times actually! there's just like...a weird creepy dungeon slash old alchemy lab that the Pomefiore castle was built on top of. I think Vil might use it sometimes? but really it serves absolutely no purpose beyond the characters every once in a while being like "oh yeah, there's that secret underground laboratory we all apparently know about" and then never elaborating on it at all.

(I know it's a movie reference, but it's still pretty wild to just. in-universe have a not-so-secret basement alchemy dungeon that never has any relevance beyond a couple of throwaway lines. what other buckwild secrets does NRC hold that the characters just never talk about for some reason)

[bunnyboy-juice]

NO MORE ASSOCIATING THINGS WITH FEMMES ONLY BECAUSE THEY ARE PINK!HYPERFEM FEMMES ARE GREAT AND I LOVE YOU CAMPY FEMMES WHO EMBODY PINK BUT ALSO JESUS CHRIST CAN YOU GUYS NOT GO MORE THAN ONE DAY W/O TRYING TO SHOEHORN FEMMES INTO BEING ONLY PINK UWU BABIES. I AM FEMME AS IN GRASS AS IN DIRT AS IN TREE BARK AS IN WEEDS SPROUTING THROUGH THE SIDEWALK CEMENT. FEMME AS IN GENDER NONCONFORMITY AS IN FUCK YOU MY FEMININITY IS WHAT *I* SAY IT IS. FEMME AS IN DEPTH AND DARKNESS AND WARMTH AND TERROR. FEMME AS IN CAVES. FEMME AS IN LIGHTNING. FEMME AS IN AN AMALGAMATION OF TRAITS THAT I HAVE DECIDED ARE FEMININE REGARDLESS OF WHAT SOCIETY SAYS. FUCK IS IT THAT HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!???

[literaryspinster]

I hear a lot of talk about how Hollywood isn't comfortable with showing romantic relationships, interracial or otherwise, without a white person involved. But I'm not sure that fans are actually comfortable with that either? And I don't think they're comfortable without a significant white (white male specifically) presence in their favorite genre shows.

[maingh0st]

i know i'm not the first to say this, but the acolyte's cancellation has confirmed how tired i am of disney's decision-making when it comes to their content. i know nostalgia is the easiest way to a big payout, but we can only take so many spinoffs before the universe starts to feel too small. but then fresh content—content that's building on the canon by looking to old star wars lore while asking new questions—fizzles out.

it's the sequel trilogy all over again. we're promised something new, something that actually expands the canon rather than just recycling it, even bringing in concepts from legends, and then the rug is ripped out from underneath us & we're punished for ever caring about any of it. silly babygirl! palpatine was always the big bad (don't worry about the fact that this is thematically nonsense and not foreshadowed in any way), and rey isn't a nobody ("your parents sold you because they loved you"), and this isn't a story about how the force transcends human categories and dynasties (represented by a grey jedi force dyad between a legacy skywalker and a nobody orphan from a backwater planet, fulfilling not only balance between light and dark but also transcending the old to become something new). silly idiot!!! rey's a palpatine by birth and a skywalker by self-adoption and god forbid she create her own identity outside of these names our fans recognize. watch as she stands alone on a sand planet that has no personal significance to her, ending her arc almost exactly as she began. but look!! two suns! neat

i don't even know if fanservice is the right word. at a certain point, it just starts to feel like they're quaking in their boots at the thought of doing anything new. i had my gripes with some of the choices in the acolyte, but at least it was unique. it explored a new era and asked questions that star wars has only ever flirted with. like: what happens to the children who are uprooted from their homes at such a young age, yet can't find their place in the jedi order? how does one survive in a supposedly honorable system that nevertheless relies on the repression of some of humanity's most fundamental emotions? is it possible that an organization dictating exactly how one ought to interact with the very life force of the universe... could perhaps be faulty and shortsighted? what happens when the ways of that order clash with other cultures and worldviews? (spoilers: space colonialism). and that's not even to mention the ideas they play with re: the force itself (vergences! plagueis! force witches!)

i know not everyone loved the show, but a lot of people really did care about it. a lot of people, like me, were excited to see these new questions being raised. but forget it—the disney gods have decreed that it didn't hit some magical threshold of streaming hours or reach a "broad enough" audience in the two months it's been out. but don't worry guys. turn your brains off and tune in for the next spinoff 2 chewy 2 bacca

[hellsquills]

Disclaimer: I know about the duffle bag Filbrick threw at him, but you can ignore that if you want

My thoughts below the cut! (this turned into a whole ass fic lmao)

My personal headcanon is that Filbrick is as much of a coward as he is of an asshole. Therefore, he wouldn't have kicked Stan when he did in canon. Probably not for a while after that.

However, he does try to send him to military school. He keeps talking about how this kid needs to learn discipline and respect, and if he's not gonna bring money to the house, then he should at least bring some honor to his family.

Stan obviously does NOT want to go. Not only because it's a pointless war ("what've the vietnamese done to us anyways?") but because he remembers his mother's face when Shermie got drafted and he will NOT make her go through that hell again. Also, he doesn't wanna die!!!! Hello?????

He talks it out over the phone with Ford, who's obviously just as against it as he is. He tells Stan that, if he gets into a PhD program, he could skip military. Stan laughs in his face. It'd be easier to jump off the plane without a parachute.

And so, he comes up with a plan. When he goes to take his physical, he tries his best to botch it. If he is bad enough, if it looks like he can't do it, maybe he won't have to. Unfortunately, the recruiters are far too used to this by now, and they don't buy it. Stan goes home with a recruitment letter hidden in his jacket.

Everything goes downhill after that. He runs away from home, changes his name several times, does some crime here and there... The military is after him, and it doesn't take rejection kindly.

Stan stays out of contact with his family for a few years. He can't risk getting them involved in this mess. They don't deserve it. So he just leaves, without saying a word, in the middle of the night. No phone calls, no notes, nothing. Not even he knows where he's going. But if it just looks like he abandoned them, maybe they'll hate him. That will make them sound more believable with the police. They aren't covering for him, because they genuinely have no idea where he is. It's the best way to keep them safe.

In that time, Ford doesn't stop looking for him. He finds him every once in a while, but only his phone number, and he knows that could give away his brother's location and get the family in trouble. So, against his deepest instincts, he doesn't call.

One, three, five, seven years pass. Stan has been around almost all the country, and is genuinely considering leaving it. Maybe going to Mexico, or Colombia. Those sound nice. Maybe they'll be nicer to him.

He's passing his time and thinking about this in a small town restaurant in wherever he's in (somewhere he's not banned from, yet), when a family enters. He doesn't make eye contact, but he can't help but stare at them: a man and a woman, probably in their 50s, with 7 kids; one must be older than him, the second one around his age, the third one a little younger, the fourth one a teenager, and the last three between 10 and 15, no more. Except for the last three, they're all taller than him, even the mother, and they have various degrees of blond hair. Their clothes (overalls and plastic boots) suggest they must work in one of the farms he's seen around the state. They don't wear any accessories, except for the glasses that the father and four of the kids have. They're talking loudly and laughing. They look exhausted from a morning of hard work. They seem happy. They... look nothing like his family, and yet, he can't help but think about it.

He can't help the sob that comes to his throat. It's loud and messy from trying to suppress it, which obviously makes it worse. He covers his mouth immediately, and at that point he notices the tears that have run down his cheeks. "Great", he thinks, "that will make it easier to hide, for sure".

He doesn't move. He wants to escape, but that will draw even more attention to him, and he hasn't even paid for the food yet (normally he'd leave without paying, but the old waitress was kind enough to give him some extra food when she saw how little he ordered). He settles for not moving, lowering his head and covering his face, hoping that no one heard (unlikely) or cared (very likely).

"Ya'lright, son?"

The voice startles him. I wasn't very deep, but it was close enough to send his body into immediate danger mode. He looks up at the man towering over him, who's standing in front of him at a prudential distance.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, no worries."

He hates how broken his voice sounds. He's spent more than enough time sweet-talking his way out of trouble, he should be better at this by now. The man looks about as convinced by it as he is himself.

" 'lright then. Can I help ya?"

Damn villagers and their welcoming demeanor. If he wasn't a wanted man, he would appreciate it. But right now, it couldn't be worse timing.

"Come get ya food, kids!" The waitress' yell yanks him out of his thoughts.

"No", he blurts out, and he turns to the man. Least he can do is show him some respect and look him in the eyes. "I'm fine, thank you."

The man smiles lightly and nods. "Okay. Welcome to the town."

Stan watches as the man goes back to his table. He wishes he had been more polite, the guy was just worrying about him, but he can't afford it. They already know his face, he can't risk anyone else recognizing him-

"Sweet Mother of God almighty."

Stan turns to his right. One of the kids, the one about his age, is looking at him like he just grew a second head. He's frozen in place, his eyes wide as plates behind thick glasses. He doesn't say a word, and it's getting increasingly unnerving. Was the bruising on his face still visible? Maybe it's more apparent in broad daylight than in the shitty light that last motel had in the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, I- Can I ask your name?"

The fuck?

"No", answers Stan. Considering how nice his dad was, this guy is pretty rude.

"Son, leave him alone." The mother seems to have manners too, good to know.

The guy does pretty much the opposite. He comes closer to him, until he's right in his path, blocking his exit. That can't be good. Stan feels trapped.

"Are you Stanley Pines?"

Well, that's about it.

Stan tries his best to stay still. This guy doesn't look like a cop, not even an undercover one. But he knows his real name, so maybe someone in his family or friends works in the police; or worse, in the military.

"Listen man, I don't know who you're talking about, but that isn't my name. See?" He reaches for his wallet. He pulls out an ID, with a very clear Jackson Cage on it. He makes a mental note to change it soon, just in case his hunch is right and this guy has connections. "Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to pay for my food and leave. Move."

Stan is already on his feet, but the guy hasn't moved. Stan looks him up and down, trying to appear threatening despite his face probably still being a little red from before. He also gauges how feasible it'd be to escape if things turned bad; the dude is taller than him, sure, but he's also as thin as a toothpick, and by the anxious look on his face, he doesn't seem eager for a fight. The real problem would be evading the restaurant's staff and the other costumers, which include eight carbon copies of the guy in front of him. Probably better to try to de-escalate the situation.

"I- I can't let you leave. Please. I know who you are."

This man is making it really difficult to believe he's not a cop.

"No, you don't. I'm new in town. Move."

"Listen, I-"

"Move out of my way."

"I know your brother."

The words are like a bullet between his eyebrows.

"You look just like him-"

Against his better judgement, he quickly grabs he guy and pins him to the wood in between the booth benches, arm to his throat. If he knows Ford, he knows too much. God he just wanted to have lunch.

The commotion is immediate. He doesn't break eye contact with the guy who's grabbing his arm, whose strength is frankly surprising. He can hear, however, the screams from the dad and the siblings, as well as a couple of gasps from the other costumers. This is not going to go well, but fuck that. He's escaped worse.

"Stop!", the guy shouts as he keeps Stan's forearm from blocking his airway. "Don't hurt him! Don't get closer!"

It takes Stan a second to process what he said. The first part, sure, who wouldn't shout 'stop' when you're being attacked? But the second half doesn't make sense. Is he protecting him? The attacker?

Whatever it is, it works. The family stops in their tracks, still very ready to attack if needed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the three younger kids moving closer to their mother. For a split second, he feels a pang of remorse for the scene he just caused.

"Hang up the phone, Clarisse, it's okay. Please."

Stan looks in the direction the guy was talking to. Right behind him, the waitress reluctantly puts the phone down.

He looks back at the guy. He looks a little shaken up, probably from the impact his back (and his head?) made with the wooden plank, but he doesn't look scared. He almost looks... sympathetic? Stan is confused as hell.

"I know who you are", the guy whispers, low enough for Stan to hear alone. "You're Stanley Pines, and you have a brother named Stanford. I know him, okay? He's my friend. I met him a few years ago in a quantum physics congress and we've been talking ever since. He told me about his family in New Jersey, and about you. About how he hasn't seen you in years, and how he was trying to find you, to no avail."

Stan is gradually loosening his grip on the guy's neck, who takes a deep breath. He should know better, but- shit, hearing that Ford was looking for him was not what he expected. Even if he doesn't know yet if this guy is lying out of his ass, it's enough to make him doubt.

"I know you were called to Vietnam. He told me. I spent a week with him in his place when he found out, he was unconsollable. When you ran away, he called me. He knew what it meant for you and he thought he'd never see you again, whether you got caught or not. All because of that stupid war." Stan is now trembling a little, he knows it. This guy must know it too, with how close they are. If he stays here any longer he'll break down, but he can't move. Anything to hear his brother's name a little longer. "I know what it's like. Three of my cousins were drafted last year, and I know at least one of them won't be coming back home. Please... let me help you."

Stan meets his eyes. They're green and brown-ish, not unlike the immense fields he's seen in his last journey, the one that led him to this town. With the years, he's learned not to trust beautiful eyes, because they are better at hiding. These ones, however, seem serene and honest, just like his words, and he can't help but believing them. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, knows just about enough.

Stan lowers his right arm. The guy still has his hand on it, but this time is much less defensive and much more comforting. He doesn't complain.

"My name's Fiddleford McGucket, and I'm gonna help you find your brother."

______________________________

Essentially, after this Fidds calls Ford as if nothing happened (per Stan's request, since he's still paranoid about the police tracking his calls) and asks him to come to Tennessee. Ford argues that he's very busy and all, but Fidds convinces him in the end.

Obviously the twins have a dual breakdown and cry their heart out. In this AU they're much less emotionally constipated lol

Ford tells Stan that he's gonna build a house in a small town in Oregon as a part of his research, and asks him to move in with him once it's finished. Stan, of course, accepts.

In the meantime, Stan stays in the McGucket farm and helps them out as a way of laying low. He has a great relationship with his family, and they're very proud of him for what he did (i believe that the McGuckets are hippies at heart, and they're VERY anti-war, especially when it already took three of them)

I don't know how much of the canon storyline would this AU follow, but it's pretty much your average Mystery Trio AU with some different backstory

[bacchuschucklefuck]

species medley ft. gorgug and riz

[petricorah]

lee from the tea shop boutta get it (wip) [id in alt]

edit: completed illustration here

[mamawasatesttube]

this might be mean but. it really ticks me off when people respond to authors and artists wishing for actual community and engagement with their works by saying "oh but you see im just so anxious i cannot offer you any kind words." with the optional "but do please keep making things for me anyway!" because like...

a) do you understand how anxiety-inducing it can be to pour a little piece of your soul into a work of art and share it publicly? i feel like you don't see the people creating these things as people like you and that is an issue. we are people who just really love a thing and want to talk about it with other people who also love that thing.

but moreover, and this is the part that might be mean, b) damn why doesn't your anxiety prevent you from making excuses to us then? i wish it did! like if you're SO anxious about a fic author blocking you for saying something nice, why are you not anxious about getting blocked for telling that author "okay but i don't want to comment on your works though"??? because i can tell you which of these two things is way more likely to piss me off and it isn't the comment.

like. idk man. if you really don't want to comment on and engage with people's creative works, no one can force you to. but also consider maybe not commenting on and engaging with those people's posts just to explain that you don't want to comment on/engage with their works. if you are so committed to staying quiet and being a passive consumer then commit to the bit and stop asking creative people who put way more of themselves out there than you are to pat you on the back and reassure you that you'll still keep getting free content even if you can't do so much as drop a "this was really good!" in the comments.

[shalom-iamcominghome]

I think now, my opinion about "jews by choice choose judaism!" has changed; not because I don't choose judaism fully, I choose it every day, but as time goes on, it doesn't feel as much of a choice. It feels like a choice in the same way that needing to breathe, to eat, to sleep feels like a choice. To me, judaism is as important a function of my day as my mortal, bodily functions, and I never chose to do them. It happened to me, it continually happens to me

I definitely started my journey needing to consciously choose judaism, but as time goes on and it enriches my life more, is it as much of a choice, or is it just... what happened?

I guess it might be apt to say my conversion is like eating: I have to do it. In that way, it isn't a choice, I have no choice in my need for it. However, I can choose what I eat, when I eat, and how often I eat (to an extent). In the same way, I have made choices about my observance, about the way I think about g-d, and how much I participate in my (offline) community. But I don't think I have chosen my desire to be a jew, just like you don't really choose to fall in love.

[lover-of-mine]

Buck, Eddie and The lightning mirroring the well.