#masters of the air research

[mads-nixon]

100th Bomb Group Info

I was doing some research and found the AMAZING 100th Bombardment Group Foundation website which has a database where you can look up airmen, planes, crews, missions, and just about anything having to do with the 100th. It's really an awesome resource!

You can access the database here!!

[carnevol]

John 'Bucky' Egan suppressing his emotions

for @hogans-heroes

[coldarena]

uniform studies + kit lists

[lestweforget5]

For those of us doing research for MOTA fics in the Stalag-arc, this appears to have some very interesting information as well as pictures.

(Do I have to have the name of an actual American POW doctor within Stalag Luft III? No. Do I really want one so I don't have to invent another OC? Yes. Did I find some info about one of the actual American doctors in the camp? Yes, a wee bit.)

[softspeirs]

gosh, these prompts are just so fluffy, it makes me want to cry! 🥹

maybe these for whoever you're feeling in the moment:

❛ what, am i not allowed to look at you? ❜

❛ seeing you happy is all that matters. ❜

A/N: First, you asked for this so long ago, I'm sorry it took so long! I wanted to explore a lil reunion for Rosie and Grace after (one of the times) his plane goes down and he makes it back. I did a smidge of research for this, but to be clear, this isn't the time he lands in Russia that we see in the show. This is an earlier mission where he crash lands in France - p422 (? I think?) in Masters of the Air if you want to read more. I tweaked the dialogue of that second prompt just a tiny bit, hope that's okay. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Seven. Wounded.

When Robert Rosenthal opens his eyes, for a moment he doesn't remember where he is. There's a brief unsettling moment of sheer panic where he tries to get his bearings, tries to sit up and tries to remember what's happened to him in the last 48 hours.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." A voice says. American. He sighs in relief.

An unfamiliar worried face swims into his vision. "Major Rosenthal?"

"What--" His throat hurts, his entire body hurts, and he stops trying to talk.

"You've been asleep for almost two days."

"Where am I?"

"Please, try to relax. You're safe. You're in Oxford."

Now that he hears the words, he remembers loud, urgent voices, he remembers flashing lights and the feeling of being manhandled around. It doesn't do much to quell the fear rising in his gut. "My crew."

"They're fine. Some wounded, but everyone's going to be okay." She moves around the bed with quick, sure steps, checking his chart before meeting his eyes again. "You've got a broken arm and a few broken ribs, Major. Now that you're awake, we'd just like to monitor you for a few hours and then we can talk about a transport back to your base."

He nods, thanking her, and she smiles before disappearing down a corridor, leaving him to his thoughts. His mind is slow, fuzzy, but there's one thought blaring like an alarm louder than anything else - he needs to find a way to call Grace.

He swore to her a long time ago that he'd never give her a reason to think he wasn't coming back. He has no idea if anyone knows he and his crew are here.

He also has a panicked thought that he won't be able to fly again, not if they were helped the French resistance. He forces himself to take deep breaths and tries to beat back the anxiety fluttering in his ribcage.

"Rosie?" A familiar voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he tries to sit up before pain laces up his spine, making him wince.

"Croz?"

Harry's worried face peeks around the curtain. "Jesus." He says, making Rosie wonder what he must look like.

"What are you doing here?"

"We got a call. Wasn't going to let you guys walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, was I?" He takes a few steps closer, scraping a chair closer to the bed before sitting down. He looks exhausted. "I volunteered to come get you."

"How long--"

"It's been five days since the mission." Harry rubs a hand over his face. "Can't begin to tell you how lucky you were, Rosie."

It starts to hit him, how close he was to not coming back. He doesn't even remember the plane going down, not entirely. He has no memory of being rescued. He feels strangely guilty. He's the one that's supposed to lead and help his crew when he can.

"Have you talked to a doctor?" Harry asks.

Rosie shakes his head. "Not yet, just a nurse. Obviously I can't do much with this--" He struggles to shrug with his injured arm in a sling.

"It'll be fine. Desk duty until you're well."

"Croz, you know I hate--"

"You can't fly like that, Rosie. Technically you should be pulled from duty altogether."

Rosie clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. It's not Harry's call, even though he knows he's right. He's going to do everything he can to get back in the seat again, even if he has to get demoted to do it.

.

He discharges himself so he can leave with his crew and with Crosby and hitch a ride back to base. The doctor fixes him with a stern look as he does it, but he must see the determination on Rosie's face, and just tells him to take it easy for the next few weeks.

Fat chance of that.

"Stop looking at me like that." He grouses to Harry as they bounce along the road back to Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie biting back a wince with grit teeth as the road jostles his muscles uncomfortably.

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

Harry has long stopped trying to convince Rosie of anything, just like Rosie has stopped trying to tell him to get more sleep or eat more. They're all just doing whatever they can to survive at this point. The cost of it all is secondary.

"I'll save the lecture for Grace." He mutters.

Rosie's head snaps up. "Is she--"

"Worried sick? Probably, but you know her. Once she knew you were alive, she went from worried to furious."

"Not like I had any say in the matter," Rosie counters, voice dry. "Didn't try asking them not to shoot at us, though."

Harry smiles, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Angry at the circumstances. Frustrated with herself for being emotional. That's Grace."

That's Grace. And isn't that the truth. Rosie can't help but smile softly, because he knows Harry is right - he's going to get an earful when he gets back. But he must be a masochist, because he's almost looking forward to it - it means she cares. Not that he's ever had any reason to doubt that.

The truck rumbles along for miles. Rosie hadn't thought about how long it would take them to get back to the base, but he tries to close his eyes and get relatively comfortable until they arrive.

He hears the noise of the gates and opens his eyes to find the sun nearly down. There's a big commotion as they enter and he takes a deep breath to try to get his bearings.

"We'll go to command first, and then to the infirmary. You'll probably have to sleep there." Harry says groggily.

They're let out in front of the command building, Jack Kidd already there waiting for him along with the Colonel. Both look like they haven't slept in days. A few paces behind them is Grace, and the sight of her softens Rosie, makes his shoulders lose their tension. He meets her eyes and tries for a smile, but he thinks it comes off as more of a grimace.

Grace, for her part, is restraining herself. She feels a mixture of relief and anger wash over her at the sight of him, arm in a sling and bruises and cuts littering his handsome face. He looks exhausted, and she's sure she looks much the same.

She knows being angry is the wrong thing. It's not his fault he got shot down, after all. Really, she's angry at herself. She's angry at her heart, at the way it plummeted to her feet when she heard the news that his plane didn't come back, and she's angrier that every day since confirms to her what she already knows: she's in love with him.

And that's as terrifying as it is liberating, because there's a very real chance he could break her heart, whether he means to or not. (She knows that Robert Rosenthal doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, but sometimes, in war, the choice isn't his)

"Jesus Christ, Rosie." Jack says quietly, voice heavy. "I--" He takes a deep breath, and seems to remember what he needs to do. "It's good to see you back. We need to go to interrogation."

"The crew isn't ready--"

Kidd shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rosie, but the quicker we do this, the better. It's already been a few days."

"Who's back?"

"Maddox, Rubick, Palmer, and Hartos. The others won't be back until tomorrow, but we'll debrief them then. I don't want to wait an extra day."

Jack looks over his shoulder, and Rosie is sure he catches an apologetic look on his face that's there and gone quickly as he sees Grace there. "Twenty minutes, then go to the infirmary." He says as he turns back to Rosie. "Let's go."

The interrogation is as grueling as Rosie expected. He's glad to see some of the members of his crew again. Despite his brain telling him that none of this is his fault, his heart can't help but beat wildly, flooding him with guilt as they give their account of what happened after they went down, when Rosie was knocked unconscious.

It feels like hours before he's trudging towards the infirmary, luckily only a few steps away from the interrogation hut.

The door is opening before he arrives, and Grace's worry-filled face fills his vision. "Grace." Her name leaves his mouth without his permission, his tone exhausted, but full of emotion.

She swallows hard. "Major." Her tone is relieved and... frustrated. He's not surprised, but he hopes she'll spare him Nurse Grace and instead give him the Grace he's been dreaming of for days, though he knows it's selfish, knows that she has a job to do.

He sees the doctor hovering behind her. She opens the door wider so he can come through.

All he wants is to be alone with her. He wants to tell her he's sorry, he wants to tell her that she was on his mind every second, that she is one of the reasons not only that he gets in the seat, but the reason he comes home.

Home.

The exam is quick, thankfully. They took good care of him in Oxford. The doctor leaves Grace to administer pain meds and do the paperwork, and it's only when they're finally alone that he sees the emotion on her face, though she's trying valiantly to hide it.

With each injury she catalogues, her face hardens. Her eyes meet his as she tilts his face up to dab a cooling salve on a bruise forming on his orbital bone.

"You have a look on your face." He says quietly.

"What, I'm not allowed to look at you?" She asks, and he can see how she's trying so hard to hold it together. Pretending. Pretending this is all business for her. He wishes she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, throat dry from overuse.

"Please don't apologize," she says, expression suddenly stricken, as if she realizes what she must look and sound like. "You didn't--" She stops herself, eyes closing for a moment as she gathers her professionalism. "I'm just so relieved you're alive." She whispers. "I'm not angry at you. I'm upset... I'm angry at the war. At these circumstances. That you're hurt--" She stops herself.

He wishes more than anything he had the use of both his arms. He settles for reaching out with one hand, thankful when she doesn't hesitate to take it, lacing their fingers together.

"I never want you to worry." He says, and it's the truth, even though they both know it's pointless.

She shrugs. "Comes with the territory, Major." She squeezes his hand. Her voice lowers to a whisper. "Worry happens naturally when you love someone."

His pulse pounding in his ears is all he can hear. He feels like the world tilts on its axis and then rights itself, all at once.

"Maybe it's too soon or too big for me to say it, but I don't want you to fly ever again without knowing it." She says, voice strong this time. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

He tugs her a little closer and she seems to understand, her face softening as she stands as close as she can, leaning down to meet him halfway. He tries to tell her how he feels when he kisses her gently, mindful of the black eye he's sure he's sporting and the soreness of his cheekbone. His hand leaves hers in favor of cradling her jaw, and the sigh that leaves her is music to his ears.

"Of course I love you." He murmurs, barely a centimeter between them when they break apart. "Probably have for a long time, Grace."

She pulls herself away, just for a moment, and starts to tidy up the triage area where he sits with her. He recognizes what she's doing and gives her the space she needs to gather herself, to come to terms with whatever she needs to. He's relieved at least that the smile hasn't left her face.

"Winning this war and seeing you happy are just about all that matter to me anymore." He admits, and watches as she stops what she's doing to turn back to face him.

"I just want to be sure I'm not a distraction for you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"Rosie, I'm--"

He shakes his head again, cutting her off. "Grace, you don't think I'm going to let you tell me you love me and then push me away, do you?" He tilts his head to one side.

"That's not what I'm doing. I promise."

"Then come over here and let me kiss you again."

She smiles, and he swears to himself that he's going to be responsible for that smile on her face every day, for as long as he can help it. He has no doubt that they have some trials ahead, but they have each other, and sometimes the will of the heart is stronger than anything else.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 16

Masterpost Read on AO3

Definitions post has been updated

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

Author's Note: “He’s the heavens and the Earth and the depths of the sea. He’s the entire universe, settled into stardust, at the center of a single beautiful soul.”

---

I will love you.

Even if this life tries to tear you limb from limb, plaguing us both with nightmares that clutch at our throats and bind our hands in iron shackles of a memory that might never leave us in peace. I will love you even if you come back to me a changed man, an echo of who you thought yourself to be, the remnants of someone who dared to fly too close to the sun. I will love you in life, and I will love you in death, and I will love you in every infinitesimal point between the two. I will love you.

In any way that you are.

I will love you even if you don’t remember me. If your eyes should find mine and not recognize within them the life we lived, the way your hands held mine and the way your voice forged the foundation of my life, I will still love you. If your fingers shake and your voice breaks and your lungs give out, I will hold you up with every last bit of strength I have. Because I will love you, even if you can’t say it back, even if you can’t feel it the same way, even if it will bring me to pieces every damn day… I will love you, even if you don’t come home to me.

You’ve come so far, and I need you to come just a little farther. It won’t be easy. It will hurt. I’m selfish, I know, but as I wait for the tides to bring you home, every time my heart beats, it’s beating for you. Every breath I take is to remind you to breathe, too. I hold my head high and I speak with the certainty of the officer, the leader, that they tell me I was born to be. I grit my teeth and I tear my hair out and I wear holes in the floor as I pace to the ends of the Earth, acting like I’m fine when everyone knows, I’m still standing because I have no choice. To sit down is to give up, and I will not give up on you.

I will love you. With everything that I have. I will love you. From the heavens above to the sea below. I will love you. From the dawn of time to the end of time. I will love you. Because I don’t know who I am if I don’t. 

I will love you.

So please, come home.

—

November 26 Low Earth Orbit

Helen: “Rosie? Do you copy?”

Helen: “Rosie?”

Rosie: “Huh?”

Rosie reaches a clumsy hand up to rub at his eyes, and he squints into the sterile darkness of the cabin. It’s quiet, everyone asleep, the Earth looming large out their window. So close he feels like he could fall right into it, but they aren’t ready yet.

Helen: “Can you check on John? His heart rate and breathing are elevated.”

Rosie takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to gather strength. It’s the middle of the night, and he feels like he hasn’t slept in days. Because he hasn’t. But he makes a noise of acknowledgement and releases himself from his sleeping bag, drifts away from the wall it’s strung up on. When he makes it over to Bucky, the commander is fussing, making sounds of distress. Rosie has found him like this several times in the last couple days – he always seems most confused, most agitated, at night, when it’s dark and he’s alone. When Bucky’s eyes meet Rosie’s, sure enough, there’s little comprehension there. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat.

“Shit, shit no, don’t do that, John.” Rosie lunges forward to grab at Bucky’s hand, which is tugging weakly at the IV taped to his arm. The skin around it is extremely irritated and the catheter rests at an off angle that makes Rosie’s heart drop. “Fuck. Oh god, John…”

Helen: “What’s going on, Rosie?”

Rosie pushes away from Bucky to get the lights turned on, unable to move fast enough in this little cabin when there’s no gravity to scramble through. His other crewmates groan at the brightness. Waking to Bucky trying to injure himself in some new way every night is not all that different from the faulty alarms they dealt with on the way to the moon, except now it’s their friend that’s malfunctioning.

When Rosie tells Helen “He’s dislodged his IV,” everyone wakes up that little bit more and starts to get moving.

Rosie unzips Bucky’s sleeping bag and pulls him upright, the commander fighting him the entire time. When Rosie tries to grab his arm to get at the IV, Bucky whines and shakes his head, pulling away.

“I need to get that out of there before it causes serious damage, John,” Rosie explains. “You’re gonna need a new one for the morning.”

Bucky shakes his head again, going so far as to block the catheter with his other hand. Rosie reaches for his hand and clamps clammy fingers between his own.

He grips his own hair with his other hand, trying to stay patient even though his own heart is beating too fast and he feels half delirious from exhaustion. “I know you don’t like it,” he says carefully. “But you need all the strength you can get before we go home. It’s only for… about six more hours, okay? That’s all I’m asking for. Let me fix this, and I’ll take it out in six hours. Deal?”

Bucky shakes his head, but the motion makes him so dizzy that his eyes go wide and he groans in discomfort, seeming to lose all sense of orientation in the zero g. His nose scrunches and he closes his eyes against the sensation. Somehow, he ends up with his head resting against Rosie’s shoulder for support. Rosie sighs and wraps an arm around him, holding him close and rubbing his side soothingly. He half expects Bucky to ask for Gale, seeking that safety again, but he doesn’t. He just stays there, tucked against Rosie’s side, too sick to move or care or comprehend any of it, wanting nothing more than comfort and someone to take some of the pain away. He won’t remember any of this, save for uncomfortable snapshot moments.

Rosie lets him stay there for a good few minutes, by which point Alex and Curt have both snapped into action, communicating with Helen about what’s happening. Curt makes his way to Bucky’s other side, brushes back his sweaty hair, offers him his water pouch. Bucky sips weakly, but struggles to swallow and makes no move to try again. His progress and regression occurred in whiplash increments as it was, but the fever has sapped any strength he was regaining right out of him.

As Curt convinces him to take another sip, Alex brings over the necessary supplies to remove Bucky’s IV so Rosie can replace it.

Rosie squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna take out your IV, alright?”

Bucky protests weakly, wordlessly. As Rosie is about to shift around to his front and get to work anyway, Bucky points at the far side of the crew cabin. “Bear.”

Rosie follows his finger, and sure enough, Beary Egan has floated away, clear to the window of the capsule, where he seems to be looking out at the Earth below them. A quick little laugh pops out of Rosie’s mouth. “Is that what’s got you so worked up? Trying to tear out your IV because you lost the bear?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but his eyes follow Alex as he retrieves the stuffed animal, and he reaches for it. Once Beary Egan is in his hand again, he gives Rosie no issue about cleaning up his arm and replacing the IV.

—

Johnson Space Center. Houston, TX

“Your husband’s a sassy little shit, you know,” Benny says when Gale arrives in Mission Control. Red Shift doesn’t start for another couple of hours, but Gale insisted on coming in early as the crew preps for re-entry, mostly in case Bucky needs him for any reason. Marge was coming in regardless to speak with reporters about the re-entry process, and she was all too happy to shove Gale off on Benny when they arrived.

“You’re driving me insane, Gale,” she told him when he wouldn’t stop shaking his leg or tapping his fingers or biting his lip. The depressed, tired grief that Marge has been worried about for days has been replaced with an anxious energy as Gale awaits Bucky’s safe return. She gave him a tight hug before he entered Mission Control, taking a minute to help him regulate his breathing. “Calm down, and keep your head on this planet.”

“That’s not news,” Gale tells Benny now. John’s always been a sassy little shit.

“Even when he’s sick, sitting on death’s door…” Benny throws his hands out in exasperation. Gale swallows the pressing need to say don’t say that. Because Bucky is going to be fine. He has to be fine. 

Instead, he asks what happened. And Benny tells him about the IV ordeal, which makes Gale rub a hand over his eyes because it’s too damn early to be told that Bucky keeps finding ways to almost kill himself. If he came all this way only to die by air embolism…

“We’re all pretty sure Rosie caught it before it caused any damage,” Benny reassures him. “Replaced it with a new one for the morning, and Rosie’ll take it out before they get him suited up.”

An equally demoralizing thing to hear is that Bucky’s fever isn’t getting any better, and, among other obvious ailments, it’s left him confused, uncomfortable, and lethargic all night and for much of the morning. He started refusing food again last night, complaining of nausea and extreme pain. He hasn’t been very lucid, and his strength is pretty much shot. But he’s started talking more throughout the morning.

“Any time I try to talk to him, he just says ‘fuck you,’” Benny reports. “I know he can say other words. I’ve heard him talking to the guys. But for me, all I get is a fuck you.”

Benny rolls his eyes in irritation, muttering something along the lines of “what the fuck did I do?” But it makes Gale smile for the first time since he left JSC yesterday, because if nothing else, that sounds like John. He accepts the spare headset that Benny grudgingly holds out to him.

Gale: “Good morning Artemis 3. I hear my husband is being a handful.”

Curt: “Benny’s just a wuss.”

Gale: “Is John there?”

Curt tells him to wait a moment, then there’s crackling as headsets turn on and off on the other side of the transmission. Gale exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he hears Bucky’s voice.

Bucky: “Hey doll.”

Gale: “How are you?”

Bucky: “... pretty bad.”

Gale nods, biting at his lip. A dumb question. He resists the urge to tell his husband that everything’s gonna be okay, that he’ll be okay.

Gale: “You’re coming home today, you know.”

Bucky: “Mmm.”

Rosie: “Heads up, Buck, he’s speaking well but he’s still pretty out of it. Can’t focus for shit. Keeps getting confused and disoriented.”

Gale: “Thanks Rosie. John, I’m here at the space center for the day, okay? I’ll be right here with you if you need me.”

Bucky: “Mkay.”

Gale: “I love you.”

Bucky: “Mhm.”

Gale shakes his head and ignores the way Benny is trying not to laugh beside him.

Rosie: “Sorry, Buck. He’s just up here kinda existing right now. Looking out the window. I’m gonna take the headset off of him, but I’ll let you know if he needs you.”

Gale thanks Rosie, shoves Benny’s shoulder, and goes in search of coffee. 

—

On TV, a live broadcast has already started hours before Orion is scheduled to land back on Earth. A news crew is stationed outside of Johnson Space Center, where the sun has yet to rise.

“The eyes of the whole world have been on NASA for the last week, since American astronaut, Major John Egan, suffered an accident on the lunar surface that left him unconscious and in unstable condition. The Director of the Human Spaceflight Program, Colonel Neil Harding, cited a faulty rover wheel as the cause of a driving incident that ended with the rover tumbling down the side of Shackelton crater, crushing Major Egan beneath it.

“The Artemis 3 commander is said to have suffered a traumatic brain injury and a tibial fracture in addition to decompression illness after his oxygen regulator was compromised during the incident. Egan remained in a comatose state for more than two days, suffering seizures and decompression symptoms. Starship pilot, Curtis Biddick, worked tirelessly to keep Egan alive until they could rendezvous with their other crew members in the Orion crew capsule.

“Egan continues to endure TBI symptoms, but is said to be steadily recovering. The crew has spent the last three and a half days on an emergency return trajectory from the moon, and will splash down off the San Diego coast later this morning. We’re here outside of Johnson Space Center, where NASA’s Mission Control has worked nonstop to bring Major Egan and the rest of the Artemis 3 crew home alive.

“Yesterday, we spoke with Major Egan’s husband, Major Gale Cleven, who is a flight controller and fellow astronaut slated to travel to the moon on Artemis 4. This is the first time we’ve heard from Major Cleven since the incident occurred.”

The broadcast cuts to a clip from the day before, when the reporter jumped Gale and Marge as they walked into JSC. Gale is dressed in his typical Mission Control work attire, his hair is styled perfectly, and dark aviators hide the exhaustion in his eyes. It’s obvious that talking to this reporter is the last thing he wants to do, but when she asks him about re-entry and John’s odds for survival, he turns and flashes that cocky pilot’s grin. Major Buck Cleven.

“We’re gonna bring our boys home safe,” he assures her.

“Including your husband?”

His smile falters, but he nods and runs a hand through his hair, somehow managing to look calm and sure when he’s anything but. “Yes.”

She asks about failure, what it could mean for the space program.

Gale looks at her for a long moment, works his jaw. He starts to turn away. “Failure is not an option,” he states, an Apollo-era motto that still rings true. He walks towards the Mission Control building, head high, back straight. He doesn’t look back.

—

Bucky starts showing more signs of life as the morning goes on and activity picks up around him – cabin housekeeping, communication with Houston, calculation checks, general mayhem. As they prepare for re-entry, even Bucky’s sleeping bag has been rolled up and stowed, leaving him floating in the middle of the cabin with nothing to keep him in place for the first time since he came back aboard Orion.

Curt pats him on the shoulder and releases a mostly empty packet of soup into the air to float across the cabin to Rosie, who discards the trash. Bucky swallowed a good three quarters of the soup and seems comfortable enough, no immediate signs of spitting it back out.

“Orange juice?” he asks. He frowns and scrunches his nose, closing his eyes as his hand drifts up towards his head. Rosie took the gauze off when Bucky woke up this morning to make the com cap he’ll have to wear more comfortable. But he gave a strict warning that if Bucky scratched at the wound for so much as a second the gauze was going back on. No one could tell if he understood, but he hasn’t made any move to bother the gash since. He’s been shivering all morning, his cheeks bright red, and he keeps complaining about his head hurting.

Rosie sends a packet of orange juice drifting towards Curt, who catches it and gets it open. “Don’t let him have too much,” Rosie instructs. “I need him to keep it down this time.”

Bucky sticks his tongue out, and Curt does it back to him. “You heard the doctor. Just a few sips.”

Curt lets him drink about a quarter of the packet before pulling it away and handing it back to Rosie. Bucky wraps his arms tight over his chest, Beary Egan secure over his heart. His body shakes as he leans his forehead against the capsule window, letting the cool glass press against his forehead. His fever’s running at 101 degrees now, his face burning as chills rack his body.

Curt faces him, putting a hand on each of Bucky’s arms and rubbing at them gently. When Bucky looks at him with a pained expression, eyes wet and dazed, Curt pulls him against his chest. Bucky rests his head against Curt, looking for comfort or relief or something to make this go away. He can’t focus, can’t think, can’t move. The shivering is making his whole body tense up and everything is sore or broken as it is. The pounding in his head isn’t getting any better and he feels like he might throw up all the damn time even though he hasn’t in a little while now.

“You’re alright,” Curt tells him. “Just think, in a few hours we’ll be floatin’ in the middle of the Pacific. Sun shining. 72 degrees. The sound of the waves, the birds. Blue sky overhead.”

Bucky nods against Curt’s shoulder. “Home.”

“Yeah, we’re goin’ home. We’ll get you all fixed up. Gale’ll break down every door on the planet to get to you, and he won’t leave your side. And you’re gonna be alright.”

Bucky whispers a muffled ‘Buck’ into Curt’s shoulder, and Curt holds him tighter, willing everything he said to come true.

“Alright boys,” Rosie says, coming up beside them. “Let’s get that IV out. Time to suit up.”

—

Alex: “One minute to re-entry interface.”

With the Orion capsule returned to it’s launch/entry configuration, all four astronauts sit in the center of the cabin. They’re clad in their OCS suits, preparing for re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere. Bucky gave them some attitude about it, but he eventually conceded his seat to Alex so that Curt could have a consistently coherent co-pilot. It breaks Bucky a little bit inside, but it’s the only option. He sits in the back row with Rosie, his head turned to the side so he can see out the window. They can no longer see the entire Earth, just the curvature of its horizon and the storm systems rotating across the vast oceans, the continents outlined in browns and greens against the dark blue of the water. 

Alex: “Thirty to RRT.”

Curt: “36,076 feet per second. Comin’ in hot boys.” 

Bucky tries to read the numbers on Curt’s screen, the ones that he, as commander, should be aware of, keeping track of, and calling out. But trying to focus on the text as they hurtle full force into the planet’s atmosphere makes his vision swim, making him feel sick. He sips water from the straw in his suit’s neck ring and looks out the window again, focuses on the Earth, the stars. The feeling of flying faster than any man on Earth. He smirks a little bit. 

Bucky: “Almost as hot as you, Buck.” 

Everyone groans. Alex mutters something about preferring when Bucky couldn’t talk, even though everyone knows he doesn’t mean it.

Gale: “Save it for when you’re on land, Major.” Bucky can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Alex: “Six seconds. Five, four, three…”

Curt: “Mark. RRT. The clock is running.”

Gale: “Artemis 3, we have a dropout in telemetry. You’re passing through the atmosphere.”

Bucky’s brain latches onto the sound of Gale’s voice. The sound of home. He’s heading towards it, and he’ll make it even if it almost kills him. He tries to ignore the sharp pain ripping through his head and every part of his body, the way his vision doesn’t want to work right, the way his ears ring.

Curt: “Hundredth of a G… a tenth.”

They are officially no longer in zero gravity. Beary Egan, resuming his duty as zero g indicator, has been tied with a string to Bucky’s seat so he doesn’t get in the way during re-entry. Bucky watches him drift to the floor, no longer weightless.

Alex: “We got some glow up here.”

Curt: “Oh shit look at that.”

The exterior of the capsule is engulfed in a fiery glow as it interacts with the upper atmosphere, cutting through its layers like a bowling ball through a stack of paper. The blunt force of the capsule and the friction between it and the air causes a build-up of ionized gases, creating plasma that glows hot orange and blue. The heat shield on Orion’s exterior is the only thing protecting the crew from burning alive.

Bucky: “Fuckin’ fireball.”

Curt: “0.27 Gs… 0.65… 1.23”

Gale: “Comin’ up on 1 minute.”

Curt: “2 Gs. Comin’ up on blackout.” 

At one minute and 20 seconds, Orion hits its maximum heat load of nearly 4,500 degrees fahrenheit, a fireball hurtling through the sky half as hot as the sun itself. The plasma interferes with the signal between the capsule and the ground, causing a routine communications blackout. Around 1 minute and thirty seconds, they encounter the maximum gravitational force of their return trip, roughly 7 Gs that press them into their seats with such force that it’s nearly impossible to move, making them feel like they weigh seven times more than usual.

Bucky tries not to scream in agony at the feeling of his broken leg being crushed under the excess weight it puts on his body, gritting his teeth and groaning against the intense pain. His vision gets darker and darker around the edges and his hand tries to fumble around for Rosie’s arm, searching for something to ground himself, but it’s too hard for him to move. Rosie notices and finds his wrist, squeezing it. 

Rosie: “You’re gonna be alright, Major.”

Curt: “Gonna get you home, Bucky. Just hang on.”

Bucky: “... Can’t…” Bucky feels his heart rate going up, so fast he thinks it might burst out of his chest, but he doesn’t understand how that would be possible when his whole body is pinned to the seat.

Rosie: “Hang in there, John.”

Bucky: “Gale?”

Curt: “We’re in blackout. Hang on and I’ll get you back to him, okay?”

But the way the world is crushing his body – digging spears into his brain and twisting his leg like a wet rag – tears a scream from his lungs that no one but his crew can hear. His eyes watch the bright blue of the heat licking at the windows, like a gas stove that’s as hot as a literal star. He wonders, if the window broke open, would it vaporize him fast enough to make the pain go away? An Icarus on Earth, this capsule his wings.

His vision goes almost completely black as he watches the firestorm, listens to Curt and Alex rattle off readings. “5 Gs… 2 minutes… Look at this baby fly… 4 Gs… Pressure good… roll… She’s doin’ her job real well…”

The blaze outside starts to recede, but the one in his head doesn’t go with it. He doesn’t stay conscious long enough to hear Gale’s voice searching for his after the blackout ends. His heart feels like it might just give up. 

Rosie: “He’s out. Whole lotta Gs for him.”

Gale: “Don’t tell him that when he wakes up. He’d be embarrassed that he couldn’t handle 7 Gs.” There’s the slightest hint of nervousness to Gale’s voice, and they all know he’s trying to hide it. 

Alex: “I can’t even lift my head. Don’t wanna imagine the hell it was for him.”

Gale: “Coming up on five, boys. How’s she doing?”

Curt: “Smooth ride, Buck. Smooth as anything I’ve ever flown.”

Gale: “Can’t be too smooth then.”

Curt: “You’re full of shit.”

As the gravitational force on the capsule begins to decrease, slowing down to only a few hundred miles per hour, they can actually see the oranges and pinks and dark blues of an Earth-bound daybreak out their window.

Alex: “It’s beautiful, Houston. We’re riding at 3 Gs. Look at that sky out there!”

Gale: “We’re getting some data back now. Everything’s lookin’ good.”

Curt: “Think we’re just about at the transonic region.” Over 30,000 feet above the surface, they’re finally slowing down to Mach 1, the edge between subsonic and supersonic, the sound barrier itself.

Alex: “Let me know when we reach 30k.”

Gale: “Bring it home, boys.”

—

Red Shift took over thirty minutes before re-entry, and Gale stands behind his console with a headset over his ear, pacing back and forth with such intensity that his shoes leave scuffs on the old carpet floor. He can see Marge repeatedly glancing over at him even as she tries to focus on relaying information for the public, but he can’t deal with her worry right now. He has a crew to bring home.

He bites at his thumbnail and watches telemetry readings start to fill his and Croz’s screens once again. The capsule is performing as hoped, no major concerns yet. The heat shield survived the inferno of the upper atmosphere, protecting the crew from a fiery death. That’s what space travel is, after all – designing ways to survive one deathly hazard after another, shoving the human body past the limits of where it was meant to be. Intense gravitational forces, zero gravitational forces, star-level plasma blazes, decompression, toxic atmospheres, vacuums that suck the life out of everything that dares to enter... The list goes on.

And yet they do it anyway. They can’t get enough.

Gale knows John won’t regret this mission, no matter how much it hurts. It’s who he is. Who they both are.

“What are John’s vitals?” Gale asks, forcing his voice to stay measured. It’s only the second time he’s asked since they began re-entry over six minutes ago, and he feels like he deserves an award for that. He’s been standing here, jaw clenched, trying desperately not to request an update every thirty seconds. Gale may be a husband, but he’s also a flight controller, and there’s four astronauts on this spacecraft, not just one. He tries to convince himself that if something went wrong, Dr. Huston would inform the room immediately. If Bucky’s heart gave out, if his lungs stopped working, if his brain shut down…

Bucky passed out before the blackout ended due to the force of 7 Gs on his body, something he could ordinarily handle with no more than a little discomfort and a wild, daring grin on his face that just begs the universe to throw something more challenging at him. Here they are, talking about the man that passed fitness tests and astronaut candidate training with flying colors. The man who would laugh while his simulators spun out of control before getting down to business to stop the roll. The man who thinks the reduced-gravity aircraft they use to simulate weightless environments – lovingly nicknamed the vomit comet due to its pension for making passengers sick to their stomachs – is nothing more than a time-of-your-life carnival ride. Bucky would take that ride over and over if he could, playing weightless volleyball with Gale and Curt every time they reached the zero-G point of their parabolic flight path. 

No big deal. None of it.

And now he’s passed out because he can’t even handle 7 Gs with no rotation at all. And Gale is sitting here, wondering if he’ll survive it. 

“Heart rate is elevated,” Dr. Huston replies. “Blood pressure… elevated. Temperature high. Respiration rate is a bit low.”

“How elevated and how low?” Gale all but growls.  He glances back at Dr. Huston to gauge his level of concern.

Dr. Huston meets his gaze, his stare hard, giving away nothing. “As long as it stays where it is, he’ll be alright, Gale.” It’s not an answer, but it’ll have to do.

Just keep breathing, darling. 

Curt: “Approaching 30k.”

Alex: “ELS Logic. ELS Auto… stand by.”

Orion’s Earth Landing System, activated at 30,000 feet above the surface, will pop the forward heat shield and automatically deploy the drogue chutes and main chutes to decelerate the capsule at predetermined intervals. Generally speaking, this prevents the capsule from smacking into the Pacific at Mach 1 and flattening the crew like a pancake. Gale holds his breath as he waits for confirmation that ELS is functional.

Curt: “Goodbye heat shield.”

Rosie: “There go the drogues!”

At seven minutes and 46 seconds after re-entry, Croz reports, “Drogue chutes deployed.” Gale forces himself to take a breath.

On the screen at the front of Mission Control, their first visual of the capsule pops onto the screen. Orion, its scorched heat shield having been jettisoned into the waters of the Pacific, falls through the dawn at 300 miles per hour, 25,000 feet in the air, slowing down with every millisecond that passes.

Gale: “We got you on TV, boys.”

Curt: “We’ll give you a good show.”

Croz reports that the main chutes have deployed.

Curt: “There’s the mains.”

Rosie: “Felt that one for sure.”

On screen, three red and white parachutes blossom up from the capsule. Each 265 feet long, 116 feet in diameter. They’ll reduce Orion’s speed to just about 25 miles per hour.

As Curt and Alex run through their final command module checklist, turning off propellant and getting the capsule ready to power down once they land, the recovery teams start reporting visual on Orion. The helicopter that will lift the crew from the water, the sniffer boats that will conduct hazard checks before egress, the swimmers that will assist with egress, and finally the Navy LPD ship that will retrieve the Orion capsule and house the crew temporarily.

USS Portland: “Artemis 3, this is Portland, we have visual.”

Alex: “3200… 2800.”

Rosie: “Looks like we could just land right on them the way we’re comin’ down.”

Curt: “Hear that? We’re comin’ for you, Portland.”

USS Portland: “Copy, Artemis 3. I think you’re gonna miss, though.”

Curt: “We’re a good couple miles off target… Marco.”

USS Portland: “Polo?”

Alex: “Fuckin’ helicopter out the window.”

Curt: “Nice to not be the only ones flyin’.”

Gale watches the capsule descend towards the ocean, closer and closer and closer. He knows the whole world is watching, waiting, willing the crew to land safely in the water. America holds its breath for Major John Egan.

—

The capsule hits the water of the Pacific at 17 miles per hour, splashing into the waves about 2 miles off target, 500 nautical miles off the American coast. The oranges and pinks of the sunrise reflect off the battered exterior of Orion as the self-righting flotation system inflates, keeping the craft upright. 

“I’ve always wanted to swim in the middle of the goddamn Pacific,” Curt says as he flips up the retractable visor on his helmet. 

“Don’t think you’ll be doing much swimming,” Alex tells him as he stretches his arms forward. He feels weak, a little unsteady as they rock with the waves. “That sure is some gravity, there.”

Rosie reaches over to flip up Bucky’s visor. “John, can you hear me? Bucky?”

Bucky mumbles something unintelligible, but his eyes open, wet and glassy. “Fuck.” He groans and reaches towards his broken leg, hand pressed against his knee. “Fuucckkkk.”

“Glowing reviews about planet Earth,” Curt teases, and Bucky sticks his tongue out as he closes his eyes again and tries to stop everything from twisting in funny directions around him. 

“Artemis 3, recovery’s got eyes on you.” The voice of the recovery team lead crackles over the coms. “Swimmers deployed at main chute two… second and third teams deployed.”

Curt: “Roger, recovery. We’re just here enjoying the view.”

Bucky: “Just fuckin’ water.”

Alex: “That is what an ocean is made of, Bucky.”

Bucky: “Fuck off.” He chokes on a breath that doesn’t quite want to make it to his lungs, and he winces as his ears ring and his whole body protests the way the atmosphere presses down on all sides. His heart still feels funny. “Gale?”

Gale: “I’m here, sweetheart.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything else. He just needs to know his husband is there. 

Curt: “Powering down now.” Curt shuts down the Orion capsule.

USS Portland: “Artemis 3, this is Portland requesting astronaut condition, over.”

Rosie: “We got three of us in good condition, ridin’ the waves. Major Egan is… awake. Runnin’ real hot, in and out of consciousness but seems coherent if his sass is anything to go by. Can’t be too sure what this did for the TBI, and with the tibial fracture… Have you been briefed, Portland?”

USS Portland: “Roger. We’re ready for him here.”

Bucky: “Get me back up there. Gravity sucks.”

Rosie: “No way cowboy. We’re gonna get you on that ship, then straight to a hospital.”

Bucky: “No.”

Rosie: “Yes.”

Bucky: “No.”

Gale: “Yes.”

Bucky: “...no.”

Recovery: “Waves are 12 knots, sea swell running about 3 feet. Orion is riding nicely. Artemis 3, we’ll conduct our hazard checks and get you secure, shouldn’t be long before egress.” 

The crew waits for 40 minutes, bobbing in the waves as small sniffer vessels deliver a team of navy divers to the capsule. They check the air and water for any leaking ammonia or hypergolic gases, fatal if consumed and yet critical components for capsule functionality. Once the area is determined to be safe, one of the divers climbs up the side of Orion. He knocks on the window to let the crew know he’s there, and Curt smiles and waves back, giving a thumbs up. The diver returns the thumbs up and goes about his work attaching cables to the spacecraft. 

Once the capsule is secure in the water, ready to be towed into the Portland’s well deck, the diver leaps off the top of Orion, splashing into the water before climbing aboard one of the small boats. Another team of divers finishes deploying life rafts alongside the capsule as a helicopter hovers overhead, ready to receive the crew and transport them to the Portland. 

When the hatch opens, the crew breathes in fresh air for the first time in three weeks, the smell of salt and sky. Bucky smiles as the breeze drifts into the crew cabin, and Rosie laughs, shaking him by the shoulder. “What d’ya think of that, commander?”

“Nothin’ but blue skies…”

Rosie hums the tune of Blue Skies for him while Alex and Curt egress, the Navy divers dragging them out through the hatch and onto the orange life raft bobbing alongside Orion. They grin up at the cloudless sky above, letting the rising sun hit their faces. From inside Orion, Rosie helps Bucky maneuver to the hatch. All of them are a bit weak after three weeks in space, but Bucky had little strength even in zero gravity. He winces at the pain in his leg and his head, but manages to grab weakly onto the diver who has crawled half inside to help Rosie guide the commander out of the module.

The diver settles him in the middle of the raft. “How are you holding up?”

“Like shit,” Bucky groans, but he says it with a smile on his face as he feels the warmth of the world, the sway of the waves. The diver pats him on the shoulder before he helps Rosie out of the craft.

Rosie: “Recovery, Artemis 3 is going off coms. Houston, see you soon.”

Recovery: “Recovery, roger.”

Gale: “Copy, Rosie. See you on the other side. John… behave. I’ll see you soon.”

Rosie egresses the capsule, and he grins at the sky along with the others as the diver helps him onto the raft. He crawls over beside Bucky, whose eyes are blinking slowly against the bright sun climbing higher above the horizon. Rosie settles next to him as Curt crawls back over to the edge of the raft to ensure the hatch is closed. “Lieutenant Biddick is ensuring the Orion hatch is fully closed,” he hears one of the divers say.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, Bucky,” Rosie says. “Curt and Alex are gonna head up first. Then I’m gonna send you up. A recovery team member is gonna come down to make sure you’re alright in the net, and they’re gonna lift you up into the chopper. I’ll come up after you. Sound okay?”

“Don’t feel great,” Bucky says. His eyes drift away, towards the edge of the raft that’s bobbing up and down with the sea swell.

“I know. Look at me, lookin’ down there’s gonna make it worse.” Rosie reaches into Bucky’s open helmet to tap him on the cheek, getting his focus back on him. “We’re gonna get you on the ship, and they’re gonna take care of you. All the fluids and meds you need. It’ll feel like you’re floatin’ on a goddamn cloud.”

Bucky nods and attempts a smile, but it falters as nausea rolls through him and his vision fades in and out.

The recovery net drops out of the helo, and the divers help Curt climb in. He sticks his tongue out and waves as he’s lifted out of the raft, and all three other astronauts stick their tongues out back. Curt looks to the sky, holding his arms out to the sides as he ascends towards the recovery chopper. Then they send the net back down for Alex.

The recovery team and the crew of the Portland ran a just-in-time training a few days ago, when Navy crews were officially assigned to the Artemis 3 recovery. Using an Orion mock-up and a stand-in Artemis crew, they ran through the crew recovery protocols in order to simulate the end of the mission. They practiced a couple different methods of pulling Bucky up into the helo, unsure of what his condition would be and whether or not he’d be conscious. With the commander awake and in considerable discomfort, they do just as Rosie said they would: they send the rescue net down with a recovery team member, who ensures he’s secured in the net. 

“Not gonna lie,” he tells Bucky. “This is probably gonna suck for you.”

Bucky gives a sort of thumbs up that only makes it halfway, and he nods. He bites back a scream as the divers lift him into the net, trying – and failing – to position his leg in a way that won’t hurt like a bitch. The recovery team member keeps one hand on Bucky’s shoulder the whole way up to the chopper, making sure he stays steady.

The world falls away below as they’re raised into the air, and the clouds spin as the sun shines into Bucky’s eyes. He breathes deeply, feeling that salt water air that he missed so much fill his sore lungs, and he wills the nausea to go away (it doesn’t). When they pull him inside the helo, he hears voices talking to him. He manages a smile and another thumbs up, and then he’s out.

—

Much of the country is currently watching the same exact video feed that Mission Control has displayed on the screen in the front of the room. There hasn’t been so much public interest in a crew recovery since Apollo 13, but there’s something about a risk of fatality that makes people invested, pulls people together to hope and pray for a man that many are calling a national hero.

They all watch with bated breath as the crew is pulled out of the hatch; they watch Rosie speaking to Bucky; they watch them all stick their tongues out at each other; they watch Bucky, mostly limp and dazed, get loaded into the recovery net. They see him wince in pain. They see him look to the sky, watch his eyes close. Marge, as public affairs officer, narrates what’s happening for the public to understand.

“Lieutenant Curtis Biddick is the first astronaut inside the Recovery… Astronaut Alexander Jefferson is being hoisted into the Recovery… A recovery team member is ascending with Major John Egan to ensure his safety… Major Egan is unconscious, but appears stable…”

Gale watches the same feed as he stands beside Croz, one hand on his hip and the other over his mouth. Croz puts a hand on his shoulder. With Artemis 3 off coms, there’s nothing to do for Mission Control but wait for confirmation that all astronauts are aboard the helo, then that they’re aboard the Portland.

Recovery: “Major Egan is safely aboard Recovery.”

When the announcement comes, the entire room cheers – the entire country. It’s another milestone that marks John’s long journey home.

Gale feels his legs give out as he collapses into the CAPCOM chair. He rubs a hand through his hair, already a mess even though it’s still early in the morning. Croz pats him on the shoulder, and Gale would be smiling if he wasn’t just so damn relieved.

—

The Navy doctors pull Bucky into the Portland’s med bay, which is far larger and far better equipped than the one on Starship or Orion. They try to talk to him, try to ask how he’s feeling, but he can hardly even keep his eyes open. He drifts in and out, people swirling around him in a blur. He groans and winces when anyone does anything that causes pain, be it touching his leg or speaking too loud or generally existing beside him. He throws up over the side of the stretcher they have him on. He weakly tries to fight someone who tries to touch his head. 

They stick another needle in his arm, making him squirm away in protest. And he passes out again.

It will take the USS Portland a good day and a half to cross the 500 nautical miles of Pacific Ocean between Orion’s landing zone and Naval Base San Diego. Curt, Rosie, and Alex are comfortably walking around within a couple hours of being wheeled into the med bay and undergoing initial medical examinations. They spend most of their time on the ship chatting with the recovery team and making friends with the Navy crew aboard the vessel.

Curt – an Air Force pilot – and the Navy guys give each other shit all day, throwing insults back and forth like they’re long lost siblings with a life-long rivalry. The astronauts pose for pictures and regale everyone with stories about the moon and traveling through outer space, some a little embellished, though most don’t need embellishing at all. They play cards and engage in a fan-favorite practice of trading NASA and Navy gear, challenge coins, and patches.

The three astronauts spend a lot of time sitting beside Bucky’s bed. He’s receiving an appropriate amount of IV fluid now with a high dose of some strong drugs that they hope will reduce the pain and, if they’re lucky, the fever. He opens his eyes here and there, expresses discomfort or confusion or simply looks around or stares at the ceiling, never really seeming present. The doctors tell them that it’s likely he’ll be out for most of the trip. But, never one to miss out on the fun, Bucky fully wakes up early the next morning, about 8 hours from the shore.

The doctor keeps telling the other astronauts to be quiet and quit disturbing “Major Egan,” but they don’t listen. It’s Curt’s laughter that Bucky wakes up to, blinking tiredly and tilting his head to follow the familiar sound.

“Hey, astrofag!” Curt exclaims when he sees Bucky’s eyes on him. Bucky sticks his tongue out and raises a weak but no longer shaking hand to flip him off. He manages to get his other fingers most of the way down, middle finger out straight, to get the point across.

His cheeks are flushed, and he’s still sweaty, his body tensing with chills, but he tries his best to grin at them. “What’d I miss?”

Over the next hour or so, a stream of Navy sailors stop by to visit Bucky as he sits up in his med bay bed, supported by Rosie on one side and Curt on the other. He’d protested at first, but both astronauts pulled away to let him support himself, proving a point, and he immediately felt dizzy again. So he reluctantly accepts the help.

He listens as the sailors chat with him and gives fist bumps and gentle high fives. He banters back and forth with them as much as his muddled brain and scratchy throat can allow. 

“You might’ve fared better if you were in the Navy instead of the goddamn Air Force,” one guy quips.

Bucky laughs and flips him off in the same half-accomplished way he did to Curt. “The goddamn Air Force got me to the moon.”

The picture that gets sent to Houston that morning – the picture that will show up in the news and on social media within the day – is one of all four astronauts dressed in blue NASA flight suits, Bucky in the middle, looking sick but ecstatic, with Navy officers gathered around the bedside. They’re all beaming at the camera – crew secure, Major Egan safe, a time for celebration.

It’s officially Thanksgiving in America.

—

November 27

While most Americans spent Thanksgiving watching parades and football, eating turkey and pumpkin pie and spending time with family, the Artemis 3 crew spent half the day on the USS Portland in the middle of the Pacific. They celebrated with their new Navy friends, eating surprisingly good turkey and pie of their own at lunch time, before arriving in San Diego. John managed a bite of pumpkin pie, but otherwise stuck with soup.

At the naval base, the astronauts were loaded onto another helicopter and taken ashore. From there, Alex and Curt boarded a NASA GV to fly back to Ellington Air Force Base in Houston, where they’ll be welcomed home by their families and housed at JSC for the night so they can undergo further medical evaluations and meet with the Mission Control team the next day. Bucky was boarded onto a medical transport plane, Rosie at his side, and taken straight to the hospital, as Rosie promised. Bucky, for better or worse, is unconscious for much of this process, saving everyone the grief of him complaining about going to the hospital.

Dr. Huston meets them there, and he and Rosie discuss Bucky’s condition with the doctors and nurses, who whisk the Artemis 3 commander away for tests and treatment.

Gale forgets that it’s Thanksgiving until he turns on the news late in the morning – his first morning not working a Mission Control shift in nearly a month – and sees the Macy’s Day Parade on the screen instead of a news story about Artemis 3. He doesn’t know if it’s a relief, or if it makes everything feel worse. He’s thankful as hell, don’t get him wrong. John is back on the same planet, safe, on his way to Houston for evaluation and treatment. And yet so much still seems unsure. So much is unsteady. Like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff and could be pushed either way depending on the direction of the breeze.

He didn’t sleep last night any better than he did any other night. His hands shake as he drinks his coffee – out of a ceramic mug that reads “World’s Best Astronaut” instead of out of a cheap paper cup. His breathing comes in unreliable bursts. He feels edgy and jumpy and nervous. Dark circles rest beneath his eyes and his hair is a disaster. He shrinks into the Yankees sweatshirt and tries to convince Pepper to eat even though she won’t give him more than a few bites. 

He turns off the TV. He can’t stand the good mood of New York City and parade floats and giant balloons making their way down a crowded street. 

Instead, he, Marge, and Benny go on a walk with the dogs. They stare at the sparkling water of the bay and Marge holds his hand and they all quietly think about everything that happened in the past few weeks. Gale tries not to cry. He lowers himself to the ground, sitting on the boardwalk, and he lets his feet dangle above the water. Pepper and Meatball sit beside him, Marge and Benny at the ends. 

It’s been 21 days since the SLS rose off pad 39B on Cape Canaveral, forging Artemis 3’s path to the stars above. It was a perfect launch. But even then Gale knew, there’s no such thing as a perfect mission.

It’s been 36 days since Gale last held his husband’s hand. That day back in October, when they were just newlyweds saying goodbye, ready for the adventure of a lifetime. 

864 hours. 51,840 minutes. Over 3 million seconds. Not a single one of those numbers feels like enough.

What’s just a few more hours?

Some of the flight controllers gather at Croz’s house for Thanksgiving, a late lunch or early dinner, no one knows. But it’s complete with turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing and pie. Gale keeps losing himself among the chatter of his friends, pushing his food absently around his plate. At some point, Jean leans into his space and says “Honey, I know you’re not pushing that food around cause it’s not good. Eat up.”

Gale blushes and says “Sorry ma’am,” before shoving a bite of stuffing into his mouth. He doesn’t finish the plate, but Jean pats him on the shoulder and takes it away so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. He does happily accept a small piece of pie and a cup of coffee while everyone sits around, talking and laughing and trying to heal, all while avoiding the elephant in the room.

They wait anxiously for news. They wait for the Portland to reach the naval base. They wait to hear that the crew is safely on their way home. They wonder what kind of shape John is in.

When Gale’s phone buzzes in his pocket, he pulls it out and immediately covers his mouth with his hand. A photograph – Bucky, awake and sitting up in the Portland’s med bay. He’s surrounded by his crew and the Portland sailors, and despite the paleness of his skin and the sweat matting his hair and the red tinting his cheeks, the grin on his face is so quintessentially him that Gale nearly gasps when he sees it. Bucky Egan: wild child. 

Gale passes the photo around, and Croz raises his mug of coffee in toast, in thanks, to Major John Egan. American hero.

—

By the time Gale is finally allowed to see his husband, it’s been almost two days since Orion splashed down in the Pacific. 40 hours. 2,400 minutes. 

150,000 heartbeats.

Bucky’s heart is still beating. Gale tries to remember that.

He arrives at the hospital at 8pm, his hands shaking so bad he can barely pull out his ID as he tries to explain to the front desk that he’s Major Egan’s husband. Marge comes running up behind him as the nurse explains that John is still being examined. 

“W-When can I see him?” Gale tries to ask, but he isn’t sure that the words come off his tongue right.

The nurse takes pity on him and makes the effort to find out John’s exact status while Marge leads Gale over to a chair. She gets him sitting down, tries to tell him to breathe, but he’s back on his feet before she can even get the words out. He doesn’t pace. Just stands there, eyes darting around the waiting room, running his thumb across his wedding band over and over and over.

It’s another three hours before the nurse – who has very patiently answered Gale’s periodic requests for updates – informs him that Bucky has finally been set up and settled into a room. A doctor comes out to see him, and she explains that there is still inflammation in Bucky’s brain. They’re hopeful that it will continue to heal over the coming days and weeks with the right rest and treatment.

The gash on the back of his head has become infected, but they aren’t overly concerned about it right now, treating it with antibiotics. His leg was adequately set – kudos to Lieutenant Biddick – but became slightly displaced again during re-entry, requiring them to set it again. They can’t be sure about the cause of the fever, which isn’t responding to medication but doesn’t quite align with criteria for neurogenic fever, particularly since neurogenic fever doesn’t usually cause sweating. They’re trying him on drugs cited as showing success in treating neurogenic fever anyway, and they are working to keep his temperature down manually. On the other hand, the shivering he’s been experiencing can increase intracranial pressure, and they’re working to reduce chills through medication and warming of Bucky’s hands and feet.

Gale can’t help but find that last part a little funny, considering Bucky is always complaining that Gale’s hands and feet are too cold.

Lastly, the nurse tells Gale what he’s so used to hearing in recent days: Bucky is currently asleep; he’s been in and out of consciousness all day; he at times seems confused and agitated; the first thing out of his mouth when he woke up in the hospital, other than the word fuck, was Gale’s name.

Gale’s head is spinning as he’s led down the white, sterile hospital halls. He hopes Marge thought to write all that down or remember it because there’s no way he’s going to. She’s going home for the night, though. Said she’d be back in the morning. And for the first time in days, Gale is left alone to remember how to breathe on his own. He presses his wedding ring to his lips and doesn’t even care how wrecked and exhausted and terrified he looks, because he’s about to see his husband and his heart doesn’t understand what it’s supposed to do anymore. It beats too fast, and he doesn’t even know if it’s out of anxiety or relief or fear or love or excitement or need or simply a pulse of the universe alerting him that his other half is just on the other side of this door, waiting for him.

The nurse holds the door open for Gale and he trails in behind her. She tells him that the couch beside the bed is all set up for him, and insists that he let her know if he needs anything, but he can barely even nod because everything he needs is right there, laying on a hospital bed.

Bucky lays propped up on the bed, his broken leg raised and freshly adorned in a light blue cast from knee to foot. His head is wrapped in white gauze, his curls tucked away beneath it. A cooling blanket rests over top of his still body in an effort to cool him down, and different sensors are attached to all different parts of his body, connecting him to machines that read out his vitals. They reassure Gale that Bucky is alive, lungs breathing, heart beating, blood pumping. An IV is sticking out of his forearm, held in place with excessive amounts of tape, no doubt at Rosie’s prodding. Beary Egan is tucked against his side, having been retrieved from Orion after the capsule was towed aboard the Portland.

Gale can’t even move at first. All he can do is stare at this man, sick and broken but by far the strongest and most beautiful person he has ever seen. He wonders if this is real, if he’s actually standing here, staring at his husband. He waits for some cruel figment to pop out and tell him it’s all a sick joke or a hallucination or a dream, that Major John Egan actually died next to Shackleton Crater, crushed beneath a moon rover.

But it doesn’t come. 

The room is dim, the world dark outside the window. It’s quiet but for the beeping of the machines proving every second that Bucky is alive. Gale runs a hand through his hair before pressing his fingers to his lips, holding his breath so he doesn’t break down at the foot of the bed. 

He doesn’t really comprehend that he’s doing it, but he’s suddenly putting one tentative foot in front of the other, walking around the bed to Bucky’s side. He worries his heart might beat right out of chest. It jumps as he gently takes Bucky’s hand in his, feels the warmth of his skin. He stares down at their fingers, trying to remember what it felt like the last time he held this hand in his. Trying to remember what they said, the look in John’s eyes, the exact expression on his face.

He kneels on the hard floor for a hell of a long time, wordless and still. He thinks about the better days they spent before quarantine, that chaotic but rose-colored time when they were not only newlyweds, but also astronauts on the cusp of something unimaginable. He thinks about Bucky wrapping him in his arms. Kisses in the darkness of their bedroom. Their hands finding one another, holding tight just to feel the closeness, the care. He thinks about late nights and early mornings. Shared cups of coffee and exhausted hugs. Certainly not for the first time, he thinks about their wedding.

He fiddles with Bucky’s fingers in the same way Bucky so often does to him, and he sings softly, pushing past the gravelly emotion coating his throat and the tears welling up in his eyes. Their song. Their first dance. “Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can’t help, falling in love with you.”

Bucky always tells Gale that he has a beautiful singing voice, begging to hear more of it. It makes Gale blush and hide away, but now he thinks about the way Bucky watches him when he sings, like he’s the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen.

He’s finishing the song, staring down at Bucky’s hand in his, when he hears it.

“Hey, angel.”

Gale’s focus shoots to Bucky’s face so fast it makes his vision blur. Bright blue eyes are staring right at him, and Gale wonders how long they’ve been open. The corner of Bucky’s mouth is quirked up in the smallest, tiredest smile. His eyes are glassy with fever, but they’re locked onto Gale with a fierceness that he didn’t expect to find.

“I love when you sing,” Bucky says weakly. But Gale has suddenly forgotten every word.

He falls into that gaze, feels the universe spinning around him, weaving back together, becoming whole once again. He squeezes Bucky’s hand and can’t even speak because those eyes are on him and all the emotions he tries so hard not to feel crash into him all over again.

John is here, in Houston, where Gale can touch him and hold him and never let him go. The love of Gale’s life. The other half of his soul. His reason for existing on the surface of this planet. He’s right here. He’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s looking at Gale with those damn blue eyes like he doesn’t know which of them went through hell but it doesn’t fucking matter because he’s here.

He’s… 

God, he’s everything.

He’s the beating of Gale’s heart. He’s the breath in his lungs. He’s the tides rolling in and the stars in the sky, the gravity that keeps the world turning on its axis. 

He’s the heavens and the earth and the depths of the sea. He’s the entire universe, settled into stardust, at the center of a single, beautiful soul.

And Gale can do nothing but press his forehead to Bucky’s hand, both of them trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut even though he doesn’t want to take his eyes off his husband, and he feels the tears drip off his nose, stream down his cheeks. When he looks up, Bucky is still watching him, and Gale can’t figure out the look on his face. A face that he can usually read like a book.

Pain and joy and longing. A pressing need to fix whatever is making Gale cry even though Bucky’s the one in a hospital bed. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers.

Gale laughs wetly, and he reaches his free hand up to cup Bucky’s cheek. “You scared me to death, John.”

Bucky blinks slowly back at him, the smile widening before it falters again. “I’m the one who almost died,” he mumbles.

Gale recognizes it for the joke that it is, but it makes the breath catch in his tight throat, and he closes his eyes again, causing more tears to fall, splashing onto Bucky’s wrist. He bows his head, holding tight to Bucky’s hand. After a moment, he feels shaking fingers stroking his hair back away from his forehead, and it makes him hiccup softly, like every touch from John is a bolt of electricity that shocks his system into reassembling itself from the pieces left in Artemis 3’s wake.

“Don’t cry, angel,” Bucky says, letting his hand rest against the side of Gale’s head. They’re the same words that Gale imagined days ago, when Bucky was still comatose on the moon. The words that kept Gale going when he had no idea if he could. Spoken aloud in that warm, perfect voice that he was terrified he’d never hear again. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. 

Don’t cry, angel. “Just breathe.”

…

…

Part 17

[hogans-heroes]

Before I forget, it’s worth some time to consider the fact that POW literally were in rehab after they were released. For a long time. Guys getting out after that were all weak and sick and skeletal thin, it often took months to recover fully. So when you see them walking around on base after they get back, they’re gonna look and feel like shit. Imagine being Rosie or Ken or Croz or whoever seeing their guys come back skinny and weak and coughing and quiet. This is not an overnight recovery it was painful and long.

[jakes3resin]

I have no excuse for this other than pretty blonde boy with pretty nails is a great image for Bucky in my head.

[eternallytired17]

Quill and Ink:

A Masters of the Air / Bridgerton AU sequel to Amongst the Vines - WIP

John’s hands immediately fell to grip Gale’s thighs, allowing Gale to easily catch both of them by the wrists and pin them on either side of John’s head. He heard a rumble rise in John’s throat as he rutted up against him, the roughhousing having evidently aroused him. “You’re a crafty little fox, aren’t you?” He said, leaning down along the length of John’s body to murmur lowly in his ear. “Why must you always misbehave?” John grinned up at him, opening his captive hands in mock surrender. “Perhaps because I know for a certainty that you won’t hesitate to put me in my place.”

A few years into their respective marriages, Gale, John, Marjorie and Helen are spending the off-season in the privacy of Gale’s country estate, Boeing Hall. While Gale attempts to finalize the estate’s accounts in his private study, John makes it his personal mission to distract Gale from his work.

Based on the 'Chaise Lounge' prompt chosen from the vote a few weeks ago.

[meyerlansky]

because i refuse to suffer alone, fun facts from 100thbg.com digging:

curt wasn't supposed to fly regensburg at all. escape kit was assigned to crew #28, pilot bill flesh, who was on a 3-day pass in london on the 17th so curt was swapped in with his crew, #30

richard snyder was flesh's co-pilot, not curt's; the only other member of crew #28 on escape kit for regensburg was the bombardier, dan mckay. weird decision to blur the lines there since there WAS actually someone on all three missions with curt that we see on screen, it just. wasn't dickie.

[thatsrightice]

Its such a minor detail but when I first saw Crosby’s bare wrist without a fancy little ID bracelet that was issued to them I was literally d e v a s t a t e d like just look at it we were totally robbed

[johnslittlespoon]

thinking about how curt biddick had four younger siblings, but his dad died when he was nine, his sister died when she was only two, his mom outlived her husband, both sons, and a daughter... man. :(

[ww2yaoi]

Schreckensvision • ORIGIN German (noun) terrible vision, a nightmare John adjusts to camp life.

[benvenutio]

AND ONE MORE THING i'm still angry abt the way mota portrays the RAF. rant below

it's not even accurate! the norden bombsight didn't even work that well! the us air force were also basically doing area bombing, because they missed their targets 70% of the time! and frankly considering what the americans did immediately following the european conflict ending (hiroshima and nagasaki.......) i really don't think they have the right to posture about the moral value of daylight raids versus night bombing.

it may not seem like it's that serious but this is a show that's supposed to be historically accurate, and all it seems to be doing is introducing a new generation of americans to the idea that they alone were the ones to win the war, and that the british were incompetent toffs who were too busy slagging off the brave American boys to get anything done.

WHICH ANNOYS ME 😡😡 bc the RAF was mainly comprised of working and middle class men, NOT the upper class!! aristocratic gents usually followed their fathers/uncles/family tradition into either the army or the navy - the much more 'established' forces. the RAF had been around for barely twenty years by the time ww2 kicked off!! that is nowhere near long enough to form the kind of traditions that would draw the sons of the upper class to join it - there obviously were members of the gentry who flew in the RAF, but predominantly it was lower/middle class boys who were the pilots and the navigators and the bombers, to say nothing of all the ground crew.

it comes across as hugely revisionist for hanks and spielberg to portray the RAF as a kind of incompetent playground of rich kids with nothing better to do - and completely disregard the 3 years of conflict the RAF had already endured, losing 56,000 men in the sky and thousands of ground crew. the whole reason the USAAF were able to become 'masters of the air' was because the RAF had already fought and taken down most of germany's top fighters during the Battle of Britain.

also!! it's not even historically accurate to have that weird fight between curt and the RAF officer, because the brits and Americans actually got along quite well when they were over here lmao. it's not even true!! as a character beat i enjoy it but from a historical perspective it's not even that realistic.

(also like. american troops were warned off engaging in 'drinking matches, physical fights, or gambling' with the british forces due to the brits wiping the floor with them in all three. curt winning that fight wasn't half likely)

which is all to say: i like mota!! but for the characters, not the narrative, which is a bit too US-saviour for me to stomach. ik i'm coming into an US show and going 'why are the americans here 😡😡' and i'm fully aware it's a little funny to be like well why aren't they paying attention to the RAF in a show about US bomber command BUT STILL. mota sets itself up to be as accurate as possible, and it isn't.

it's disrespectful to the thousands of men from Britain, Australia, Canada, South Africa, and so many other countries- the ones who came from all over the globe and the Commonwealth - who died fighting for three entire years before the US joined the war, to portray them as foppish and incompetent.

[lady-phasma]

Catching up on Masters of the Air so I'm sharing a self-indulgent collection of gifs.

Y'all probably don't know how passionate I am about history and that I genuinely rock out to Glenn Miller. In The Mood is used in every period piece from the 1940s and I love it so much! (Not what's playing during this lovely gif but the song that opens the scene.)

[deuces-sunglasses]

i wanna write a mota fic but i DO NOT know how the air force works 😭😭