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rambleonwaywardson · 7 months ago

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Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 12

Masterpost Read on AO3

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: Sometimes I think about how the first chapter of this AU was like 2k words and basically experimental. But. Now we're here. You asked for a 10k word chapter and so you shall receive a 10k word chapter because there is just so much. So much.

---

In one year, the earth circles the sun exactly one time at approximately 67,000 miles per hour. A tiny speck of paradise hurtling through wide open space at 30 kilometers per second, one astronomical unit away from the star that breathes life into our souls.

Within 365.25 days, Earth rotates on its axis 365.25 times, each rotation taking almost exactly 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds.

Within 24 hours, anyone could be doing just about anything on our peculiar little green and blue planet. When I sleep, someone else is taking their morning jog, and if that jog takes 20 minutes, then that person still has 1,420 minutes to fill. Ideally, I would sleep the entire time that that person jogs, plus at least another five hours. But I’m not sleeping. How can I?

So instead, if I sleep for the entire time that that person jogs, plus another three hours, if I’m lucky, then that leaves 74,400 seconds in my day. Each of those seconds, at this moment, is dedicated to keeping you alive.

Except for these few, as I stand outside watching the sun set on a world that you are not standing on. I have been ordered to step outside, to take a break, take a breath.

So I do. I take a deep breath, and I hope that my own breath can somehow fill your lungs, too.

I take a breath, and I look at the endless expanse of Earth before me, bathed in an orange and gold hue that feels too peaceful, too beautiful, for the nightmare moment that is enveloping my entire being.

There are approximately 120 seconds from the time the sun hits the horizon to the moment it slips below. However, when any layman attempts to time this event, it will likely take longer. This is because a refraction of roughly 0.6 degrees, caused by light’s decreased velocity through a dense mass of air, creates an illusion to the observer that the sun is more than a full diameter higher in the sky than it actually is.

A peculiar thing to think about, now. Physics, however, serves as a reminder of the conditions in which we exist, the miracle that is the complexity of our lives. It is a reminder of the fact that even in pain and uncertainty, this world is beautiful, and this is why we do what we do.

During this prolonged period of time, though, I look at the sunset, and I know that somewhere out there – up there – there’s you. In those extra moments caused by the refraction, I know you are alive. I pretend that I can feel your heartbeat in mine. I pretend that if my heart keeps beating, so will yours. Because I know that if the breath goes out of your lungs, if the life is extinguished from your soul, I just might cease to exist, too.

–

November 20 Nassau Bay, TX

Gale doesn’t sleep. He barely even closes his eyes because every time he does, the only thing he can see is a funeral that may or may not come to pass, a tri-folded flag, a missing man formation, Bucky’s picture on a stand beside his casket. The mere idea that Gale might be able to sleep right now is absolutely laughable. His right hand still burns from where the glass sliced it open, and he curls it into a fist, focusing on that pain.

He lays wide awake in the darkness in a too empty bed. Alone, so alone. And he thinks about their wedding night. Two silver rings in the moonlight. Bucky’s body on top of his, moving in time to the beating of their hearts. The warmth of his skin, his hands holding Gale’s waist, breathy laughs against his neck.

It’s been so damn long since Gale last felt Bucky against him, held his hand, kissed him goodbye. Nearly a month. And now, in the darkness of the world and the darkness of his mind, Gale feels a rising panic because he can’t recall the exact feeling of Bucky’s hand cupping his cheek. How is it fair that a feeling he’s been familiar with for half of his life can disappear from his brain in the blink of an eye? How is Gale supposed to live the rest of his life without ever feeling the warmth and comfort of Bucky’s body against his, when he can’t even recall it properly after just one month?

He lays in his empty bed, staring up at a ceiling that he can’t see. He shuts his eyes tight even though it makes no difference, and he tries to remember their wedding night. Bucky sipping champagne out of the bottle, biting roughly at Gale’s lower lip, stripping them both down one item of clothing at a time until their expensive wedding tuxedos were strewn haphazardly on the floor. He thinks about Bucky pushing him onto the bed, hovering over him with a desperate sense of hunger and need and love. He thinks about Bucky’s voice calling him angel and doll and darling. He thinks about Bucky’s body on his, Bucky’s mouth kissing him all over, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s fingers in his hair. He thinks about the familiar and comforting scent of him, Gale’s favorite scent in the entire world.

After he said goodnight to Marge and closed himself away in his bedroom with the dogs, he sat on his bed, the sleeve of the Yankees sweatshirt pressed to his nose. No matter how much he breathed in, it just didn’t smell like his husband anymore. His biggest problem in the last 24 hours has been reminding himself to breathe, but all of a sudden, he was near hyperventilating with the panic and the need to have something that still carried Bucky’s scent. How is he supposed to go the rest of his life without ever smelling that again?

He tore through Bucky’s dresser, sifting through every shirt and sweatshirt he could find, but they were all clean. Nothing but the scent of their laundry detergent. Stupidly, Gale had done the last of Bucky’s laundry after he went into quarantine, just a normal, meaningless house chore that all of a sudden feels like it took everything away from him. Leaving him with nothing.

If Bucky doesn’t make it home, someday Gale will forget the smokey-sweet scent of him. Someday he’ll forget the feeling of Bucky’s hands, the warmth of his body curled around him, the softness of his lips. He’ll forget the exact way Bucky smiled at him, and the way it made his heart soar every single time.

He’ll forget, because that’s just human nature. Someday, he’ll realize that he can’t recall those things from memory, that they’ve somehow slipped away, and he will grieve all over again.

How can it even be possible to forget?

Alone in the darkness, thinking about their wedding night, he lifts his hand to his mouth. He presses the wedding band to his lips, and he holds his breath to keep from sobbing.

By 1am, sleep seems to be a lost cause, something Gale knew before he even slipped into bed. They’re experiencing a cold snap in the Houston area, with night time temperatures dipping into the mid to low 40s, but he doesn’t care. He wanders through the house bundled in the damn sweatshirt with a thin throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. In the kitchen, he looks at Maggie’s drawing stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and he presses his hand to it gently as he passes. Pepper and Meatball walk after him as he opens the back door leading onto the patio.

When Marge finds him about 20 minutes later, he’s curled up in a chair with his knees pulled to his chest. It’s a new moon, and he stares at the pitch-black sky, wondering if the fact that he can’t see the moon is better or worse than it looming over him. He has no visual of the world that his husband is stuck on. He has no visual of the world to which John’s life may be sacrificed, where his body and soul may be committed to the metaphorical deep. He keeps his ring finger pressed gently to his lips, and the dogs lay on the ground, guarding him, their thick coats shielding them from the cold.

“You have to be freezing.” Marge sits down in the chair beside him, wearing one of his own sweatshirts that he’d lent her for the night. She looks worriedly at his bare feet pressed into the chair, turning pink from the biting ocean air.

Gale shrugs, because he doesn’t know. Didn’t notice. Doesn’t care. His feet are a bit cold, and he’s sure it should be registering more than it is. But it isn’t. “He’s up there somewhere,” he says instead.

She follows his gaze, looking into the darkness. She thinks about how he’s always been this way, since they were just kids. He feels so much and doesn’t show it to anyone but a select few. He holds so much in, and he feels weak for letting it go. She can see the way this is destroying him, and she can see the way he feels like it shouldn’t be. “Gale, you know, it’s okay if you-”

“I’m fine” Gale bites out. “I need to be fine.”

Marge sighs and takes his hand, the one that isn’t pressed to his lips. She’s spent a lifetime trying to make him understand that he doesn’t need to be fine. She’ll keep trying, no matter how many times he pushes her away. “Gale, your husband might be dying.”

He yanks his hand away and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t say that.”

Marge doesn’t give in, because it’s what he needs to hear. She just takes his hand again, and he doesn’t pull away this time because they both know he needs something to hold onto. “You do not have to be fine,” she says gently. “Actually, you shouldn’t be. It’s normal to not be fine.”

He scoffs, because they both know where he came from. He can’t process all that right now, so he doesn’t. “It’s funny,” he says. “The people who were saying shit about him are either silent now or saying even worse.”

Looks like our prayers were answered.

Fag deserves it.

Maybe we should send all the queers to the moon.

He hates social media. He always has, but he uses it now and then anyway, even when he knows he shouldn’t. There’s some little masochistic part of the human condition that doesn’t allow you to look away from things that smother you in anger. Earlier tonight, he had to chuck his phone across the room just to make himself stop scrolling through the hate.

He knows that the popular reaction to John Egan, Artemis 3 mission commander, has been overwhelmingly positive. Gale knows that the world is on the edge of their seats, holding their breath right along with him, as they wait for updates about Bucky’s condition. He’s seen the outpouring of love on the news and social media tonight, sending him thoughts and prayers even though thoughts and prayers seem so meaningless now. He supposes it’s nice that people are thinking of him, thinking of John, praying for his survival instead of his death.

Our hearts go out to Major Gale Cleven and the entire NASA community at this time.

But there’s something about a goddamn death wish that is just so loud.

“I know it’s hard,” Marge says, “but you really should stay off social media. You won’t touch it with a ten foot pole most of the time and now is when you wanna doom scroll?”

It’s a joke, and there’s some humor in it, but Gale doesn’t laugh. “Someone left something in my mailbox the other day. Praying the queer dies on the moon.”

Marge goes tense, frowning at him. He wilts a little under her stare, knowing she wishes he would’ve told her before. “Have there been any more? Has anyone contacted you directly?”

Gale looks down at his feet, which are slowly turning a brighter red. “No.”

“Look at me, Gale.” Marge taps his hand, demanding his attention. “You let me know immediately if anyone does, okay?”

Gale shrugs, but at her pointed look, he gives a small nod, and then he goes back to looking at the moonless sky. They sit for a couple of minutes before Marge squeezes his hand again. “Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing, even if you don’t.” She gently tugs at his hand until he unfolds himself and stands up from the chair, and she’s relieved when he follows her back into the house, bare feet padding quietly on the cold ground.

When she tries to guide him down the hall to the master bedroom, though, he stops and shakes his head. “No.”

“You need to sleep.”

“No,” he insists. “Not in there.”

Marge watches him, and part of him feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man. He’s seen combat, flown fighter jets, passed survival training with flying colors, stayed on the international space station, and all manner of other unthinkable things. He shouldn’t be reluctant to sleep in his own bed. He shouldn’t feel afraid of the dark. His heart rate shouldn’t be skyrocketing at the mere thought of walking into that room. But his feet are planted to the ground, and he can’t make himself move. He twists the ring around his finger, and he holds his breath.

Marge grabs him gently by the arm again and tells him to look at her. “Take a breath,” she says. So he does. “Go to the living room, okay? I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”

When she returns, Gale has actually done as he was told and is sitting on the couch, both feet planted firmly on the ground. The dogs lay on the floor, Pepper watching him curiously and Meatball resting his head on his paws, on alert for anything that might hurt Gale. The dog doesn’t expect trouble to come in the form of Marge, but when she hands over the pillow, Gale squints at it skeptically before pressing it close to his face, and he chokes on something that resembles a sob but doesn’t quite make it that far. Meatball jumps up immediately to nuzzle at Gale’s arm, and Gale idly pats him on the head as he breathes in the scent of the pillowcase.

It’s John’s. Smokey and sweet.

“I switched them,” Marge says.

So much panic, looking for something, anything, that still smelled like Bucky, and it was right beside Gale the whole time. Right on the other side of the bed, waiting.

He has an urge to clutch it tight to his chest like a child with a blanket, to sob into it until he’s out of tears and out of breath. But he smiles, and then he frowns, and then he scrunches his nose to keep from crying, and then he almost smiles again. Marge sets the blanket beside him on the couch, and she steps up close to him. She runs her fingers through his hair before leaning down to kiss him lightly on the top of the head. He wants her to tell him that everything will be okay, that John will be alright and he’ll come home and this will all just be another story to tell someday. He wants her to hug him tight and say that everything will work out. But at the same time, he doesn’t. He wouldn’t believe her if she did.

Two things can be true. Gale can know that the odds are against Bucky in every possible way. And he can also believe with his entire heart that Bucky Egan is capable of making it through anything.

All of it can be true and all of it can be false and none of it can take the pain away.

So instead, he thanks her, and she tells him to get some sleep. He lays down on the couch, alone in the darkness, and he buries his nose in the scent of his husband. It’s the only thing in the entire world that can make him fall asleep for the few hours he has left before he has to get ready for work again.

180 minutes.

10,800 seconds that are devoted to keeping Gale alive instead of his husband.

–

Rosie has been obsessively running the same calculations that he knows they’re running on the ground. By now, a task force has been assembled at JSC, consisting of engineers and medical professionals, dedicated entirely to anticipating every outcome and figuring out how to keep John alive through them all. They don’t communicate with the crew fast enough for Rosie’s comfort, though.

The human body follows rules, until it doesn’t. And microgravity, i.e. a lunar environment, is definitely not a place where rules can be expected to apply. No human has been on the lunar surface since 1972 – the data on how the human body responds to any given situation in this environment is extremely limited.

There are several major problems with having an incapacitated astronaut on the moon. On one hand, a lunar environment with fractional gravity in a climate- and pressure-controlled lander may work in the body’s favor relative to zero-gravity – compared to if this had occurred onboard Orion. However, at least onboard Orion, the return to Earth could be accomplished faster without having to risk launching an incapacitated astronaut that may or may not still be experiencing decompression symptoms at high speed from partial to zero gravity, followed by a several day return trip where any number of things could go wrong.

Keeping Bucky stable is top priority, and will not be easily accomplished if he doesn’t wake up before Starship’s departure from the surface. And the longer he stays under, the less likely it is that he’ll wake, and the more likely it is that he’ll experience further complications.

So if stability is the major concern, then another key issue is what they call the “backpack problem.” Too much stuff, not enough space.

Any given spacecraft has storage and mass limitations in order to meet launch and functionality requirements. Orion itself can only fit so much equipment, and for years several different teams have been tasked with determining what materials are and are not crucial to have on board. This includes medical equipment. Orion and Starship are only equipped with so much in the way of medical supplies, quantities of which were pre-determined by detailed analyses that attempted to account for almost any given situation and calculate the likelihood of those situations occurring.

In short, a bunch of scientists ran a bunch of simulations to figure out what catastrophes were relatively likely to occur on Artemis 3, and then they ran more calculations to figure out what supplies would be required to deal with those catastrophes.

Oxygen is one problem. Ideally, Starship and Orion should both have enough oxygen to operate for the mission duration as well as account for any emergencies. In order to mimic a hyperbaric chamber, the amount of oxygen circulating through Starship’s crew cabin had to increase significantly for a few hours. Bucky’s decompression rash worsened again after pressure was decreased, necessitating an additional course of recompression therapy. As long as symptoms begin to alleviate, which Rosie suspects they will, further recompression shouldn’t be needed, and their oxygen supply should be good to go.

What he’s more concerned about is fluids.

Bucky’s been on an IV basically since Curt got him back into the lander and jammed the catheter into his arm. The IV delivers water, electrolytes, and minimal caloric intake to his body while he remains unable to eat or drink, but the short-duration lunar exploration missions are only equipped with the anticipated minimum amount of IV fluid that would be needed in a given event considered relatively likely to occur.

Luckily, these calculations did consider an incapacitated crew member. Between Orion and Starship, the crew has 44 liters of IV fluid on hand, enough to provide intensive care for one average-sized male for 6 days. The problem, however, is that NASA researchers assumed transportation back to Earth would begin 24 hours after an incident, with the return taking a maximum of five days. Bucky’s already been receiving saline for over 24 hours, and a decision was made not to abort from the surface while he was unconscious and decompression effects were unclear. He and Curt won’t rendezvous with Orion for another 2.5 days. From there, the return trip will likely take 3 to 3.5 days, barring Houston giving them an alternative route. In total, if Bucky remains incapacitated for the duration, including the past 24 hours, he’ll need continuous IV treatment for seven days.

No less than one day more than was planned for. One day more than they have the supplies for.

They’ve passed the planned-for assumption of beginning transport back to Earth within a day of injury. No one knows if or when Bucky will wake up. No one knows if further complications will require additional fluids. A seizure or cardiac arrest, for example. Or, god forbid, any other incident or illness that leads another crew member to need fluids.

Rosie is running the calculations, and he knows JSC is, too. They’re trying to figure out how to keep Bucky alive in the short term without potentially screwing him over in the end.

And the clock is ticking.

–

Curt hasn’t slept any more than Gale has. Every time he closes his eyes all he can see is Bucky, unconscious on the ground, blood in his helmet and his leg crushed under the rover. He doesn’t think anyone at all is getting much sleep right now, though, and he knows Houston is working around the clock on concerns that Curt doesn’t even know about. This isn’t his first rodeo; he knows how it goes. They’ll have a task force assembled by now running through every possible scenario that Curt can’t even fathom up here on his own. But they won’t communicate with him about a single one until it comes to pass, because they want him to focus on keeping Bucky alive. So they’ll feed him instructions as needed, and he just has to follow them.

Follow them and don’t fuck it up. Don’t kill his best friend.

He’s been in life or death situations before. He’s single-handedly held together a copilot who was bleeding out all while safely landing a plane. He’s saved copilots – friends – and he’s lost them, too.

That’s just how being a pilot goes, sometimes.

He’s watched a casket draped with the stars and stripes be marched to a grave. He’s listened to the bugler play and the riflemen send off a three volley salute. He’s tri-folded a flag and watched as it was presented to a loved one trying with all their might not to fall apart right there and then.

If he has any say at all, he will not, under any circumstances, allow Gale Cleven to be on the receiving end of that flag.

What sucks is that he doesn’t have any say. All he can do is do as he’s told, and on a minimally stocked space exploration vehicle, his capabilities are limited.

That’s what he’s thinking about as he sits by the lander window, eating bland as fuck chicken and rice out of a rehydratable bag. Space Oddity plays in the background and he mumbles along: “Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong, can you hear me Major Tom?”

The same song Bucky sang as they approached their landing site. Back when they never expected the end of the song to apply.

Bucky is still very much unconscious and dead to the world, lying motionless on the fold-out cot that was stored in the Starship med bay. Curt’s glad he had the wherewithal to remember that the cot existed, much less where it was stored, because trying to care for an unconscious patient with decompression sickness and a broken leg would be a bitch in one of the hammocks they typically string up to sleep in.

Despite the general horror and the sudden need to recall his astronaut medical training, Curt’s daily tasks have become monotonous. Check Bucky every hour, do whatever he needs to do for him, and talk to Rosie and Houston about his condition. When he’s not doing that, he does housekeeping tasks. He’s taken inventory of their food and medical supplies twice already. He’s vacuumed all of the filters and vents. He’s checked the integrity of their climate-control systems more times than he can count. He’s checked in on the video feed of their LEAF plants, which he is simultaneously excited and sad to see are growing as hoped, even though he hasn’t been able to give them proper nutrients in the last day.

Mostly, he’s spent a lot of time just pacing the lander, listening to music, longingly staring out the window. He wonders if yesterday morning was his last lunar EVA. If it was, well, how can he complain? How many people get to step foot on the moon at all? And he got to do it a small handful of times. He’s spent more time on the moon than any man ever. He got to do what he’d always dreamed of doing, see what he always dreamed of seeing. It was better than he ever imagined, so how lucky is he?

But he also only got to do about half of their planned EVAs, and he feels fucking cheated.

He wishes stepping outside was as simple as just walking right on through the door for a leisurely stroll, but stepping outside like that on the moon means instant death. Instead, an EVA requires 30+ minutes of pre-breathing and securing himself into a bulky and complex spacesuit, followed by egress from the lander through a pressure lock. The process to get out of Starship alone takes up time that Curt simply doesn’t have, not while he has to constantly monitor Bucky, check in no less than every hour, and be immediately available if Houston notices something off.

All Curt can do is look at the lunar surface out the window, longing to step onto that fine foreign soil one more time.

He’s angry, and he doesn’t know at who. He’s not angry at Bucky; how can he be? That would be absurd.

Or maybe he is? Maybe he is mad that Bucky’s random but perhaps avoidable accident ruined their moon mission. Maybe he is mad that Bucky got them both into this mess. But that’s selfish as hell, isn’t it?

He’s mad at himself for even thinking that.

And he’s definitely still mad at himself for allowing the accident to happen, even though everyone tells him it’s not his fault.

Maybe he’s mad at whoever at NASA didn’t quadruple check the quality of the rover wheels.

Maybe he’s mad at whatever gods may be listening.

Maybe there really isn’t anyone to blame and it was just shitty, shitty luck, and now Curt has to while away up here, dedicating his days to making sure John Egan doesn’t die on the fucking moon.

Fix You by Coldplay plays in the background. Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.

Curt chucks his empty chicken and rice bag at the wall.

It strikes just to the right of the console, and bits of rice tumble out onto the floor and stick to the console buttons. Curt feels like an idiot for a moment before he gets mad again. If nothing else, it gives him another thing to clean instead of just stewing in fear and anger that he’d rather not acknowledge. So, with a glance at Bucky to ensure he is, in fact, still laying completely still on the shitty little cot, he turns up the music and sets to work.

Eventually, the song changes to Afterlife by Avenged Sevenfold. I don’t belong here, we gotta move on, dear, escape from this afterlife.

It’s sad and it’s angry and it’s everything Curt feels.

His little bubble of frustration is burst by Benny’s voice in his ear. “Smokey would like me to ask you if you’re okay.”

Curt: “Yeah Benny, I’m just great, thanks for asking. Any reason? Or is watchin’ over my comatose best friend the kicker?”

Benny: “We’re concerned, down here, about your music choices today.”

Curt: “My music choices?” Curt huffs, shaking his head as he stops his aggressive scrubbing of the console.

Benny: “So far, we’ve documented you listening to, among others…” Benny pauses, as if checking a list he’s been provided. Which is exactly what he’s doing, because apparently the Flight Surgeon is keeping a list of the songs on Curt’s sad boy hours playlist.

Benny: “Rocketman by Elton John, Champagne Supernova by Oasis, Unsteady by X Ambassadors, Bigger Than the Whole Sky by Taylor Swift, Take Me Instead by Zero 9:36, White Ferrari by Frank Ocean, Gone Away by the Offspring, Before I Go by Billie Eilish, and now Fix You and Afterlife. Not to mention, Wake Me Up When September Ends, during which you substituted November for September.”

Curt: “Clever right?”

Benny: “We’re impressed with your range.”

Curt: “I’m a man of the arts.”

That’s only a fraction of the songs that have been playing over the last few hours, basically all of them, for lack of a better word, angsty as hell.

Benny: “You doin’ okay, Curt?”

Curt: “I’d like the record to show that I also had a dance party to early 2000s pop earlier this morning.”

Benny: “Yes, the flight controllers particularly enjoyed singing along to Girlfriend. But, Curt-”

Curt: “We’re a little somber up here, Benny. Not gonna lie.”

And then he shuts off his coms, because that’s enough of that, and he sings along to Move Along by the All American Rejects as he heads over to check on Bucky. Again. Even when your hope is gone, move along, move along just to make it through.

“Hey bud, how ya hangin’ in there?” he asks as he stands over Bucky’s cot. Despite his bad mood, he’s been trying to talk to Bucky throughout the morning. Rosie told him that that’s a good thing to do with coma patients. ‘Cause that’s what Bucky is now: a coma patient.

“Everyone’s real worried about you. He won’t talk to anyone but Marge, but Gale’s in pieces. He does a good job of hidin’ it at work, but Benny told me he isn’t doin’ too hot. That’s probably not somethin’ you wanna hear, but I thought someone should tell you. Maybe, if nothin’ else, that’ll convince you to wake up. He needs you, ya know? I’m worried about him…if ya don’t make it. Defies the laws of nature, huh? Buck without Bucky.” Curt sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “So just, y’know, wake up when you can, okay? I don’t wanna fly all the way back to Earth with your fuckin’ dead body.”

They only have a couple of days until they depart from the moon, and Curt is not at all thrilled by the prospect of having to shove Bucky’s unconscious body back into his OCS suit and strap him into the commander’s seat. Especially with a broken leg.

“You owe me big time, just so ya know, for cleanin’ you up and all. You’re my best friend, but this is a lot closer than I ever fuckin’ needed to be to ya.” Curt chuckles as he raises Bucky’s shirt to inspect his abdomen. The movies never show you all the maintenance that goes into a coma patient, the hygiene tasks and all. Curt wishes he could’ve just gone on not knowing about any of that, but he’s had to do some things he’d really rather never discuss again since Bucky conked out on him.

He took care of most of that earlier, though. Now he just checks him all over for signs of the decompression rash, and he’s satisfied to see that while Bucky’s skin is still mottled all red and purple, it’s fading and no longer swollen. Then he unwinds the bandage from around Bucky’s head and reports to Rosie and Benny that the gash on the back of his head looks alright. They tell him to clean it real good again and replace the bandage.

He had to shave off some of Bucky’s hair yesterday to assess the wound. He knows he’ll be pissed about that when he wakes up.

All sorts of bio-med sensors are stuck all over Bucky’s body, so Houston can monitor his vitals. It seems to be about the only thing they talk about. Bucky’s oxygen levels, his heart rate, his blood pressure, his temperature. His leg, his rash, his head wound. The first lunar exploration mission in over 50 years has become a critical test in off-world life support and medical communication.

Bucky’s been breathing well on his own, and Curt thanks the fucking stars for that even as he triple checks every hour or so. He looks for the steady, though weak, rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, and is relieved every time to see that it’s there. He honestly doesn’t know if they have a breathing tube on Starship, and if they do, he does not want to figure out how to shove it into Bucky’s body.

Benny informs him that Smokey would like to increase Bucky’s pain medicine, so Curt adjusts the IV accordingly.

Every once in a while Bucky’s hand will twitch or something. Curt’s been told that that’s normal, and nothing to get excited about unless the movement is in response to some sort of stimulus. Which, so far, it hasn’t been. Even when Curt accidentally jostles the IV catheter inserted into Bucky’s arm.

He intentionally tests Bucky’s motor response just to make sure. First with a trapezius pinch, then a sternal rub, and finally by applying pressure to one of his nail beds, as Rosie instructed him to do yesterday. All of these tests are meant to apply mild pain to the patient to see if it generates a response. But none of them do.

How To Save A Life by the Fray plays in the background. I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness, and I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life.

“Still no motor response, Rosie,” he says.

“Copy, Curt.” Rosie sounds just as tired as Curt feels, and his voice carries a defeated tone that he doesn’t like.

“What are the odds of getting him through this?”

Rosie is quiet for at least a full minute before he responds. “I don’t know.” No one likes to hear the doctor say they don’t know. “He seems pretty stable now, but the longer he’s unconscious, the less likely it is he’ll wake up. I’m worried about the IV fluid. Houston’s working on scenarios for… well.”

“See how little they can give him and still keep him alive,” Curt mutters. Because no one knows how long he’ll need it.

“Mhm.”

If Benny is listening in, he doesn’t say a word.

Curt rubs his thumb mindlessly over Bucky’s brow, hating how broken and defenseless his friend looks. Here’s a man who has always taken the world by storm, who has always thrown caution to the wind and lived life to the fullest every damn day. One of the bravest, though perhaps most reckless, people Curt knows. A man who loves so much and is loved by so many.

He knows that if Bucky has to die, he’d like it to have happened on the moon. That’s the kind of heroic end to the saga of his life that he’d be proud of. Nothing menial, like growing old or having a heart attack. Something spectacular, out with a bang like an exploding star.

But at the same time, that characterization belongs, in part, to the young man Curt knew out of college. Bucky’s very much the same person he was then, but he’s changed, too. Now he’s married. Curt looks at the ring on Bucky’s finger, which he found in his personal preference kit this morning. He knew Bucky would want to have it, but Rosie and Smokey cautioned against putting anything around his neck, so he took it off the chain and slipped it over Bucky’s ring finger, where it belongs.

John Egan is a married man, and he loves Gale with so much devotion that Curt isn’t sure he’d be okay with dying up here after all. Maybe he wants to grow old. Maybe he wants to have as much time with his husband as humanly possible. Maybe he wants a damn finally; he’s mentioned it maybe once to Curt, just as a vague possibility after seeing how good Gale is with the neighborhood kids. What kind of cruel universe must this be to rip Buck and Bucky apart now, just weeks after their wedding? Before they even have the photos back? Before they get a chance to really find out what the rest of their life together can be?

“I’m worried about Buck,” he confides to Rosie after a while.

“We all are,” Rosie agrees.

“He tries so hard to act like he’s fine. Benny told me he punched a mirror.”

“Sounds like Buck, honestly.”

Curt sighs and leaves Bucky be, wandering back over to the command console. “I’m kinda worried that if John doesn’t make it, Gale won’t either.”

Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift plays in the background. Just close your eyes, the sun is going down, you’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now.

“We’ll hold him up, get him through it,” Rosie assures him. Because there’s no other choice.

–

Bright lights. Ears ringing. Pain.

Pain.

Awful pain. In his head. In his leg. His leg is on fire. He feels sick.

He can’t move. Can’t fucking move.

Someone is saying Gale’s name.

Gale.

Buck.

Angel.

Make the pain go away. Please.

–

Benny: “Curt, do you copy?”

Curt: “I’m here, Benny.” Curt is picking mindlessly, dejectedly, at a little grain of rice still stuck in one of the console buttons.

Benny: “John’s heart rate has increased significantly.”

Curt frowns and leaves the console be. Bucky was fine just minutes ago. Well, not fine, but stable. Ish. Uneventful, at least.

But when Curt approaches the cot, his breath catches. He feels his own heart rate shoot up as he stares at Bucky.

Bucky is staring right back at him.

–

Gale mindlessly thanks the custodian who’d been called into Mission Control, just moments after he arrived for Red Shift, for cleaning up the coffee at his feet. Gale was given absolutely no warning, but he could tell by the way everyone stared at him when he filed in with Marge and Croz that something had happened. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he made a beeline for Benny.

When Benny told him that Bucky had opened his eyes, the cup in Gale’s hand simply was no longer in his hand. It tumbled to the floor, spilling hot black coffee all over the place, including over his nice leather oxfords which are definitely now ruined.

Bucky had opened his eyes just about an hour ago. The way Curt tells the story, he opened them when he was talking to Rosie about Gale. “It’s your name, Buck,” Curt tries to tell him. “He responded to your name.”

Gale doesn’t really believe it, chalking it up to a coincidence, even as he feels his heart swell with love and longing just a little bit.

Bucky was able to track some, but not all, movement. He wouldn’t blink on command, and he didn’t reliably respond to physical stimuli. He also didn’t keep his eyes open for more than 15 minutes, and he seemed to be in some state of panic at first. But it was something. It was enough to fill Mission Control with some semblance of a flickering hope, clawing its way to the surface. There’s a hesitant chatter in the room today, unlike the eerie silence of yesterday.

So things continue as normal. Well, as their new normal. Macon sits beside Gale, ready to jump in if needed. Gale talks to the crew about their tasks. He tries to make Curt feel like his time on the moon hasn’t gone to waste by discussing LEAF and his findings on the LDA sites.

“Think I’ll be able to get back out to the greenhouse?” Curt asks him at some point.

Gale looks at Clark, who shrugs, because no one knows. “I don’t know, Curt,” he says honestly. “I sure hope so.”

Because he knows it would mean a lot to Curt to be able to finish at least one experiment up there.

And he knows that if Curt is allowed back on the surface, it’s because Bucky is stable enough to be left alone. It would mean Bucky was awake, moving, talking. So Gale wants Curt to be able to conduct that last EVA more than anything.

By about 1:30pm, things are going smoothly. The tension is coming down, albeit cautiously. Gale is breathing easily, even if he keeps pressing his ring finger to his lips when he feels a sudden rise of panic. Even if he keeps flexing his bad hand just to feel something.

He glances to his right out of the corner of his eye when he becomes aware of a suspicious amount of activity. Flight controllers are whispering in each other’s ears, passing a message down the front line of consoles like a game of telephone. When Croz leans over towards him, Gale hits him with a glare. “Don’t even think about whispering in my ear.”

Croz nods and sits back, talking at almost normal volume. “Marge wants to know when you last ate anything.”

Gale rolls his eyes and looks over the other flight controllers, who are watching curiously, to glare at Marge at the end of the line. She shrugs and looks at him expectantly. She full well knows when he last ate. “Had a granola bar this morning,” he tells Croz.

Croz looks just as unimpressed as Marge. “Dude. That doesn’t count. Did you eat dinner last night?”

Gale shrugs. No. Marge tried to make him. She ordered pizza. She raided his kitchen to make a salad with lettuce that looked like it might start wilting at any moment. She shoved crackers and peanuts and gatorade at him, just trying to get him to put something in his body.

He doesn’t deserve her.

He didn’t have any appetite. He ate half a slice of pizza and nearly threw up purely from the nerves consuming his body from the inside out. He managed some gatorade, a few crackers, and then he adamantly refused anything else other than this morning’s coffee and a granola bar that had almost no caloric value.

“Buck,” Croz says, in a voice that carries too much concern and judgment for Gale’s liking. “The last meal you had was that sandwich? It’s been almost 24 hours.”

Gale doesn’t think now is a good time to tell Croz that he also hasn’t really slept in even longer.

Macon shoves his shoulder from the other side. “Man, you need to eat something.”

“I’m fine,” Gale insists, leaning back in his chair and making a point of studying his computer screen, even though there is absolutely nothing of interest on it.

Croz and Macon both look at him like he’s insane combined with some expression of pity that Gale wants to slap off both of their faces, and they each give him some variation of “no you’re not.”

“I can’t leave right now,” he sighs. He motions to his computer, where he has Bucky’s vitals displayed along with telemetry from Orion and Starship. He’s mid shift. And he doesn’t want to bother any of the assistants to go get him something from the cafeteria when he doesn’t think it’ll stay down anyways. He sips his coffee. Only his second cup of the day, including the one he’d spilled when he was only half finished with it, which is surprising considering he’s over halfway through his shift.

Macon shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. He hands Gale five dollars. “Go get something from the vending machine. I can cover for a few minutes.”

Gale stares at him, and Macon stares back, challenging him to disagree. Gale looks at Croz, then down the row at Marge, who is watching him carefully. The other flight controllers pretend not to watch. “You’re no good to John if you pass out on us,” Croz tells him, using the same logic Gale used on Curt the day before.

Reluctantly, Gale grabs the five dollar bill, removes his headset, and leaves Macon at his post, listening as he informs the crew of the temporary CAPCOM change.

Trying to convince himself that it’s fine, that Macon has it under control, that there’s nothing Gale can handle that his substitute can’t, he decides to stop in the bathroom real quick, too. Then he wanders down the hall to the vending machine, looks at its contents with extreme distaste, and puts in a random number. With a bag of trail mix in hand, he heads back to Mission Control. Just as he walks through the door, though, he sees Marge running up the center aisle towards him, her heels pounding on the carpeted floor. Everyone is turned to watch them.

Her eyes are wide, her face pale, and Gale grips the trail mix far too tight to keep from dropping it.

He’s only been gone for three minutes.

Three fucking minutes.

–

“Fuck, fuck! Macon? Rosie?” Curt’s hands hover in the air over Bucky’s convulsing body, unsure of what to do.

“What’s happening, Curt?” Macon asks. Dr. Huston had informed him just seconds ago about another sudden increase in Bucky’s heart rate.

Curt: “A seizure, I think.”

Rosie: “Shit.”

Curt: “What the fuck do I do?”

Rosie: “Can you get him on his side?”

Curt tries to get his brain to catch up, analyzing Bucky’s condition. His broken leg is jerking uncontrollably, and he has that IV in his arm. But fuck it.

Curt: “Yeah, yeah I think so.”

Carefully, Curt lifts Bucky from the side and tries to rotate him even as his body fights back. The IV pulls awkwardly at his arm, and Curt hauls him back closer to the IV bag to loosen the slack. He’s worried about that leg staying stable.

Curt: “He’s on his side.”

Rosie: “Hold him steady, okay? We don’t need him falling off the cot, and make sure his head stays in place so he doesn’t choke.”

Macon: “Let me know as soon as it stops. We’re timing it here.”

Curt nods, even though absolutely no one can see him. He holds Bucky down with all of his strength, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut through this ugly, terrible turn of events.

He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He can hear Bucky’s limbs jerking against the cot. He can hear Rosie trying to reassure him. He can hear another Taylor Swift song playing somewhere in the background. Soon you’ll get better, you’ll get better soon, cause you have to. He clenches his jaw and tries to breathe, and he hopes Bucky will keep breathing, too.

Please. You have to.

It’s the longest 53 seconds of his entire life.

–

A seizure.

Marge rushes forward to take Gale’s weight as he nearly collapses. They’re both worried for a moment that the lack of sleep and the lack of food and the fear and the nerves have caught up to him, that he’s going to pass out right here in the doorway of Mission Control. His head spins, his vision goes black around the edges. But his arms tighten around Marge, and he clings to her for dear life.

“Breathe, Gale,” she says. “Breathe.”

Gale draws in a barely controlled breath, and Marge rubs his back. Breathe, angel.

–

Harding sends him home this time, insisting that he needs to rest. Gale is too exhausted at this point to argue, even though he wants to punch someone or scream into a void. He knows Harding won’t back down, and he doesn’t want to cause a scene, so he listens for once. He lets Macon take over. He doesn’t fight.

Marge insists on driving him home even though her work day isn’t over yet. Once again, no one trusts him to be alone. He resents that. He’s flown a damn fighter jet in worse condition. He can drive himself home.

What he doesn’t consider is that maybe it’s not just that no one trusts him to be alone, but also that they don’t want him to have to be alone. They want to be there for him. They want to get through this together.

Either way, he doesn’t fight Marge too much either, not when she levels that look at him, eyebrows raised in a dare while her eyes are wide with concern, a frown etched into her face. He’s rarely been able to stop her from doing what she believes she needs to do, and he won’t be able to now. He thinks he’d rather have her there anyways, because part of him is afraid to be alone.

So in the hallway outside of Mission Control, she tells him to go to the car and wait while she gathers some things from her office. He nods wordlessly and watches her walk away.

Outside, it’s raining again. A cold November rain that’ll drench you to the bone and leave you shaking uncontrollably if you give it a chance. It’s the kind of downpour that reminds you how alive this world is, reminds you of the fact that the Earth keeps turning no matter what. Gale used to find that thought comforting – no matter what happened in his life or in anyone else’s, at least the planet would go on, a constant, one of few things that could be relied upon.

But now it makes him irrationally angry, because how is it fair? It doesn’t seem fair that the world is still turning when Gale’s entire universe has slammed on the brakes, skidding to a standstill. It’s not fair that the Earth goes on when his husband isn’t on it. It’s not fair that Gale himself will be expected to just keep on living if John doesn’t return. It’s not fair that the sun rises and sets and the birds sing and the rain comes down in torrents when Gale feels like he wants to rip his heart right out of his chest because it may never beat right again.

It’s not fair that the universe he loves so much, that the little moon that he’s always loved so much, has done this to him. It’s not fair that his life’s work has done this to him. It’s not fair that his husband has done this to him-

And oh god what a horrible thought. How terrible is he to think that?

He’s angry. He’s so fucking angry.

He’s angry at the world and he’s angry at the moon and he’s angry at NASA and Harding and Mission Control and everyone who keeps acting like he isn’t a grown ass man who can very well take care of himself, because he always has since he was a little boy with parents who couldn’t be bothered.

And he’s fucking pissed at his husband.

He’s so goddamn mad at John Egan for leaving him here on this planet that just keeps on fucking turning. He’s mad at Bucky for abandoning him just weeks after their wedding, for putting him through the absolute worst pain of his life. He’s mad at Bucky for making him imagine a world without him. He’s mad at Bucky for not staying safe in the first place, even though Gale knows with his entire being that it’s not his fucking fault.

But he’s so, so alone here, and he doesn’t know how to keep going. He doesn’t know how to keep breathing. He can’t be Buck if he doesn’t have Bucky. He can’t be anyone. He can’t be at all.

And it hurts. It hurts and he’s fucking scared and he needs to be okay but he’s the furthest thing from it.

He wants to scream and he wants to throw something and he wants to get drunk and he wants the pain to go away.

He wants it to stop. He wants to wake up from this goddamn nightmare in his husband’s arms, John’s voice whispering to him that it was all just a bad dream as he strokes Gale’s hair.

He wants John back.

But he’s not here.

He’s not fucking here. He’s somewhere out there and even if his body is returned to this planet, John himself may never come home.

So Gale stands alone in the freezing, pouring rain, drenched to the bone in water and anguish, and all of a sudden, he can’t feel a damn thing.

It feels like relief at the same time that it feels like Hell. He doesn’t want to feel any of it anymore, but how much of a fucking coward does that make him?

“Gale? Is that you?”

“Gale?”

“Buck?”

Someone grabs him by the shoulder, and he turns his head. It’s Sandra, fresh from some sort of mission training.

She looks at him, and she frowns. But it’s not quite with pity like everyone else. It’s more like disapproval, but in a compassionate way. She’s holding an umbrella in her other hand. She’s dry for the most part, and Gale looks down at himself. He’s drenched to the bone and shaking uncontrollably.

Sandra shifts the umbrella over so it’s covering him, even though it leaves her half exposed, her blue flight suit quickly getting soaked on one side. “Come on, love. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Supposed to meet Marge at her car,” he mumbles.

Sandra shakes her head. “Well you can’t very well get in someone’s car like that. Let’s see if we can dry you off.”

Gale doesn’t protest this, either. Just lets her lead him back inside. He wonders how long he was standing out there, but decides it couldn’t have been too long at all since they run into Marge as soon as they’re through the door. She’s half running down the hall, no doubt not wanting to make him wait too long. But she stops short when she sees them.

She looks devastated, and it makes Gale feel guilty. He watches as she sighs, defeated. “Come on, hon,” she says. She takes Gale’s other hand, and both women lead him back down the hall.

–

By the time they get to Gale’s house, him and Marge in one car and Sandra in another, Gale isn’t shaking anymore. The girls found enough towels somewhere to at least start drying him off, leaving him looking more like a wet dog than a drenched cat. He found one of his spare flight suits in his office, which he hasn’t been in in weeks. So when he steps out of the car – even with damp, scraggly hair – he looks more like Buck Cleven, astronaut, than Gale Cleven, flight controller and grieving husband.

Maybe that’s a good thing, since his front lawn is swarming with reporters and camera crews.

“Shit,” Marge mumbles as she pulls into the driveway and turns off the ignition.

Gale rubs a hand over his face, but he figures he should have expected this. It was only a matter of time before the media sought him out for a comment on his comatose husband’s condition and how he himself is coping. Or perhaps they want a comment about the integrity of the space program. Or about whether or not he still plans to follow through with Artemis 4 after what’s happened.

The rain is clearing up, but it’s still drizzling. He pulls a pair of aviators out of his bag anyways and puts them on in an attempt to hide the puffiness of his eyes. If it’s Major Buck Cleven they want, that’s what they’ll get. He isn’t going to give all the homophobic assholes of the world the satisfaction of seeing a photograph of him in shambles.

When he steps out of the car, Marge and Sandra step up to flank him on either side, and they push their way through the crowd.

“Is Major Egan awake yet?” someone asks.

“NASA will release an update on his condition tonight,” Marge assures them.

“Major Cleven, how are you holding up?”

“No comment,” he says.

“Is NASA considering suspending the moon program?”

Marge looks to her left, seeking out whoever asked. “No.”

“Are you still planning to fly on Artemis 4?”

“Yes,” Gale says.

“How did this happen?” “Is Major Egan stable?” “Is anyone at fault here?” “How can NASA justify continuing these dangerous missions?” “Is this why you decided to get married before the mission?” “What do you have to say to everyone saying he deserved it?”

The fag deserved it.

Gale whips around, trying to differentiate between all of the men and women shouting at him. He doesn’t realize that he’s practically seething until Sandra grabs him roughly by the arm and pulls him forward.

“If you want a comment, contact my office,” Marge yells over them. “Now I need y’all to leave before I call the police. This is private property! Hear me! Go on!”

Sandra shoves Gale through the front door.

–

By 4pm, Gale has more or less managed to calm himself down again. Between the two terrifying women traipsing around his home, he’s been convinced to eat some of the leftover pizza in the refrigerator, and he manages not to throw it back up. Marge practically shoves painkillers down his throat when she notices the way he keeps grimacing at the pain of his bad hand but incessantly flexing it anyways.

“You need a fucking tranquilizer is what you need,” she tells him. He glares at her, and she raises her hands in surrender.

Benny comes by with the dogs, no doubt having been updated on Bucky’s condition as well as Gale’s. With the rain letting up, he’s quickly followed by Jane and Maggie, who probably saw the dogs through the window and came bounding out to play with them. Minutes later, Mrs. Mason shows up with a giant tupperware container full of food.

She shoves it at Marge when she answers the door. “I’m sure that boy isn’t eating right,” the old woman says, and she’d be correct. “So I made a pot pie casserole. None of that lasagna bullshit.”

Marge laughs and thanks her before inviting her inside, too.

Soon, the entire quiet street is lined with cars as Red Shift, having passed the torch to White Shift, starts showing up at the house. Every single one of them. Croz, Bubbles, Dr. Huston, Clark… everyone. Every single person who witnessed Gale fall apart today. Every single person who saw him nearly at his fucking worst showed up to keep him company. To share their worry and their fear. To find comfort in their little community. To try to hold each other close and make each other smile when the world seems to be crumbling around them.

Gale finds himself in a house crowded with more people than he thinks he’s ever had over in his entire time in Houston. He finds himself surrounded by friends. Friends who hug him and pat him on the shoulder and offer words of sympathy. And friends who tell shitty jokes and break into his pantry and try with all their might to make him laugh and act like things are normal.

He watches Maggie and Benny play with the dogs, and he watches Mrs. Mason essentially proposition Albert Clark. He watches Croz’s one year old son crawl around on the floor with Bubbles and Sandra. He watches Jane teach Marge how to french braid her own hair.

It’s… nice.

Dr. Huston walks over to him where he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. “Chick wanted me to let you know how sorry he is,” he says.

“Mmm.” Gale nods, taking a controlled breath. The thing is, he knows Harding did what he had to do. He knows he can’t blame him. But it still hurt.

“He wanted to come tonight, but he thought you could use the space. He’ll be hosting a press conference to update on John’s condition.” Gale nods, and Dr. Huston pats him on the shoulder. “You’re doing alright, Gale,” he says.

Gale thinks that that’s kind of an odd thing to say. Not “John will be alright” or “everything will be alright,” but “you’re doing alright.” Maybe it isn’t that odd. Maybe it’s just an acknowledgement that there’s no right way to respond to a situation like this. An acknowledgement that Gale’s emotions and the way he chooses to express them are valid. It strikes a chord in him that he didn’t know was there. But Huston just nods and walks off to join in a conversation with some of the other flight controllers, leaving Gale alone again.

His heart and mind go back and forth in a violent tug of war between feeling lonely in a crowded room, and feeling less lonely and more loved than ever. His home is full of life. Filled with people of all ages who came together because he needed them. Because they needed each other. Because none of them wanted to be alone. Because none of them have to be alone.

Gale turns away, though, and he walks outside onto the back patio. The sun is setting, and he watches the oranges and pinks of a post-storm Houston sky flood the heavens above. He watches the sun dipping below the horizon, and he thinks about the refraction. The Earth keeps turning, even when his husband isn’t on it, even when Gale feels like his world has stopped. He takes a deep breath, and he hopes that if he keeps breathing, John will keep breathing, too.

He has to.

---

Part 13

Side note: big big shout out and round of applause for my long time beta reader @mercy67 who has followed me across fandoms, encouraged my return to writing, and learned these characters for the sole purpose of reviewing said writing. Most of this was written yesterday so they really came through when, in the 11th hour, I asked if they'd read this over so I could get it out to you guys.

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