#vast circumference | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rambleonwaywardson · 5 months ago

Text

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 13

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: Every week I think "this chapter will be shorter," and every week it is longer. There was a time when I would have looked at 11k words and split it in two, but now is not that time. You get it all in one go. Plan your time accordingly.

---

November 21 Lunar South Pole, Starship

It might have been better if Bucky didn’t dream. More merciful. A blissful unawareness, nothing but a deep, uninterrupted sleep full of nothing and no one and nowhere. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so afraid, if he didn’t dream. Or maybe dreams are the only thing keeping him from drifting away forever.

He dreams about the moon a lot. Bounding across that wide open nothing, staring up at a never-ending universe full of stars. The stuff of his childhood fantasies. We’re all made of stardust, Gale likes to say.

He dreams about the rover crashing down on him, smashing him into the ground as they both skid down a sandy slope. He dreams about the sudden inability to breathe, the explosion of pain in his leg. He dreams about Benny’s voice in his ear before everything went dark. If he could wake up, it would be one of those dreams where your eyes shoot open at the end, the breath pressed in a rush out of your chest.

He dreams the most about Gale.

Gale’s smile, his laughter, his voice. He dreams about pulling into their driveway and seeing Gale through the window, dancing with the dog. He dreams about Gale throwing the bouquet at their wedding, grinning in exasperation as he covers his eyes. He dreams about Gale looking over at him as they fly their plane out over the water. He dreams about Gale handing him coffee in the morning when they’re both only half dressed and half dead to the world.

And he dreams about Gale, his face worried, looking down at him with tears in his eyes. He looks scared, and Bucky doesn’t even know why. He wants to know why. Needs to know why so he can make it go away. He wants to reach out, to say something, anything to make it go away, whatever it is. He wants to brush Gale’s messy hair back away from his face and hold his hand against his cheek and tell him that everything is alright. He wants to take away all of the pain.

But he can’t.

He can’t move a muscle.

—

“Rosie? Are you awake?”

Curt lays in his hammock in the middle of the Starship cabin, looking out the window at the star-filled sky beyond. He is the epitome of alone. The moon is not a different planet, it’s just a moon. One lonely moon orbiting the little miracle that is planet Earth. But the moon itself is 2,160 miles wide at its equator. It is 6,786 miles in circumference. A vast expanse of dust and rubble marked by impact basins billions of years old. 260 degrees Fahrenheit in full sun and -280 in the darkness. Nothing about this place is welcoming. An astronaut’s Everest. And yet it is peaceful in the strangest of ways.

Empty. Imposing. Beautiful.

Lifeless.

Except for him.

Scattered across the lunar surface are the remnants of the few voyages half a century ago that dared to step foot on this alien terrain. A flag here. A camera there. Another era. Another age. The same dream.

And even still, Curt is but an invisible, lonely speck at the southern pole, existing along a boundary of dark and light that parallels this strange liminal limbo of life vs. death. Just him and the stars and a world that wants to kill him with every heartbeat, nothing but a fancy tin can separating him from an end that would claim him in a single breath.

He supposes that being alone, the only conscious human being on an entire planet, would make most people feel lonely. It doesn’t, though. He doesn’t feel lonely up here. It’s not the being alone, really, that has lodged this tense, shuddering ball of anxiety in his chest. It’s the fact that he isn’t. The fact that there is someone else beside him fighting for breath, and he doesn’t have a say in whether or not that breath is drawn.

He doesn’t expect an answer when he reaches out into the radio silence. He doesn’t know what time it is, but Helen’s been on shift for a while now, so he’d guess around 12am GMT. He’s surprised when there’s a soft crackle on the other side of the radio transmission, and Rosie says, “Yeah, Curt. I’m awake. So’s Alex.”

Curt throws his legs over the side of the hammock and climbs out, turns the music back on – Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day – because he can’t stand the silence all around him. Maybe it’s the quiet that makes it hard to sleep. The quiet that’s too loud. Or maybe it’s the loudness inside his head that keeps him up. He wishes he could turn down the volume on his own thoughts, turn those off instead. He feels crazy. Like maybe this is all just a weird fever dream. But he’s experiencing all of it in frightening technicolor, and even though he doesn’t feel lonely, he is so, so alone.

I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known.

He wanders over to Bucky, who is laying still and quiet on his cot. He opened his eyes for just a moment sometime after that seizure, when Curt had to adjust the IV in his arm and accidentally let it tug at the sensitive skin. But not again since.

“What are the odds of another seizure?” Curt asks now.

Rosie is quiet. Curt can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck as he thinks about what to say and how best to say it. How to let Curt down gently.

My shallow heart’s the only thing that’s beating.

Curt strokes a wayward curl away from Bucky’s forehead, hating the way Bucky feels clammy beneath his touch. Then he rifles through their med bay supplies while he waits, looking through the medications they have packed away.

“I don’t know, Curt,” Rosie finally says before going into what Curt calls his doctor voice. “Sometimes, traumatic brain injuries can cause seizures. It just… happens. It doesn’t mean he’ll have another. It doesn’t mean he won’t. Since it’s only been a day or two, it was an early seizure. They’re less likely to indicate long-term epilepsy. If he has another, the odds of him developing epilepsy increase. If he has one over a week from now, it’s almost guaranteed.”

He sighs. “So, I don’t know. All we can do is take this one step at a time.”

Curt looks over at Bucky again, at the bandage around his head, the splint on his leg, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He thinks about how unfair it is that Bucky has to rely on him to keep him alive. Curt took the same medical training as all the other non-physician astronauts, but he’d hardly trust a single one of them, much less himself, in this type of emergency.

It’s not fair.

“I wish you were here Rosie,” he confides. He hates the way his voice sounds thick and strained. “I don’t… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“You’re doing great, Curt. Really.”

Curt frowns, takes a deep breath. He looks down at his hands and shuffles through the medications he has available once again, skimming over their names. The lead weight in his chest rests heavy on his lungs when his fears are confirmed: the one he’s looking for isn’t there.

Curt: “Rosie?”

Rosie: “I’m still here.”

Curt: “We had anti-seizure medication on ISS. I’m not seeing it here.”

Silence.

Rosie: “I advocated for it to be included on Artemis. It was a whole debate. You’ll have to ask Houston.”

Curt doesn’t like the sound of that at all. Another score for NASA’s backpack problem: medications. They have a far lower mass restriction and far less storage capacity on Orion and Starship than they do on the station, and therefore they could bring far fewer supplies. Rosie was involved in the task force that determined which medical supplies were necessary for a lunar exploration mission, but he was only one person among many. And many of the others had never even been to space. In the end, did anyone really think an astronaut was likely to have a seizure during a mission that lasts only a month or less?

Curt rubs a hand over his face, dreading the answer.

Curt: “Helen?”

Helen: “Working on it.”

They wait, Curt fidgeting impatiently, his frustration building up again.

Far From Here by Marianas Trench is playing in the background. It feels alright but that’s a lie that’s always near, sit around and blame the one that put you here.

Helen: “We do not have anti-seizure medication on board Orion or Starship.” She sighs, and she sounds like she hates to be telling them this. “It was decided that a seizure was not a likely complication on a short-term lunar sortie.”

Bingo.

Rosie: “Fuck.”

A disbelieving laugh pops out of Curt’s mouth. He can’t help it. Because what the fuck?

Helen: “I’m sorry, Curt.”

Curt: “So… if he has another seizure. If he keeps havin’ seizures. We can’t do anything?”

Rosie: “No.”

Curt: “That’s… that’s… Yikes.” Curt laughs again, shaking his head. “That’s a fuckin’ yikes.”

His mouth twists into a sour, resentful smile as he holds an arrangement of fucking useless medications in his hands. His laugh turns from shocked to bitter as he lets the meds tumble carelessly back into their storage box, and he runs a hand through his hair. He hasn’t slept in… he doesn’t know how long. The flight surgeon probably knows, but Curt doesn’t give a damn. He’s felt this feeling of dread weighing him down ever since that seizure.

And now he’s told that it’s something that could happen again. Could happen multiple times. And if it does, he can do nothing. All he can do is hold Bucky down, make sure he doesn’t choke, and hope for the fucking best.

Laughter just keeps bubbling up out of his chest in an angry, sordid, deranged sort of noise.

Helen: “Curt? Are you okay?”

Curt shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. He can’t stop laughing.

“Yikes,” he says again. “Yikes yikes yikes yikes yikes.” He claps his hands together as he says it, and he leans over, hands on his knees. Slowly, he eases himself to the floor, so he’s sitting with his head leaning back against the cot. He presses his fingers to his mouth and chuckles into his hand. “Fuckin’ yikes, guys.”

Helen: “Curt?”

He doesn’t care what Mission Control has to say. This whole situation is a mess. A mess that could’ve been avoided, even if it couldn’t have been planned for. He’s exhausted, he’s angry, and this is absurd.

Helen: “Curt, do you copy?”

Curt: “What the fuck? What the fuck NASA? What the fuck!”

—

Nassau Bay, TX

Gale hasn’t checked his email since before John’s accident. He knows it will be filled with “thoughts and prayers” and questions from the media even though they know they should be contacting Marge. He knows reading a single email with the words “We’re praying for you and John” or “What does this mean for the Artemis program” will be enough to make him scream and throw his laptop across the room. And anything else, any other email about literally anything else, he can’t think about right now. Because he still can’t accept the fact that the world continues to turn.

Anyone who really needs him has his number. And anyone else can cut him some damn slack.

He managed a few hours of sleep after his home emptied out last night and left him alone again. Except for Marge, who has, without asking, taken up residence in his guest room until further notice to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid or generally stop breathing since he can’t seem to remember to do that on his own.

He didn’t manage to fall asleep until around 11pm, and his eyes shot open again, jostling him out of a nightmare he can’t remember, at 2am. Vague visions of a mangled body, a casket, the expression of pain stretched uncomfortably across his husband’s face flashing in his mind. Bucky’s pained scream in his ears. Or was that him?

He’s sleeping in the living room again, on the couch that he’s nearly too tall to fit on. He tried to go back into the bedroom, but he couldn’t. The bed is too big, the blankets not warm enough, the memories too painful even as they drift away. He tried to sleep again, too, he really did. He tossed and turned and squeezed his eyes closed and tried to remember to breathe. In, out, in, out… in. in. in. in. out.

He buried his nose into the pillow case that mercifully still smells like John. He thought about their wedding, about strong arms wrapping around him, a soft smile, gentle lips, bright eyes crinkled at the corners with all the joy that John carries through their life.

But he couldn’t do it. He’s exhausted, and yet he feels wide awake. He wonders if he’ll ever sleep again. If he’ll carry on like this, plagued by a nightmare he can’t navigate his way out of, or if one day his body will simply collapse under the weight of this grief that he can’t control.

It’s all too much.

So he turns on the light, grabs his laptop off the coffee table, and he opens his email for the first time in over two days. He stares at his inbox numbly, and he presses his wedding ring to his lips as he fights the urge to slam the laptop closed again. He scrolls through uncountable messages, deleting most of them on the spot regardless of who they’re from or what they want. There’s one, though, from yesterday afternoon, that stops him cold.

When he sees the sender’s name, he does slam the laptop closed. His heart rate skyrockets, his whole body going stiff. He looks around the room at just how alone he is. It’s dark outside. Marge is asleep. Benny is on shift. The dogs, even, are asleep.

He takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut before slowly opening the laptop again. With shaking fingers, he clicks on the email.

Gale,

I know these may be hard to look at right now, but I do hope, if you choose to let them, they can make you smile.

I’m thinking of you, and I pray that John makes it home.

XO.

His fingers are trembling so bad that he can barely click the link at the bottom of the email. But he swallows thickly and fights to breathe, blinking the tears out of his eyes when the page opens.

Their wedding photos.

It feels so long ago now, the way Gale struggles to remember parts of it. Like his mind simply won’t allow him to find comfort in the memories of the best day of his life.

How has it only been a month, and already the world threatens to take his husband away from him? He feels sick. Sick at the thought that this life can be so cruel. Wondering what he did to deserve this. He feels sick at the memory of the day he proposed. The very reason that drove him to spit out the words he’d been kicking around for years already.

We should get married, he said, all that time ago. We should get married, he said, terrified that something would happen. If they were bound by law rather than just by name, he would get a say in John’s fate, should John have no say himself. He would get a key to the room where NASA keeps their secrets from the world, even if he got himself booted from Mission Control. He would be guaranteed a place at the table of John’s life if his life came under threat somewhere up there, too far away.

We should get married, he said, praying to God that nothing would happen.

But here they are. Something’s happened.

You knew the risks, he thinks to himself, biting down too hard on his lower lip.

You always knew the damn risks. You knew the risks of space travel. And you knew the risks of John Egan. Don’t act for a second like you didn’t.

He wouldn’t trade it, though. He wouldn’t change a thing. If he could go back a thousand times, he would still attach himself at the hip to John fucking Egan. He would still fall for that smile and that laugh and those wild curls. He would still follow him to the ends of the Earth. He would marry him a million times over. No matter how it ends.

He blinks rapidly as he stares at the computer screen.

The cover photo is the one taken right after their kiss. Gale, in bright white, is leaning back in John’s arms, laughing in a way that makes his nose scrunch and his cheeks turn pink. John, in his black tux, is grinning from ear to ear as he holds Gale by the waist, eyes locked on his new husband. Pepper and Meatball are at their feet, Pepper standing with her front paws on Gale’s thigh, wanting to join in, as Curt tries to keep Meatball from knocking John over.

God, did he ever feel that happy? It seems too far away now.

He hovers his mouse over the button to enter the gallery, but the thought makes his head spin and he can’t bring himself to do it. He glances around again at the empty, lonely room. He’s never had so much trouble with being alone before. Now it makes nausea rise up in his stomach, makes a fearful feeling settle over him, He rubs a hand over his eyes and picks up the laptop, padding quietly down the hall.

He hesitates outside the door, one hand holding the laptop and the other raised to knock. He feels like a little kid who can’t sleep, going to his parents because he had a nightmare. He only made that mistake once or twice, quickly learning that all he could expect was his father yelling at him to get back in bed.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

None of them are getting much sleep right now; it’s not just him. If Marge is asleep, he shouldn’t wake her. She has no obligation to chase away the monsters under his bed.

He drops his fist and takes a step back, wincing when the corner of his laptop bumps quietly against the wall behind him. He’s a grown man. If he can’t sleep, that’s his problem. If he feels like his chest is too tight and he can’t breathe and his hands are shaking and his head is spinning just because he got back the wedding photos he paid for… well, that’s his problem, too.

But it’s Marge. Marge, who has always been there for him. Marge, who let him hide in her bedroom when they were just kids because he was too afraid to go home. Marge, who would hold him close and try to make him laugh and tell him everything would be alright even when they were both too young to know. Marge, who has gone out of her way for 20 plus years to make sure he knows he is never, ever alone.

He steps forward again and raises his hand to knock. Lays his hand flat against the door instead. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes.

No. No. She deserves to sleep. He shouldn’t worry her. He should-

“Gale?” Marge asks softly. “I know you’re out there, darling. Don’t act like you’re not.”

Warily, Gale opens the door, unsure if he feels guilty that he woke Marge or relieved that she woke up before he could talk himself out of it. He stands in the doorway, unsure of why exactly he came here, what he’s supposed to do now, what he expects her to do. But Marge sits up and turns on the bedside lamp. She takes one look at Gale’s face, and she frowns before forcing a weak smile. “Come here,” she says.

He walks further into the room to sit down on the bed. He hears paws click-clacking down the hall, and Pepper wanders in, followed by Meatball. Marge urges him to scoot back to lean against the headboard next to her, and the dogs hop up onto the foot of the bed. Meatball crawls up to rest his head on Gale’s leg. Pepper whines quietly as she watches him, forlorn. Meatball is familiar with them leaving. Buck, Bucky, Benny. They’ve all been on the station for months at a time. Pepper, though. Pepper’s just a baby, really. She’s only been part of their family for a matter of months. This is strange, for her, having one of her dads gone for so long. She knows something is wrong, but she doesn’t know why he isn’t coming home.

Gale’s heart breaks that little bit more every time she stares at him with those sad, confused eyes.

Marge presses herself against Gale’s side and leans her head on his shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Gale shakes his head. “It’s not…” he sighs. “It’s not fair.” And damn does he feel like a whiny child. But it’s not. It’s not fair.

He opens his laptop again and turns it back on, handing it over to Marge. She looks at the screen. “Your wedding photos.”

“Mmm.”

“Have you looked at them?”

Gale bites nervously at his thumbnail and shakes his head.

“Do you want to?” Marge asks. They’re both just staring at the screen, at the beautiful, beautiful photograph inviting them to look at the rest.

Gale’s breath stutters before he says “I don’t know.”

“Can I…?”

He hesitates. Then he nods.

Marge raises an eyebrow in question, but she clicks the button. When the page loads, the screen is filled with a gallery of vibrant, fairy-tale-esque photographs that make Marge gasp. Gale holds his breath.

“These are gorgeous,” Marge says. “Look at you!” The first set of photos are of Gale and his attendants getting ready in the bridal suite. Bright whites and navy blues. Sunlight streaming through the windows. Gale looking at himself in the mirror, running a hand through his hair or nervously adjusting the sleeves of his tux. The girls with their perfect flower bouquets. Gale and Marge sharing a moment in front of the mirror. His attendants raising a glass to him as he smiles, ready to marry the love of his life.

There are photos of the groomsmen going on a wild goose chase, sprinting down the hall after Pepper when she stole the rings. A picture of Marge stepping out of the bridal suite and looking horrified. A picture of Brady tackling Pepper in a heap on the floor, the others trailing breathlessly behind them.

Then there’s photos of the groom’s suite. “Oh, look at John,” Marge sighs, a soft smile on her face as they reach the first row of pictures of him. But when she looks at Gale, his brow is wrinkled as he bites at his lower lip.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No.”

He can’t do it. He can’t sit here and look at these. Not now.

Marge puts her hand on his. “Okay,” she says. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

“I can’t.” Tears are welling up at the corners of his eyes, his whole body still and on guard for the next thing that tries to tear out his heart.

Marge closes the laptop and sets it on the bedside table, and then she pulls him into a tight side hug. “It’s alright, honey.”

“I can’t,” he says again, choking on the breath that won’t fill his lungs. Can’t what, he doesn’t know. But he can’t.

“Just breathe, Gale. You don’t have to. You don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hating the way his throat feels tight, the shakiness of his voice. He’s so tired of crying. He’s so tired of trying not to cry. He’s so tired. He’s shaking so bad. He can’t stop.

“Breathe, honey,” Marge says, stroking his hair. “In and out. Come on.”

Gale tries to match his breathing to hers as she guides him gently through it, but he keeps choking on air, rogue sobs breaking through and wracking his bones.

Marge shushes him and holds him close. She’s been holding him up for the last two days. Listening to him fight against his own emotions, on the constant verge of breaking down, toeing the line until he can no longer stop himself from tipping over. As if he thinks he isn’t allowed to feel these things. As if he thinks feeling them is a last resort that he’s being continually driven to, every loss of control a mark of some sort of failure that no one else can see.

“You shouldn’t hold it all in, Gale,” she tells him. He thinks about the fact that he fell apart in her arms that first night after the accident, in front of the TV with Maggie’s drawing in his hands. And he crumbled in her arms yesterday, after the seizure. She continually pulls him back from some sort of edge, keeping the pieces of him held together with scotch tape and a determined kind of love. Isn’t that enough?

As if she can read his mind, she says, “It doesn’t matter how much you think you’re allowed to hurt. You need to let yourself feel all of it, hon. You can’t hold it in forever.”

But it hurts so much. It hurts just as much to let it out as it does to hold it in. He presses the ring to his lips and bites at his knuckle until it hurts and now that he’s crying again he can’t fucking stop. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop. He can’t breathe. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to breathe again.

But John needs him to keep breathing. He has to keep breathing. He has no choice.

Marge holds him and rocks him and presses her lips to his hair. She doesn’t let go even when it feels like they’ve been wrapped up like this forever. But finally, he settles again.

“I’ll have to look at them eventually,” he mumbles, sniffing quietly as he feels tears drying on his face. “I… I wish I could…”

“It’s alright,” Marge says again. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe tomorrow, things will be better.

John has been unconscious for 2 days. 48 hours. 2,880 minutes. 172,800 seconds. It feels like so much longer.

172,800 seconds that Gale hasn’t felt whole.

But.

Maybe tomorrow.

—

Benny looks at the list of songs he’s been provided. Among them, So Far Away by Avenged Sevenfold, What a Catch Donnie by Fall Out Boy, Gun Dogs by TOVA, Therapy by All Time Low, Before You Go by Lewis Capaldi, PIECES by Daughtry, Miserable at Best by Mayday Parade.

Now Buck by nothing, nowhere.

“I’m not okay, I’m not alright, I need a break, I need a light,” Curt is singing. “I gotta keep it a buck, keep it a buck.”

The singing has become increasingly angry over the last couple of hours. Helen warned him that Curt was getting agitated.

“Buck, Curt, really?” Benny asks.

“Didn’t really think of it like that,” Curt admits before he continues on. Feel like this every day, shit kinda suck.

“Curt, we’d really like you to get some sleep.” Benny runs a hand through his hair, fighting back his own yawn. Smokey has been relentless in pointing out that Curt has basically not slept in 48 hours, and the effects are becoming obvious. “We’re concerned-”

“Oh you’re concerned, are you?” Curt scoffs.

“Yes, Curt. You need to sleep.”

Curt changes the song to Fuck You by Lily Allen and lets it play for a while before turning off his coms without another word.

—

Curt kneels next to Bucky’s cot, resting his forehead on the thin mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut against the dizzy feeling in his head and tries to catch his breath.

He knows Benny is right. He needs to sleep. He’s driving himself crazy up here. He has half a mind to turn his coms back on and apologize to him, but he’s just so goddamn angry. Not at Benny. Just at NASA. Just at the world. Just at everyone who gave Bucky shit and hoped he’d die up here. Just at himself.

Not your fault, he tries to remind himself. Not your fault.

He pulls himself to his feet and walks back over to the console, picks up his tablet. Having a playlist running through his head and assaulting his ears at all times is what’s keeping Curt from thinking about his situation on a constant loop. It’s the only thing keeping him from crumbling to pieces. But he can’t think at all. He feels all sorts of mixed up, like he’s somewhere between tipsy and a panic attack but not quite veering towards either one.

Chasing Cars is playing. If I lay here, If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world.

For once, he needs the quiet. He turns off the music. He turns on his coms.

“What if he dies in my sleep?” he asks. It makes sense and yet it doesn’t, and his head feels fuzzy, everything coming at him just a little too slow and a little too fast all at once.

“He won’t,” Benny says.

“You’ll wake me up if anything changes?”

“Yes.”

Curt knows, if nothing else, he can take Benny at his word. “Fine.”

He ensures he isn’t on VOX but keeps his coms on just in case. He looks over at Bucky, and for a second he’s unable to look away. He can see the rise and fall of his chest, knows his heart is still beating. He knows his friend is somewhere in there.

“Stay alive for me, okay?”

—

He wakes two hours later to a master alarm and just about falls out of his hammock, tumbling to the floor on his hands and knees. He feels around for the push to talk button on his coms. “Benny?”

The alarm turns off. Curt slowly rises to his feet, glancing around the dark cabin in terrified confusion.

Benny: “Sorry Curt. You weren’t waking up to our transmissions.”

Curt: “So you decided to give me a heart attack?”

Benny: “Worked, didn’t it?”

Curt: “Fuck you.”

Benny: “We think he’s awake.”

Curt freezes, trying to comprehend that statement.

Benny: “Can you check?”

Curt isn’t sure if he responds, maybe giving some sort of noncommittal noise of acknowledgement as he fumbles around to get the cabin lights turned on. He approaches Bucky’s cot slowly.

“Bucky?” he says, almost scared to look. But he stands over the cot and grips the edge of the mattress between white-knuckled fingers.

Bucky is looking at him. His breathing is irregular, eyes wide. His fingers twitch.

“Eyes open, Benny,” Curt says.

Rosie must have woken up, too, because his groggy voice comes over the coms in response. “Heart rate?”

“Elevated,” Benny replies. “He seems to be under stress.”

No fucking shit, Curt thinks. He realizes he’s still white-knuckling the cot.

Rosie: “Try talking to him, Curt.”

Usually, when he talks to Bucky, he keeps his coms off, feeling that NASA – the whole world – doesn’t deserve to listen in. But now he knows they need to hear. He switches his coms to VOX.

Curt: “Hey, Bucky. It’s, uh, it’s about 9am GMT, up here on the moon. November 21st. Surface Mission day six. 4am Houston time.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to say. He’s been talking to Bucky offhand over the past day or so, but suddenly he feels all out of conversation starters. He sighs and takes Bucky’s hand in his own, nodding at the fact that it feels warm.

Rosie: “Keep going, Curt.”

Curt rubs his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles. He looks at Bucky’s wide blue eyes. Wonders what they see. He forces himself to smile.

Curt: “You scared the shit out of us yesterday. God, John. Not cool. If you could, like, not do that again, that would be great. We all took it pretty hard… Buck took it pretty hard. Don’t worry too much about him, though. We’re all worried about him. That’s for damn sure. But he has a family down there. He has Marge, and Benny, and Pepper and Meatball. Harding, Dr. Huston, Croz. We’ve got eyes on your boy, don’t worry. They’re tryin’ their best to take care of him while you’re gone.”

Benny: “Heart rate is stabilizing. It’s working, Curt.”

Curt: “Our uh… our plants are doin’ good, too. I haven’t checked on them or nothin’ – they got me locked up in here lookin’ after your ass. But they’re growin’. We’re growin’ plants on the moon. If you wake up, I might even get to go harvest some of them before we go. But… well, it’s alright if I can’t.” His throat is starting to feel tight, and it’s getting harder to keep his voice steady. He takes a shaky breath.

Curt: “It’s alright if you need… All that matters... Fuck. You just keep pushing through, alright? Just… yeah. Whatever you need to do, Bucky. It’s alright. You do whatever you need to do. I-I’m here. I’m here.”

Suddenly Curt can’t keep the tears out of his eyes and he reaches his free hand up to wipe at them. “I’m here,” he whispers.

When he drops his hand again, though, he notices the way Bucky’s eyes flick down, tracking the movement. Curt raises his hand, and Bucky’s eyes follow slowly.

Curt: “He’s uh… he’s tracking my hand motion?”

Rosie: “That’s good, Curt. How’s his motor response?”

Curt cocks his head. “Sorry I have to do this,” he mutters to Bucky. Then he presses down hard on the nail bed of Bucky’s middle finger. Bucky twitches, pulling his hand backwards the littlest bit. A small grunting noise grates its way out of his chest. Curt repeats with Bucky’s forefinger and gets the same result.

Curt: “Responsive to pain. He flinched away and kinda grunted a bit.”

Rosie: “Try asking him to squeeze your hand.”

Curt takes Bucky’s hand in his again. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

Nothing.

Curt: “Go on. Think about all those times you’ve wanted to sock me in the face and put it into this, okay? Squeeze my hand.”

Nothing.

Curt: “Not responsive.”

Benny: “That’s alright. This is good. This is progress.”

Rosie: “How are his vitals?”

Benny: “Staying stable.”

Curt didn’t have a chance to turn any music on after Mission Control scared him awake. The silence filling the cabin feels so loud, and it weighs on Curt, but he lets it wash over him. He stands there watching Bucky until his eyes close again. But he wonders if he imagines the feeling of Bucky’s hand ever so lightly squeezing his own.

—

Within Gale’s first hour of Red Shift, Bucky starts seizing again. He feels like his own heart has stopped, his own lungs, his own muscles. His own nervous system is shot as he listens to Dr. Huston count the seconds. Ten. Twenty.

“Just hold him steady, Curt,” Gale says. Because it doesn’t matter how he feels. He has a job to do, and his job is to keep this crew alive. His job is to work them through this. His job is to be okay even when nothing is okay.

It doesn’t matter that he wants to jump right off the face of the Earth at the mere prospect of John not coming home. He can do that on his free time, if Marge will take her eyes off him for more than ten seconds (she won’t). Sometimes, though, in the last 24 hours, he’s wondered to himself if it would be worse for John not to come home, or for him to come home in a body that will never again do what he wants it to do. If it’s between death, and living a life that is so limited compared to the way Bucky Egan has always thrown himself at the world, what would he choose? If he was given the choice.

A second seizure. Dr. Huston warned Gale that if John had another seizure, it may not stop at two, or three, or four. It may not stop, ever. Not to mention the fact that the longer he takes to regain full consciousness, the more likely it is that there will be more damage than they can even anticipate. He warned Gale that, while they are seeing promising signs of him waking up, there are plenty of cases where a patient never recovers past this minimally conscious state. Open eyes and a pain response bring hope, but not enough to stand on.

He’s trying to prepare Gale.

No longer is he preparing him for the potential of Bucky not returning home. Instead, he’s preparing him for the potential that if he comes home, he may never be the same John Egan that he was.

Gale will love him anyway. He will never stop loving him. Bucky could push him away, spit in his face, shove him off the face of the Earth himself. It doesn’t matter. Gale is incapable of not loving him.

So if he comes home, he’ll take what he can get. He won’t complain. He won’t wish for better or for more. He will hold John together himself if he has to. He will pick up the pieces no matter how badly his own hands shake. He will grieve the loss of who John was before, but then he will wrap his arms around his husband and cry into his shoulder, and he will have to be dragged away if anyone ever tells him he has to let go.

It’s not himself that he’s worried about. He will love his husband in any shape or form.

Today, he’s grieving more for the pain that John will feel if he comes home and can no longer live the life he’s spent his whole life chasing. No one knows what that will look like.

Gale worries that, at minimum, it’ll mean no more flying. And for John, no more flying is like no more breathing. He needs to be up in a plane or on a spacecraft in the same way that he needs oxygen in his lungs, iron in his blood, Gale in his arms.

Gale is still grasping at the wispy tendrils of hope that dare to believe that John will wake up, but simple consciousness is a far cry from the whirlwind that is John.

If he surpasses minimal consciousness, if he wakes up and walks and talks on his own, it’s still not a guarantee. If his leg doesn’t heal right, he may never be cleared to fly. If the seizures don’t stop, he will not be cleared to fly. If he has lasting impairment to any part of his brain or his nervous system or his body, he will not be cleared to fly. And even if he walks away with none of that, if he develops any post-traumatic stress, he will not be cleared to fly.

And if he walks away with none of that, it will be nothing short of a miracle.

Gale isn’t so naive as to believe that he alone will ever be enough of a reason for John Egan. He knows his husband. He knows Bucky’s restless soul, never satisfied to sit by while the world turns around him. He knows Bucky was not born to keep his feet on the ground, because Gale wasn’t either.

So if Bucky did have a choice, what would he choose?

Thirty. Forty.

It doesn’t matter. None of them have a choice. Gale is going to bring his husband home if it fucking kills him. So when Curt tells him that Bucky is seizing, he works him through it. He keeps his voice as measured as he can even when he feels the way his heart is fighting not to tear away the stitches that keep trying to mend it back together. He presses his wedding ring to his lips and forces himself to breathe, and he works through it.

Fifty.

Sixty.

Gale: “You’re doing alright, Curt. You’re doing alright.”

Curt: “He won’t stop.”

Gale hears the panic rising in Curt’s voice. The very reason he can’t afford to panic himself. Curt’s on VOX so he doesn’t have to worry about turning his coms on and off while his hands are busy keeping Bucky in place, and in Mission Control they can faintly hear See You Again playing in the background. It’s been a long day without you my friend, and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again. .

Gale: “It’s gonna be okay. It’s normal for a seizure to last a couple minutes.”

Curt: “Seizures are not fuckin’ normal, Buck.”

Gale: “You got me there.”

Curt: “How long has it been?”

Gale: “Seventy-two seconds.”

Curt: “Fuck.”

Gale: “Take a breath, Curt.” Ironic. Hypocritical.

Curt: “We don’t have anything stronger than water to drink up here, do we?”

Gale: “That’s a negative, Curt.”

Curt: “Double fuck.”

Gale: “I’ll buy you all the beers you want when you bring my husband home.”

Please. Bring him home. I don’t care if he’s different. I don’t care how hard our life could be. I don’t care. Just please.

Bring him home.

Curt: “Yes you fuckin’ will.” Gale barely has time to laugh and wonder if he should be laughing when Curt’s voice comes through again. “He stopped.”

Ninety.

Gale: “That’s ninety seconds.”

Curt: “Felt a hell of a lot longer.”

—

Curt wants nothing more than to collapse on the ground, his own body tense and sore from holding Bucky on the cot. But he doesn’t have that luxury. He sets to work settling Bucky into a more comfortable position. He cleans him up, checks his IV, checks his head wound, checks the splint on his leg. Check check check.

He’s shoving a spare pillow beneath Bucky’s foot in a pathetic attempt at elevation when he hears it. He stops, one hand on Bucky’s wrapped ankle and the other holding the pillow too tight. He wonders if he imagined it. But then he hears it again.

A weak, gravelly voice trying its damnedest to get his attention.

He looks up at Bucky’s face and finds those blue eyes staring back at him. He watches Bucky’s lips try to move, try to shove out whatever it is he needs to say. His eyes are wide, his brow scrunched in discomfort. Curt wonders how much pain he feels. How much fear. He wonders if any of this makes sense. If he remembers. If he sees Curt when he looks at him, or if Curt’s no more than a stranger.

Bucky’s fingers twitch where they’re curled limply against his lower belly. Then his wrist. His whole arm. Curt worries for a second that he might start seizing again. Bucky’s head jerks to the side the tiniest bit. He blinks, looks Curt right in the eye.

“Fuck.”

That Curt can make out, even if Bucky’s voice won’t quite work with his brain. He can’t stop the amused raise of his eyebrow, the way the corner of his mouth quirks up the littlest bit, the way his voice comes out as a relieved laugh. Because that’s John. That’s John fucking Egan.

“Yeah, bud,” Curt agrees. “Fuck.”

—

Gale is sitting on a chair in Marge’s office, waiting for her to finish kindly yelling at someone over the phone about waiting to release the planned magazine article about his and John’s wedding until the other groom is home safely.

“I don’t care what your deadline was. No. No. I’m talking, sir. I don’t care what your deadline was. How will it look to publish an article about their wedding when one of them is in critical condition? To publish that article while one of the grooms is grieving over his husband.” There’s a brief silence. “No. No sir, that is not a good look for you.”

Gale bites his lip against a laugh as he stares blankly down at his phone. Everything about him is exhausted. He feels like he can barely move or think. But at the same time, if he doesn’t occupy himself with something, he feels the anxiety rising up and up and up.

After the seizure, John had wanted to speak. He wasn’t quite there, but he tried. It made Gale’s heart do all sorts of weird things. John woke up two more times after that. Once, he stayed awake for almost 20 minutes and seemed alert, though agitated. Curt had to gently hold him down when he tried, albeit weakly, to lash out with his right arm, jostling the IV. His heart rate had spiked, his breathing irregular, and Curt noted that he looked “terrified.”

But once Curt started talking to him again, he started to calm down. He was able to blink on command and even weakly squeeze Curt’s hand when asked, but Curt couldn’t tell how aware he was.

He woke for the third time of the day just about an hour ago, managed to mutter the word “fuck” again, and passed out after just two minutes.

Gale rubs a hand over his eyes and bites his lip as he thinks about it. Thinks about his husband confused and in pain.

“Okay, sorry about that,” Marge says as she stands up from her desk chair, still typing something on her laptop. “I got them to hold it until we know John is home safe. Honestly, it’s better for them anyways. Then they can include something about the trials and tribulations of marriage, for better or for worse, whatever.”

She aggressively taps the send button on one last email and slams her laptop closed, looking up at Gale. He’s still staring down at his phone, chewing on his lip. “You’re gonna break skin again if you don’t stop that,” she warns him. By the time his shift was over, his lower lip was red and bloody from how much he’d worried it. But he just shrugs. He absently flexes his bad hand, letting the tight skin pull at the scabs over his knuckles, as if to drive home the point. I don’t care.

Marge walks around her desk and swats gently at his hand, a silent cut it out. Then she looks at his phone screen.

“You made it further.”

He’s still at the beginning of the photo set, hasn’t even made it to their first look, much less the ceremony or the reception. He’s been looking at this single photograph for what feels like hours, but really was only about half the time Marge was on that call. It’s a candid photo of John in the groom’s suite. He’s looking in the mirror, a nervous smile on his face as Rosie secures one of his cufflinks. That wayward curl is hanging over his forehead, his cheeks a little pink and his blue eyes wide as he looks at himself.

Gale wants to stroke his thumb over the photo, but knows that will only make the page scroll on, and he’s not ready to see another one yet.

“He was so nervous,” Marge chuckles. “Rosie told me he kept dropping the cufflinks because his hands were shaking so bad.”

“Really?” Gale asks. Bucky? Nervous? About marrying Gale.

He finally releases his lower lip and runs his tongue over it. He can taste blood.

Marge nods and puts a hand on his shoulder. “He loves you so much, Gale. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if, somehow, that alone brings him home.”

Gale squeezes his eyes shut and turns off his phone. He can see the photograph in his mind, and he wants to burn that image of John into his memory. When he opens his eyes, he looks up at Marge, and she offers her hand. He takes it and lets her lead him out to the car.

—

Jackie has closed the Hundred Proof for the night, kicking out any and all paying and non-paying customers who are not affiliated with the Artemis 3 mission, no matter how many scowls and curses it got her. It’s nearing 6pm, so it’s early to be closing a bar, but anyone who takes issue with it can kindly fuck off.

Tonight, the Hundred Proof is a gathering place for the weary NASA crew just trying to bring their men home. It’s an open bar. The TVs are pointedly tuned to anything but the news, which can’t get enough of John Egan and the fight for his life. Exhausted men and women gather around the pool table or the dart board or sit, huddled together, around tables, conversation levels varying from loud and boisterous to quiet and somber.

When Marge opens the door and Gale trails in behind her, he feels dizzy, on edge, but he follows Marge to a table, where Croz, Bubbles, and Sandra are already nursing beers. He nods to them, mutters something by way of greeting, and stands beside the table, his hand clutching the back of a chair. All around him are the people he works with every day. Much of Red Shift is already here. Some of Blue shift is filing in. People are talking and playing and drinking, snacking on bar food.

His eyes dart around the room as he tries to remind himself to breathe, locking on the smallest details. The sounds and the visuals assault his senses, overwhelming him. Too loud. Too bright.

A beer here, a cocktail there. A glass of wine.

The condensation on the outside of Croz’s beer can, drops of water rolling down the side onto the wood tabletop.

Clark taking aim with his pool cue, the sound of a clean break, heavy resin balls clacking against each other with a loud crack that rings in Gale’s ears.

The sound of laughter. The sound of silence. People sipping on their drinks.

One of the Blue Shift flight controllers that he doesn’t know all that well flirting with Jackie across the bar, leaning lazily on the bartop with a lazy grin, in the same way Bucky used to do to him in college, when he was still trying to convince Gale to go out with him.

Behind the bar, astronaut portraits arranged across the wall. Buck and Bucky. Bucky and Buck. Wide grins, American flags in the background, space helmets tucked under their arms. Side by side. Always side by side.

Gale feels bereft, missing a part of himself.

Music plays over the speakers. Elvis. A little less conversation and a little more action please…

Gale can remember Bucky obnoxiously singing that song when he wanted Gale’s attention, grabbing his hand and dropping to his knees like he was begging. Gale would roll his eyes and try to shake him off, but in the end, when Bucky got back to his feet, he’d pull Gale into his arms. And Gale would fall right into him. Again and again.

Gale is so tired. His mind is fuzzy and his heart is breaking and his phone weighs heavy in his pocket, taunting him with those wedding photos. It’s warm in here, and it’s noisy, and God he could use a fucking drink.

He hasn’t slept. He’s barely been eating. He’s living off coffee and granola bars and pure adrenaline and grief. He can’t think straight. There’s so many people everywhere and they’re laughing and they’re talking and he can’t imagine how that must feel.

Gale doesn’t drink. Everyone knows that. Some champagne on his wedding night. An occasional glass of wine. A sip from John’s cocktail. He comes to this bar and he drinks water or soda or some virgin thing Jackie concocts for him. The thought of drinking usually makes him feel sick.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense. Bucky gets drunk. Marge gets drunk. Benny gets drunk. And really he doesn’t give a damn. He’s never been worried a day in his life that Bucky would raise a hand against him. Bucky, like his father in so many ways. But not a thing like him in the ways that count.

But when it comes to Gale, himself? He can’t stand the idea. He can’t stand the idea that he could be just like his dad. He can’t stand the idea of losing control, of taking out his anger and misery on someone who doesn’t deserve it. But damn does he understand the need… he wishes he could get drunk, just so he didn’t have to feel like this anymore.

Gale Cleven has only been drunk a handful of times, and the truth is, he’s nothing like his father at all. Gale is a happy drunk, if anything. He’s affectionate. Bucky told him once that he was a cute drunk, and it made Gale blush even as he reprimanded himself for drinking in the first place.

One time in college, he woke up after a party only for his friends to present him with a notebook chock full of detailed sketches of a fighter jet. And not just any fighter jet, but one that didn’t exist. And not just any fighter jet that didn’t exist, but one that was physically and technically viable, complete with almost all necessary design specifications to build a sky-worthy aircraft.

Yep. Gale Cleven is the type of drunk that lays across his boyfriend’s lap with an engineering notebook and designs a whole-ass functional airplane that could very well be submitted to the Air Force for review.

Gale drinking is about the least dangerous thing in the whole world. But it doesn’t matter. The thought still makes him sick. And the screaming thoughts clanging around in his head are compounding on one another. The noise and the people and the need for a drink and the disgust at himself for wanting a drink and the sadness and the fear and the exhaustion and the lack of food and…

“Gale?”

There’s a hand on his arm.

“Gale?”

“Buck?”

“Take a breath, hon.”

Oh. Right.

Gale suddenly becomes aware that his chest is burning, his face hot. He wonders how long he’s been standing here, not breathing. Drawing oxygen into his lungs, he blinks and tries to come back into himself. Marge is staring at him with unfiltered concern. Croz, Bubbles, and Sandra are watching him. Benny is watching him. When had he gotten here?

He reaches a hand out to rest on Gale’s other shoulder, but Gale steps back, causing both Benny’s hand and Marge’s to drop limply away.

“You good?” Benny asks.

No. They all know he’s not good. But he could also be worse, at this point. He could be worse. Things could be worse.

So Gale nods.

“We don’t have to stay,” Marge tells him. “We can go home.”

Gale shakes his head, looking around at the flight controllers crowding the bar. Friends. The same people who were in his home last night. The same people he trusts, quite literally, with his life. He should be able to handle being here.

“Just…” he grits his teeth, flexes his bad hand, feeling the sting that’s fading but still undoubtedly there, grounding him. “Someone get me a soda so I don’t order something I’ll regret.”

Marge nods and heads off to the bar, and Gale finally takes a seat beside Croz. Only belatedly does he realize that Benny, who is about to trail after Marge, isn’t alone.

“You brought the dogs?” Gale asks. He means to laugh a little when he says it, but he just sounds tired.

“Yep,” Benny says.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

Benny looks down at the dogs and then over at the bar. “Jackie! Can I have Pepper and Meatball here?”

“Do they like beer?” Jackie asks.

Benny shrugs dramatically. “Why don’t you ask ‘em?”

“Don’t give my baby girl beer,” Gale warns him.

Jackie gives Benny a look, but rolls her eyes fondly. “Just don’t let them on the furniture.”

Benny smiles at Gale, eyebrow raised, and holds his hands out as if to say there we go.

Gale does laugh this time and shakes his head, reaching out to scratch Pepper’s ears, then Meatball’s when he inevitably shoves his way in between. “You two are lucky dogs, you know that?”

—

How Do I Live Without You is playing. How do I live without you? I want to know.

Curt is singing along dramatically, sliding his way around the cabin in his socks, using his glorified capri-sun of a water packet as a microphone. He slides over to Bucky’s cot and points at him, moving his shoulders in slow motion to the beat. How do I breathe without you, if you ever go?

Bucky’s eyes are closed, his breathing slow and shallow again. He hasn’t woken up again as long as Gale’s been off shift. Curt managed another hour of sleep here and there throughout the day and is feeling slightly less deranged, but only slightly. He’s still mad as hell, but got tired of being mad as hell. So he’s back to rocking out alone on the moon.

As the song comes to an end, he stops and stands at the end of Bucky’s cot, sipping at his water packet. “Gonna make me dance on my own, Bucky?”

Rosie: “Hey Curt, Alex has an idea.”

Curt jumps at the sound of Rosie’s voice. He’d forgotten he left his coms on VOX for the express reason of annoying Mission Control, so Rosie and Alex can also hear him if they bother to tune in.

Curt: “Oh yeah? What’s that?” He sips his water again, thinking about how it’s a lot more fun in zero gravity, when he can make the droplets float like bubbles.

Alex: “Play Can’t Help Falling In Love.”

Curt pauses mid-sip, the little straw pressed between his lips. He looks at Bucky’s face, soft in sleep, and thinks about how agitated he’s been every single time he’s woken up.

He thinks about Buck and Bucky, holding each other close alone on a dance floor, Gale beautiful in white. Bucky singing along, spinning Gale around before kissing him softly.

He wonders if that “uck” noise Bucky has been making was “fuck” after all.

—

Gale is leaning his hip against the side of the pool table, watching Sandra beat the shit out of Benny at eight ball, the dogs laying at his feet, when his phone rings. He sets his glass of coke down on the edge of the pool table. Marge has been checking in on him throughout the night and has continued to go to the bar for him any time he needs a refill so that he isn’t tempted to order anything stronger.

When he shoves his hand into his pants pocket to grab his phone, one of the bandaids across his knuckles rips off, causing him to grimace as a scab breaks free and specks of blood well up on the skin. He frowns when he sees the contact on his phone screen – Helen.

“Helen?” He says, pressing his phone to his ear with his right hand while he tries to re-stick the bandage across his knuckles with his left. He can’t keep the edge of panic from bleeding into his voice, and everyone around the pool table freezes. Sandra and Benny rest their cues on the floor, and Bubbles, Marge, and Croz stop laughing at whatever joke Croz had been telling. They’re all staring at him.

“Buck?” Helen doesn’t sound panicked. She doesn’t sound worried. She doesn’t sound sad. But the deep pit of anxiety doesn’t lift from Gale’s chest. “I need you to come back to Mission Control.”

“Why?” Gale worries his lip, ignoring Marge when she smacks him lightly on the shoulder in admonishment. With his left hand, he’s rubbing his thumb absently over the surface of the silver wedding band.

“Just come,” Helen insists. “Now.”

—

When he shows up at JSC, barging through the door of Mission Control, he’s not alone. Trailing behind him is Marge, Benny, and two huskies. Harding is there, standing next to the Flight Director, and he looks up in alarm when he notices the two dogs.

Gale is still in the same clothes he wore to work, slacks and a white button down. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, the tie lost somewhere in Benny’s car after he couldn’t stop pulling at it in worry. His hair is a limp mess from running his hand through it all day, and he knows he has dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep and proper nutrition.

He knows he looks crazy.

He feels crazy. He’d been putting the pieces of himself back together ever so slowly tonight, trying his damn best to feel some semblance of normal, and Helen’s call had shattered all of that. His breathing is unreliable at best. His heart rate is erratic. His body is tense at the same time that he feels weak. And he can’t keep the threatening tremor out of his voice when he stares back at Harding and motions to the dogs.

“You told me to come immediately,” he says, even though Chick hadn’t said a word. He runs a hand through his hair again. “I was out. I was with Benny. I’m not allowed to go anywhere myself ‘cause they’re worried I’m gonna get in an accident or hurt myself or somethin’.”

Gale knows he looks just about distraught at this point. He’s losing energy. He’s so fucking tired. Tired of it all. “We had the damn dogs,” he concludes, motioning dramatically with his hand. This is, perhaps, the most animated anyone in this room has ever seen him. “So. Now I have the damn dogs.”

Harding blinks before raising his hands up in surrender. “Fine. A happy welcome to the damn dogs.” Then he points to Helen.

Gale turns on his heel and marches past a slew of startled flight controllers until he gets to the CAPCOM console.

Helen is smiling at him. Smiling.

Gale feels tears welling up and he doesn’t even know why yet. It’s all too much. Whatever it is, it’s too much. Today is too much. Marge, standing behind him, flicks him on the shoulder to remind him to breathe.

“He’s asking for you,” Helen says.

The whole world spins, the ringing in his ears fading in and out. He opens his mouth to say something, but he isn’t sure what.

Helen hands him a headset. “Curt put a comcap on him. He can’t really say anything yet, but he’s awake. He’s been saying your name. He got pretty agitated about it, really. We thought maybe you’d like to just talk to him, though. Let him know you’re here.”

Gale’s heart isn’t beating right. He takes the headset carefully, putting it over his ear. He looks at Benny and Marge behind him. At the dogs settling quietly on the floor at his feet. Pepper nudges at his left hand, as if she’s telling him to go on. As if she finally understands where John is and that Gale needs him.

“He needs his husband, Buck,” Helen says.

—

Bucky worries that he’s dreaming. He’s been thinking that a lot recently. Whatever recently is. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Curt told him it’s surface mission day six. He doesn’t know if it’s still day six.

His leg is enough to make him want to close his eyes and go back to sleep. He’s in excruciating pain, and he can barely even make a sound to express that. He can’t tell anyone. He can’t formulate the words in his brain. He can’t make his lips move. He can’t make his throat work.

Pain. That’s all. Pain.

Curt’s here. Bucky isn’t alone. Curt said he’d be here.

He keeps talking about Gale.

Bucky wants Gale. He needs Gale.

“Hey darling.”

Bucky’s breath catches, making a weird choking, gurgling noise in his dry throat. He knows Curt is standing somewhere next to him, but he can’t quite turn his head enough to see. His head hurts.

“They tell me you’re awake up there. I’m not on shift now, it’s about 9pm here in Houston. So it’s 2am your time. But they thought maybe you’d like to hear my voice. Said you’ve been askin’ for me. So I’m here. With Marge and Benny. Even the dogs. You should’ve seen Harding’s face when I walked into Mission Control with a dog on either side.”

Pepper. Meatball. Pepper. Meatball.

“They miss you, you know. I miss you. I miss you so much, John.”

Don’t cry, angel. Don’t cry.

He can hear the tears in Gale’s voice, though. He thinks about Gale’s tendency to hold his breath when he’s upset. Breathe, baby. Breathe for me.

He hears Gale take a deep breath. Good.

“Y’know, I got our wedding photos back last night. I can’t bring myself to look at ‘em. Every time I reach the pictures of you in the groom’s suite, I just… I can’t. I don’t know if I should without you… But it’s alright. We’re, uh, we’re gonna get you home, okay, darlin’? You’re gonna be alright. It’ll be alright. You just gotta stick with us.”

Gale is drifting into his western drawl, the way he does when he lets his guard down. Bucky wants to reach out to him somehow. Reach across the moon and the stars, hold Gale close, tell him it’s all gonna be okay. Tell him not to be scared.

His lips move, but he can’t make the sounds.

Don’t be scared, angel. Just breathe. I’ll see you soon. I’ll see you soon.

“Please, John,” Gale whispers. “I love you. I love you to the moon and back. So just, make sure you come home.”

Bucky thinks he smiles. He feels like he is, but he doesn’t know if his mouth is doing the right thing. His eyes close. He can’t keep them open anymore.

And all of a sudden, he’s back to not knowing if he’s dreaming or not. The last thing he hears is Gale saying “I love you” over and over again, trying not to cry. But Bucky is drifting somewhere far away.

I love you, he thinks. I love you.

…

Part 14

#“fuck”#I love you to the moon and back #Gale “I’m fine” Cleven #spoiler: Gale is not fine #no one is fine #but they are doing their best #clegan astronaut au #clegan #mota #masters of the air #gale cleven #john egan #buck x bucky #bucky egan #buck cleven #clegan fic #mota fic #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan

46 notes · View notes

honeybeezgobzzzzz · 3 months ago

Text

𓅨 Love in the Dark: Chapter Thirteen

Love in the Dark: You discover an intense connection with a dream lover, yearning for a love beyond physical appearances. As your encounters blur the lines between the waking world and the Dreaming, your grapple with the complexities of desire, friendship, and mortality. Can you truly love in the dark?

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x NAMEDFem!Reader.

Word Count: ~3.7k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

You trace your fingers down Morpheus' torso, admiring the way his muscles twitch under your touch. You revel in the power that you hold over him in this moment, a power that he has willingly surrendered to you.

Morpheus watches you with hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He's trying to keep his composure, you know he has patience for it, but you can see the strain on his face, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. Itching to touch you, to grab your thighs, buck against your hot, wet cunt straddling him.. He wants more, needs more, but he's waiting for your command.

His arousal stands tall and proud against his stomach, a tantalizing sight that has your mouth watering. You let your gaze wander over him, taking in every inch of his body. His skin is dusted with what looks like tiny stars, a beautiful sight that leaves you breathless.

Slowly, teasingly, you let your hand wander lower, tracing muscles you could feel and carving fiery paths of pleasure. Your fingers trail down until they reach the base of his cock and you marvel at how beautifully crafted his parents had made him. For the briefest moments your fingertips linger around the circumference of his cock. Morpheus sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, his hips bucking up into your touch.

"You're so impatient," you tease him, giving him a pointed look as you wrap your fingers around him. It was nice to turn the tides for once. Morpheus groans in response, the sound a symphony as he throws his head back against the pillow.

"And you never designed to be this cruel, beloved," he replies, his voice strained with desire.

You smile, a slow, seductive curve of your lips, and begin to move your hand along his length, your touch firm but teasing. "Patience, Morpheus," you purr, your voice dripping with sensuality. "All good things come to those who wait. Including me."

His eyes lock onto yours, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race. You can see the struggle within him, the battle between his need for control and his overwhelming desire for you. It's an intoxicating feeling, knowing the power you hold over him in this moment. You had it in your dreams, surely, but not like this.

You continue your slow, deliberate movements, driving him closer and closer to the edge without giving him the release he craves. His body trembles beneath you, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. You can feel the tension in his muscles beneath your thighs, the way he fights to maintain his composure, and it only spurs you on.

Morpheus' hands clench and unclench the bedding beneath him, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping them still. His eyes burn with a mixture of frustration and longing, and you can see the thin veneer of control slipping away with each passing second.

"Please," he finally groans, his voice a rough whisper. "I need you. I want you. I long for your embrace."

Your smile widens, a slow, seductive curve of your lips. "Do you?" you ask, your voice a tantalizing whisper. "How much do you need me, Morpheus?"

His response is immediate, his voice filled with a raw, desperate need. "More than anything. Beloved, it has been agony since you left and I should not like to spend a moment more without knowing your touch. You are my solace," he continues, his voice growing more passionate with each word. "In this vast universe of dreams and nightmares that I command, you are the only thing that brings me peace. You are the light to my shadows," he finishes, his eyes nearly brimming with tears. "And I do not wish to exist without you."

You watch Morpheus closely, taking in the agony and desire that play across his face. Your heart aches at his words, and you feel a fierce surge of love for this being who has brought you so much happiness in your dreams. You want that to continue, you want that so much. Your eyes glow with determination.

"Come for me, Morpheus," you command, your voice firm but laced with love. "I want to feel your release on my hands."

Morpheus groans, his eyes rolling back in his head as he gives himself over to your touch. His body tenses, every muscle coiled like a spring, and you know he's on the edge. You continue to stroke him, your touch firm and steady, and he lets out a hoarse cry as his release surges through him, seed spilling onto your hands in thick, pearlescent streams.

As his orgasm washes through him, you withdraw your fingers to your lips. Eyes connecting with Morpheus' softly glowing ones, your tongue darts out and licks at your fingers.

As Morpheus' orgasm subsides, you feel a deep sense of satisfaction at having brought him such pleasure. But you are eager to taste him once more, this time with your mouth. You suck on your fingers for a few more moments, lips curved into a smirk as he watches you with bated breath, his eyes filled with longing and anticipation.

Sliding your last finger from your lips with a pop, you settle your hands on his hips and scoot yourself backward until you were satisfied that your mouth had full, easy access to his straining cock. It stands proud and erect, almost begging for more.

"Kora," Your name rumbles from his lips. You lower your head, your gaze never leaving his, and dive in to explore the velvety expanse between his legs. The scent of his powerful pheromones fills your senses, and you can't help but inhale deeply, savoring the unique scent that is Morpheus. That has always been Morpheus.

His handsome, sculpted abs flex as you nuzzle your nose against his pelvis. Your tongue darts out to lave the base of his cock, and he lets out a shuddering groan that sends tingles up your spine. You lick him again, this time tracing the length of his shaft, causing his body to tense beneath you.

As you continue your exploration, you can't help but marvel at the beauty of Morpheus' cock. His cock is perfect, both in form and function; a work of art that you are honored to experience firsthand. And to think you had been sucking off a masterpiece all this time.

You pause to admire your handiwork, looking up to meet Morpheus' gaze. His eyes are filled with a mixture of desire and worship, and it's clear that he is yours in that moment, completely and utterly devoted to you. It truly is intoxicating, knowing that you have the power to reduce this powerful being to a quivering mass of need and desire.

You decide to tease him a little more, to draw out the experience and savor the exquisite torture you're inflicting upon him. Your tongue jets out to lap at the bead of see that drips from the tip of his cock, and he bucks his hips upward, the brief moment of contact clearly driving him wild with desire.

You pull back, just far enough to deny him the contact he craves, and lap at the seed that have pooled at the base of his shaft. His taste had always been incredible, something you looked forward to even, and now you find yourself growing hungry for more.

Morpheus groans, his hands reaching down to grip your hair, not to encourage but to stroke the strands and revel in the pleasure you bestow upon him. You chuckle at Morpheus' growl of frustration as you drag a finger teasingly down his shaft, coating it with his own seed. He's so desperate for your touch, for your mouth wrapped around his cock, that he can barely contain himself. But you're not ready to give in yet. Not when you're enjoying this game of teasing and denial so much.

With a sly grin, you draw your finger into your mouth, sucking it clean and making a show of it for Morpheus' benefit. His hips buck involuntarily, and you can see the strain in his face as he tries to hold back from begging you for more. But you know he won't be able to resist for long.

You continue to tease him with soft kisses and licks, tracing patterns on his sensitive skin with the tip of your tongue. Morpheus' breathing quickens, and his grip on your hair tightens as he thrusts his hips upward, seeking more contact with your mouth.

"Please," he whispers hoarsely, his voice rough with desire. You can feel the tension coiling in his body, and you know he's on the verge of losing control. And that's when you decide it's time to give him what he wants.

You part your lips and slide them over the tip of his cock, savoring the velvety softness of his skin against your tongue. Morpheus lets out a low moan as you take more of him into your mouth, his hips thrusting upward as if to urge you to take him deeper.

With each bob of your head, you feel Morpheus' cock harden even more, if that's even possible. His hands are no longer stroking your hair but gripping the sheets beneath him, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. He's completely lost in the sensations you're creating, and it fills you with a sense of power and satisfaction.

You continue to suck him off, increasing the speed and depth of your strokes. Morpheus' moans grow louder, echoing through the room, and you can tell he's close to the edge. You redouble your efforts, using your hand to stroke the base of his cock while your mouth works its magic on the tip.

Morpheus' body tenses, and you know the moment is near. With a final, desperate thrust, he empties himself into your mouth, his seed painting your tongue and the roof of your mouth. You swallow greedily, savoring the taste of him as he gasps for air, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

As Morpheus' orgasm subsides, you draw back, licking your lips to savor the last drops of his essence. His eyes are still closed, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You can't help but feel so happy that he is blissed out and within your bed, looking so beautiful.

Morpheus finally opens his eyes, a look of blissful contentment on his face. He reaches up to cup your cheek, his fingers gentle against your skin. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice still rough with desire. "For giving me such incredible pleasure."

You smile, climbing up so you can lean in and press a kiss to his lips. "It's my pleasure," you reply, your voice filled with pure affection. "But I am not done."

You straddle Morpheus' hips, his cock still hard and throbbing between your thighs. His eyes are dark with desire, watching you intently as you begin to move. You start slowly, raising yourself up until his tip is just inside you, then lower yourself back down with exquisite care.

Morpheus' breath catches in his throat, and he grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin. You can feel the warmth of his touch, the strength in his grasp, as you continue to ride him at a leisurely pace. Each time you raise yourself up, you feel the delicious tension build, and each time you descend, you're greeted by the thickness of his shaft filling you completely.

His eyes never leave your face, drinking in your every expression as you move above him. You can see the desire burning in his gaze, and it spurs you on, knowing that you have the power to bring him such pleasure.

As the seconds stretch into minutes, you increase your pace slightly, relishing the feel of Morpheus' cock inside you. His gasps grow louder, his hips thrusting upward to meet your every downward motion. The sensations are so intense, you can hardly believe it's possible to feel so alive, so connected to another person. To an Endless.

You lean forward, caging him in with your arms as your lips brush his ear. "I love you," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the sound of your ragged breathing. Morpheus' grip on your hips tightens, and you can feel his cock twitch inside you as he struggles to hold back his release.

But you're not ready for it to end just yet. You continue to ride him, your rhythm growing faster and harder with each passing second. Morpheus' hips are bucking wildly now, his control slipping as he's consumed by the pleasure you're giving him. One of his hands departs your hip to grasp your breast and he gives it a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending shivers down your spine.

"All I want is you," You begin to chant between your gasps of pleasure. "All I want is you, all I want is you."

Your words are like a mantra, driving both of you closer to the edge. The intensity of your movements increases, your pace becoming almost frantic as you chase the climax that hovers just out of reach. Morpheus matches your urgency, his thrusts powerful and precise, each one sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you.

The tension builds to an almost unbearable peak, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, every touch, every kiss, a testament to the love and desire you share. You can feel the climax approaching, a wave of ecstasy that threatens to sweep you away.

With a final, powerful thrust, Morpheus finds his release, his body shuddering beneath you as he cries out your name. The sensation of his seed filling you pushes you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you with a force that leaves you trembling.

You scream as you come around his cock, your cunt rippling and clenching around his cock while your fingers clenching the bedsheets so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The intense sensations of pleasure course through your body, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as wave after wave of ecstasy crash over you and spill down your limbs until your fingers and toes are tingling.

You feel him twitch inside you, his cock stirred by your orgasm and tight squeezes your cunt gives it. The warmth and slickness of his seed is almost too much to bear, but it only adds to the incredible sensations that you're experiencing.

When your orgasm begins to subside, your arms tremble and you begin to collapse on top of Morpheus. Yet instead of landing on his body in a slump of buzzing and half numb limbs, Morpheus is moving faster than you can blink. He has your positions reversed in between your heavy exhale and inhale, and when your brain finally registers what has happened, you are splayed out on your bed beneath him.

Your eyes are wide and filled with the after affects of your orgasm, bliss and ecstasy, and Morpheus gazes down at you like you are the most beautiful entity he has ever laid eyes upon because in his mind, you are. Your eyelashes flutter up at him as your mind, once again, marvels at his beauty. You raise your hand and brush your fingers along his jaw, carving paths across his lips.

You feel Morpheus's weight bearing down on you, his body flush against yours as he claims your mouth in a passionate kiss. His hands roam across your skin, setting it ablaze with every touch. You can't help but moan into his mouth as his tongue dances with yours, the intensity of his kisses matching the fierce burn in your veins.

Morpheus slides his cock back into you with a satisfied sigh. Your body hums in response, the earlier climax still echoing in your veins. His eyes never leave yours as he begins to move, his pace slow and deliberate. The sensation of him inside you, filling you so completely, is overwhelming.

His hands roam your body as he moves, tracing the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. Each touch is a testament to his desire for you, his love for you. You wrap your legs around him, ankles locking together and pulling him deeper into you with each thrust.

Morpheus leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth once more with an intensity that leaves you breathless. You can taste yourself on his lips, taste him, you can even taste the very stars that burn so brightly within his hypnotic gaze. It only serves to stoke the fire within you.

His thrusts grow more insistent, each one hitting a spot deep inside you that makes stars dance behind your fluttering eyelids. You clutch at his back, your nails digging into his flesh as you struggle to keep up with his relentless pace. He is a being that will never tire, never need to recover from intense orgasms, never falter in his relentless pursuit of your pleasure. Each thrust drives deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes you see stars, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You can barely keep up with him, your body responding to his with a fierce, primal need.

"Morpheus," you gasp, your voice a desperate plea. The sensation of his powerful thrusts, combined with the feel of his hands gripping your hips, is almost too much to bear. The pressure is building again, the tension coiling within you like a spring ready to snap.

His response is a deep, guttural growl, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss that leaves you breathless. His tongue dances with yours, the kiss reflecting the intensity of your connection. His control is slipping, his need for you driving him to the brink.

"All I want is you," you chant again, your voice a mantra that seems to fuel his desire. "All I want is you."

Morpheus' eyes darken with an unspoken promise, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, driving you both closer to the edge. The sound of skin against skin, your shared moans, and the rhythm of your bodies moving in perfect harmony create a symphony of pleasure that fills the room.

Your body responds to his every movement, your hips meeting his thrusts, your hands exploring the hard planes of his back. You can feel the muscles tensing beneath your fingers, the raw power of his body a constant reminder of his endless stamina.

As the tension within you builds to an almost unbearable peak, you cry out his name, your voice filled with a mixture of desperation and ecstasy. "Morpheus!" Hearing you cry out his name with such sweet ecstasy, ambrosia dripping from your lips.

You can feel another orgasm building within you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until you're certain it will consume you. Morpheus seems to sense this because he increases his pace even more, driving into you with a fervor that leaves you gasping.

"Let go," he murmurs against your ear, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. "Let go for me."

His words are all it takes to push you over the edge once more. Your body convulses beneath him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your screams echo in the room as the world narrows down to just the two of you; Morpheus and Kora.

As the waves of pleasure recede, leaving you spent and sated beneath him, Morpheus continues to move within you, his thrusts slow and gentle now. His lips brush against your forehead in a tender kiss, his body covering yours in a protective cocoon.

Morpheus, still inside you, is a comforting weight. His breaths puff against your skin in rhythmic waves, syncing with your own. His hand strokes languid patterns on your back, lulling you into a drowsy stupor. His other hand, once entwined with yours, now gently cradles your head, fingers threading through your hair.

"Sleep," he murmurs, the command as soft as a lullaby. "Rest."

You blink for a few moments before stretching out an arm to grasp for your bottle of melatonin. Morpheus' hand prevents you from taking it.

His chest rumbles with a soft sigh. "Kora," he says, his voice carrying a note of reprimand. "You need to dream."

"No." The word is stubborn, resolute.

His fingers still in your hair. "Why?" he asks, the single word heavy with unspoken questions. Tinged with pain even.

"I..." You falter, searching for words that won't come. You don't want to explain that dreaming means facing reality - the reality that Morpheus is not yours to keep.

"Is it because of me?" he asks suddenly. The question startles you. You lift your head to look at him, meeting his intense gaze. He looks serious, concerned even. Guilt and fear riddles yours.

"I... It's complicated," you admit. No it isn't, you just don't want to face your fear of being right that he isn't yours.

His thumb strokes the side of your face in a gentle caress. "Then let me simplify it for you," he says softly. "Dreaming is essential for your health, Kora."

"But..." You trail off, unsure how to voice your fears.

"But nothing," he interrupts firmly. "You are harming yourself by avoiding sleep."

"But if I dream..." you start again, then stop.

"If you dream... what?" He prompts gently.

"I'll have to face reality," you whisper.

He sighs, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Kora, avoiding reality won't make it disappear. You have to face it eventually."

"But it hurts," you admit quietly.

His hand tightens in your hair. "I know," he says softly. "But know this, beloved, you are mine. In this plane and the next. You are mine."

You want to believe him, you really do. But the fear of waking up alone, of facing a world without Morpheus by your side, is too great.

"Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "For me."

The plea in his voice breaks through your defenses. With a shaky sigh, you nod against his chest. "Okay," you whisper back.

"Thank you," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

As sleep tugs at your senses, Morpheus's arms tighten around you, as if he's trying to anchor you to him. He is, making sure that you know he will still be yours when you wake from your dreams. And in that moment, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - you can face reality with him by your side.

Date Published: 10/28/24

Last Edit: 10/28/24

Previous | Masterlist | Next

#morpheus #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman netflix #morpheus x reader #lord morpheus #dream the endless #sandman x reader #dream of the endless #dream the endless x reader #the sandman

17 notes · View notes

i-am-minty-fresh · 2 months ago

Text

(Here you are @certain-arcade-dinosaur)

Luffy blinks away the heavy weight of sleep to the harsh feeling of the sun baring down directly into his eyes. As his eyes finally open, he’s met only with the sun right above his head. Normally, he can’t look at the sun for too long or Chopper will tell him it can give his eyes ‘perforated damage’…but Chopper’s not here so he can stare all he wants!-

Choppers not here! He looks around him to find only sand, with waves pushing and pulling onto the nearby coast. He taps him head in contemplation before quickly noticing the familiar weight of his hat is neither on his head nor between his shoulder blades. He attempts to twist all the way around but finds something rigid on the back of his neck limits such contortions. Defeated by the rock in his neck he rushes onto his feet to turn around and look the boring way.

He’s met with an almost deserted island. Some spots of grass, a couple of shrubs, and one coconut tree. The island is small enough that he can walk the whole circumference of it without much thought. Turning away from the island and towards the sea he looks squints to look as far as he can. The sea sways and dips at will, but the reflection of the sun remains ever present amongst the waves.

His crew isn’t here. Something tells him that. He doesn’t quite know where here is but he knows that even if he could find his way off the island, only sea awaits him. Never a lions figurehead, never a blue nose, never orange or green hair, never warm food or lullabies.

Lonely?

Something whispers into Luffy’s mind. He turns to the island and squints, still seeing nothing of substance.

Our sea is vast but our path is never clear

He looks up to find his strawhat perched on a high-up branch on the lone tree in the middle of the island. He scrambles towards the base and starts his climbing, smiling widely at the thought of his treasure returning to him.

Why set out to sea at all if nothing is certain?

A few splinters and scraps cover his body before he finally gets to the branch holding his hat. Perching himself safely onto the thicker side, he gleefully places his hat onto his head, pulling the brim close, as a smile cuts through his face.

So much suffering, caused by my ignorance, how could anyone dream of something as selfish as sailing?

Finally, Luffy looks to the highest branch, only just out of reach to him, paying some acknowledgment to the noise.

I have no right for adventure when people need liberation….but how could I ever bring freedom at a time like this?

Hanging from the end of the branch is something familiar. A rotund purple fruit covered in swirls.

What adventures could even await me if we know only this land exists?

Staring back into the horizon, Luffy can make out the sun slowly setting.

I must rest.

The sun dies in a brilliant flash only for the water to get coated in the ink of the night sky. Luffy furrows his brow,

“Don’t give up, old man, they’re just not here yet!”

We alone carry the burden of liberation, we alone must sail-

“But that’s so boring! Once my nakama come, you’ll get what I mean! Nami and Jinbei are much better at sailing than we are, anyway! Plus if anyway’s sick, Chopper can help. If anyone’s hungry, Sanji can help. If anyone dead, Robin can help. My nakama are all so helpful! Besides…” Luffy stands on the small branch, steady even as the it lurches under his weight, “we’re pirates! We’re supposed to be selfish!” He smiles….

Islands start to erupt from the sea. Birds come into view along the horizon alongside thousands of ships. One ship, faster than the rest, expertly cuts through the island like icebergs coming from the sea bed. As it gets closer, the sound of laughter is better heard. Despite its multiple undocked anchors it arrives at the shore in record time. An out of tune guitar, a handmade flute, a well-loved violin and a bunch of untrained voices sing along to an old pirate shanty.

White clouds fill like fog around the coconut tree.

“What do you say, old man?” The pirate king turns to face a god older than time, “you wanna join my pirate crew?”

Was it always this easy?

“Only if you let it be!”

The dawn finally comes.

#minty musings #one piece #monkey d luffy #sun god nika #idk man

14 notes · View notes

endofunktor · 1 year ago

Text

All numbers are imaginary. Some are useful.

So, @lipshits-continuous (I like your blog very much!) was bringing to my attention someone who was, let's say, a little frustrated about having to learn "imaginary numbers". You know. They're not even real.

I don't want to write about that person specifically, I don't know them at all.

But.

My siblings in crisis.

There are no "real" numbers in this world. The act of counting is already an abstraction. If you have an apple and a pear, then counting them as two pieces of fruit is an act of forgetting all the properties that distinguish them and remembering only those that unite them. Same goes for two apples of course.

So the number 2 is already entirely imaginary. Made up. Nonsense.

This gets worse very quickly, by the way. You can't have negative apples! Sure, you can have positive fractions of apples, but I can assure you: Two halves of an apple do rarely make one apple, except when they are the two halves of the same apple. And even then: Having them cut up makes it impossible to rejoin them. Think about that.

Now you know where this is going, because let's talk about the so-called ""real"" numbers. Nasty little things. Have a look at the irrational numbers. First, there are comparatively tame irrationals: Algebraic numbers. These arise as roots of integer polynomials. You know, like our favorite, the square root of 2, the positive zero of X^2 - 2.

Did you know that the Pythagoreans believed that everything was in integer relation to each other. (For example: the lengths of a rectangular triangle could be 3-4-5, meanging one cathetus is 4/5, the other 3/5 the length of the hypotenuse.) And that when someone found out that sqrt(2) was indeed not in integer relation to, say, 1, they had him murdered? That didn't change the fact that they were wrong though. (This story is not true, of course, like all good stories. You could say: it is imaginary, but nonetheless an interesting tale to tell!)

And now, the non-algebraic, so called transcendent numbers. Like pi. We know (the abstract concept of) pi well enough to calculate the circumference of the observable universe up to the accuracy of a neutrino (or so they say, I'm not a physicist). We don't have to know it any better. We could quit at however many digits we know and that would be pi. Perfectly rational. Because if we are looking for """real""" numbers only, why should we ever even concern ourself with those nasty things?

Did you know that transcendent numbers make the vast majority of real line? Of course you do! Rationals are countable, integer polynomials are countable and thus are their roots. The real line is famously uncountable, so must be the transcendent numbers.

So. Our so called """"real"""" numbers are mostly non-precisely calculable numbers. (Arbitrarily precise, but not precise.)

Do you know what kind of numbers are used in electrical engineering? Me neither because I'm not an electrical engineer. That's right, complex numbers! Actual engineers have to actually work with the actually imaginary square roots of negative one.

Maybe Numbers aren't a thing of this world.

Maybe Abstraction is a thing of our worldview.

And maybe we can learn to cherish abstract math the way we learn to cherish abstract art: Not always a true representation of reality, but a thing of interest and beauty in itself.

#I may have made up the term #my siblings in crisis #but I like it #anyway #this got a bit ranty #i apologize #also #I believe #they use quaternions in computer simulations #to calculate rotations #but I don't know much about that

67 notes · View notes

doublebellyman · 6 months ago

Text

Big Boy, Short Story

A short story featuring a fat man getting fatter at the hands of a relentless feeder. Written so the reader can select their gender of choice for the feeder.

***

His bloated reflection completely filled the medicine cabinet mirror so he didn’t see them stealthily sneaking up from behind, that is until they delivered a thunderous slap to his left butt cheek, sending ripples and shockwaves through the two hundred pounds of soft jiggly fat he’d added to his already fat form since moving in just two short years ago. “Didn’t see me coming did you Big Boy? But I just couldn’t resist those juicy round cheeks of yours … when you moved in you carried all your tonnage in your belly but now you’re just massive all over … and I mean ALL OVER … here let me give my blubbery boyfriend a quick tour …”

At that, they reached their arms as far as they could around the vast circumference of his belly (“love this belly, we’ll need to measure this today to see if you’re over six feet around yet”). Then they shifted their hands to his swollen stretch marked moobs (“oh babe, your tits have just gotten so massive … I swear they’re bigger now than that old 400-pound girlfriend of yours and she what, a triple J cup?”).

By then moaning at their soft touch against his sensitive nipples, they moved on to his broad fat-encrusted shoulders and his meaty upper arms that hid any muscle tone he once may have possessed.

And then they moved their hands downward, asking him “do you realize that your front boobs now reach all the around so you now have back boobs too? They’re so delicious but I think I like your massive love handles even more, the way they reach around front and join with your giant saggy bottom roll … you know if you put on another fifty pounds that thing is gonna completely cover your knees!”

“That feels SO good,” he finally spoke. “I know it does Tubby and I just love playing with all your rolls and folds and bulges, and the way it gives you pleasure!”

“Please keep it up,” he pleaded.

They giggled— “you mean my massage or my endless feedings or the incredible sex, what do you want me to keep up Fatty? TELL ME!”

“ALL OF IT!”

“Very well, your wish is my command, Your Lardship … now turn around and let me work on that saggy baggy belly a bit more. But first, wait here a second …”

They stepped away and returned bearing a silver tray with a half dozen extra large chocolate eclairs stacked high.

The fat boyfriend’s eyes bulged at the sight and his cock instantly grew rigid under his panniculus, the one they mentioned was hanging precariously close to his knees.

“I love you baby — I was so hungry!”

“When aren’t you hungry?”

“Good point, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry Two Ton, these will all be in your belly soon enough, now open up wide!”

They proffer the first eclair and he takes a giant bite with chocolate icing and vanilla custard smearing his lips, cheeks, and chins.

“You can’t believe how much it turns me on to see you eat like this — you’re such fat mess! Now kiss me Fatty and let me taste all that chocolate and custard goodness … you’re so delicious and I can literally see you getting fatter in front of me!”

“I can feel it making me fatter, so keep shoving ‘em in —I want, no I NEED for you to make me the fat man I’ve always dreamed of being!”

“Here goes then Big Boy — now pretend you’re going down on me and suck the custard out of this bad boy … let me see you use your tongue then suck it all out Fatty …that’s so sexy I’m actually getting wet, Oh God … now grab the remains with both hands and cram it all in your mouth at once … and here’s another … now grab your rolls with your chocolate-covered hands and give them a big shake while I feed you eclair #4 … that’s it my messy Piggy … now let me lick that mess of your belly before I stuff the last two in you!”

“But Baby, I’m full and fit to burst …”

“Are you telling me that my gluttonous boyfriend can’t polish off a mere half dozen eclairs?”

#5 was down in two giant bites and #6 in three, as they caressed his tight swollen upper belly and played with his super soft lower belly and panniculus.

“You’re just such an obedient feeder, doing whatever your feeder orders … now lift that underbelly for me and let it drop … again (she squeeled with delight) … now shake your hips and let it sway back and forth for a few times …”

“Babe, I hate to interrupt but I really gotta sit down …”

“OK, you’re just so pathetically out of shape … just a total blimp … but let’s get you on the scale first and see if you’ve reached your two year goal … “

He gingerly balances his bulk on the bathroom scale hoping it won’t break in half after his latest gains at the hands of his relentless feeder.

Not able to see the result over the crest of his enormously curved upper belly, he impatiently asks “so?”

With a huge smile on their face they deliver a playful slap to his ridiculously protruding belly, again sending ripples and waves throughout … “my Rotund Romeo, we need to buy you a new scale ‘cause you maxed this 500-pound model out! … I’m thinking we need to get you an industrial thousand pound capacity model — what do you think Lardo?”

He just smiled and asked “can you fix me breakfast now?”

“I’m so happy your hunger has returned so quickly!”

Patting his belly for emphasis and giving his bottom roll another good shake, he responded “I’ll definitely need the thousand pound model if I spend two more years living with you!”

“Oh you’re definitely up for it my big blubbery Butter Ball!”

#the fun of being fat #fat fiction #male feedee

120 notes · View notes

auroraswanderlust · 8 months ago

Text

Aix-la-Chapelle Cathedral, Aachen, Germany

This chapel located in Aachen, Germany is the first cathedral our group of students visited to begin study abroad. I remember being struck by the vast expanse of the cathedral paired with the incredibly detailed artistry lining every inch of the interior.

I selected this cathedral because of the impact it left on me. I still vividly remember walking in for the first time. The sense of awe that I felt then, returns in memory.

The cathedral was commissioned by Charlemagne, the Holy Roman Emperor himself. There was no staple architecture style at this time so Charlemagne hired architects from Italy and other areas in Europe to collaborate on the Cathedrals design. The result became the origin of many European style churches to follow.

Because so many architects were called to work on this cathedral aspects of the architecture can be sorted into categories based on region. The Greek and Italian style marble collumns. The large mosaic dome and bronze doors bear the imprint of Byzantine tradition.

The stained glass was originally designed to portray Bible stories to the illiterate.

Aachen was Charlemagne’s favorite city. So much so that he was buried in this cathedral and his remains can still be found there today.

I was surprised by the magnitude of mosaics found in this cathedral. Every wall is covered upon entry and completely envelops the circumference of the chapel. I personally love mosaics and similar ceramic art. Knowing the time and planning that goes into completing a small mosaic, I was astounded by the time, effort, and attention to detail which was evident in the masterful artwork I saw on the walls.

#cathedrals #aachen #Germany #Germancathedral #Aix-la-Chapelle

12 notes · View notes

tomoleary · 11 months ago

Text

William Blake (1757–1827) “The Ancient of Days” First printed 1794 in “Europe a Prophecy” Source, source, source

Wikipedia “Because of Blake's production process of hand colouring each print, each image has its own unique qualities.”

“In his hand, he took the Golden Compasses, prepared in Gods Eternal stone, to circumscribe This Universe, and all created things One foot he center'd, and the other turn'd Round through the vast profundity obscure, And said, thus farr extend, thus far thy bounds, This be thy just circumference, O World.”

#william blake #The Ancient of Days #Europe a Prophecy

19 notes · View notes

bbybladeee · 10 months ago

Text

mars enters shatabhisha nakshatra on march 24th @ 6am EST

Mars is now in Shatabhisha (शतभिषा) nakshatra, a nakshatra that fully resides within the constellation of Aquarius. It moved into this nakshatra @ 6am EST. For the next 18 days (from March 24th until April 10th), we are inspired to liberate ourselves from all obstacles and challenges that prevent us from going after our goals and aspirations. We are alchemizing the anger or fear that we have been holding on to and turning it into fuel for our desires. Shatabhisha is embedded with bheshaja shakti—the power to heal in the sacred waters. And with the transiting Mars relating to your need to face life’s challenges head-on while Shatabhisha helps you let go off deep-seated emotional baggage, we begin to learn that a lot of the things we perceived as major obstacles were really just small bumps in the road. The only one holding ourselves back is ourselves. We must change the way we see the world in order to change the way we see our own lives.

Shatabhisha comes from the Sanskrit words one hundred (शत) and remedy (भिषज्). One meaning of Shatabhisha is “a hundred cures,” indicating strength, perceptivity, and an aptitude for healing. Shatabhisha nakshatra is ruled by the stars of γ-Aquarii, a bright binary star system in the Aquarius constellation, asking us to accept the duality that exists within our reality. The constellation of Aquarius represents a person standing over a stream or river who is pouring water from a vessel that is infinitely deep, continuously pouring water in this body of water for eternity. γ-Aquarii symbolizes the actual water that is being poured from the vessel. The water in the symbol of Aquarius deals with the spiritual knowledge and understanding that comes with Aquarius. Aquarius is an air sign so there are cerebral and cognitive abilities like all other air signs, but Aquarius takes it a step further and connects logic with spiritual understanding. Mars in Shatabhisha encourages us to look at the mundane and spiritual when calculating how you want to accomplish your objectives in life. Look at the whole picture when deciding how you should be moving forward.

Shatabhisha is symbolized by an empty circle. The circumference of the circle divides the space into inner space and outer space of the circle. This suggests a sort of separation or containment. There is an idea of a circumferential fence that protects the inner being from outer space and any danger. It even signifies the prevent from joining the outer and greater whole by holding it captive and separate. This might be a time where you will have to leave a situation you have found yourself in and separate yourself in order to fulfill your purpose in the long run. We either have the choice of remaining in this cyclical state or transcending the confines of repetition. Shatabhisha represents the limitless possibilities. You either free yourself from the demands of others and the cyclical nature of life, or you drown in illusion.

Shatabhisha is ruled by Varuna, a form of Vishnu that presides over the vastness of the sky and ocean. As the sky and ocean are boundless, Varuna is the protector of the vast ocean of consciousness (not only individual consciousness but also collective consciousness). He awakens within us an understanding that we are all connected together, inspiring us to look at things from its all-encompassing and all embracing perspective. He imparts cosmic order and justice upon the world, washing away our sins in the sacred waters and allowing us to ascend towards the heavens. Shatabhisha is the protector of truth and righteousness. Varuna continuously tries to keep us on the right path. This is a nakshatra of penance and repaying for our karmic debts through action. Sometimes, in order for our earthly learning process to be successful, Shatabhisha also needs to give us back some of our less pleasant karma and make it manifest itself in our lives as disease, poverty, or loss. Often those so-called misfortunes become a turning point for an individual and allow us to finally learn our life lessons and heal ourselves on a much deeper level. This nakshatra inspires us to heal our mind from all polluting thoughts, so our inner ocean can become pure once again—and so the light of truth and Divine inspiration can shine through it. Because when our mind liberates itself from those limiting influences, the body automatically starts heading towards healing, too. Acceptance is the first step in that process. Shatabhisha will be inspiring them throughout life to have a little bit more faith in Divine justice and to realize that nothing ever happens to anybody without a reason – but it is merely a manifestation of our karmic lessons and debts, that we need to pay and go through in order to progress in life. Varuna does not see reality through the lens of “good” or “bad.” These descriptions do not even exist to Varuna, as he is the fluid being of water and akasha, or spirit. He will allow you to reach your fullest potential and guide you through earthly and material desires.

Shatabhisha is also connected to Rahu, the lunar apogee of material attachments and the shadowy ego (and the cause of our eclipses). Rahu is the other half to Ketu. Together they symbolize the dragon with Rahu being the head and Ketu being the body. Rahu is seen as an insatiably hungry head that wants to consume all material things to fill the void of losing its body Ketu. Rahu is seen as angry and easily frightened. This lunar apogee is reactive, aggressive, and deeply insecure, but can be healed through understanding what triggered Rahu and learning how to integrate what Rahu represents rather than trying to ignore how Rahu makes us feel. So, Shatabhisha takes us to the deep waters to wash away the pain and trauma we’ve been holding on to so we can be born anew. This nakshatra encourages us to humbly accept all that life gives us, be it sweet or bitter, and to try our best to learn our karmic lesson and pay our karmic debts. Shatabhisha, because of its connection to the circle, can sometimes also symbolize ouroboros, the ancient snake that eats its own tail. The insatiable taste of Rahu and the cyclical expansion of the cosmic circle reminds us of ouroboros. This symbol is often interpreted as the eternal cyclic of life or the eternal cycle of death. This symbol has been used to describe the kundalini force, a concept that is also often related to Shatabhisha. The shedding of a snake’s skin also symbolized the idea of renewal of self. The snake biting its own tail is a fertility symbol in some religions and cultures; and the tail of the snake is a phallic symbol, the mouth is a yoni symbol. There are major sexual undertones throughout Shatabhisha’s symbolism.

Individual Interpretation

Mars is connected to our primal nature, behavior, attitude, and instincts. This planet describes our strength, endurance, stamina, and confidence. You are feeling more ambitious and driven during this transit. You are setting your sights high on a goal and working hard to achieve it. But this could be a project that you need to work on by yourself, without the assistance from others. It’s important to organize your thoughts, lay out your priorities, and proceed step by step in a systematic way, leaving no details out of your plan. Shatabhisha derives its power from secrecy and concealment. Shatabhisha Mars seeks things that are hidden and gains power from them. Spending more time in isolation and alone could be beneficial for your spiritual growth. And this does not mean isolation to the point of feeling lonely, but learning how to enjoy your own personal time by yourself (and even learning the importance of keeping secrets to yourself). This is a time to choose what you say wisely. You may not realize the consequence of saying too much to someone until it is too late. You are prone to feeling misunderstood, restricted, and lonely. This could negatively impact your mental health and lead to strong feelings of apathy and loathing. Shatabhisha Mars is a highly sensual and sexual transit. There could also be an influx of piercings and tattoos during this time as Mars associates blood and pain with accomplishment and Rahu enjoys the destructive creativity of the piercing and tattoo industry. Avoid the usage of harsh drugs as Shatabhisha Mars may also inspire many to escape the heaviness of reality through muddying their senses. Many are more prone to addictions and won’t be afraid to go to extremes, even if this has a negative impact on their health and well-being.

Mars relates to our physical fitness, nutrition, and overall health and vitality. Shatabhisha allows us to rid ourselves of our negative vices and habits. Thus, this could be a good time to get on a cleaner diet. You don’t have to change your entire diet overnight (which is highly unrecommended by most reliable doctors and nutritionists), but rather choose a few habits that you think you should change for the better and do the proper research to maintain these habits. Things like eating more fresh fruits and veggies, cutting down on your complex carbohydrate intake, increasing how much protein you consume, and drinking plenty more water can be helpful to this new lifestyle change. There could be an influx of people wanting to go to the gym to tone and build muscle. Bottomline is, you want to know more about your body and how it operates for you. Get to know what foods make you feel good, how much sleep you need to feel well-rested, and how much exercise you can consistently manage on a day to day basis. Self-care practices such as solitude, meditation, yoga, and spending quality time in nature can maximize your strengths while minimizing your negative tendencies. Finding a balance between physical strength and spiritual endurance is important.

Mars symbolizes our assertive nature, need for dominance, and how we approach confrontations.This is a time for healing your anger and aggressions. It’s becoming more clear to you now more than ever that holding on to your anger is not benefiting you nor are you finding yourself able to easily move on. Many people are dealing with irritations that are completely justified, but their reactions and what they say in the heat of the moment could’ve been expressed in a better way. Shatabhisha Mars is helping us tweak the way we approach what bothers us so that we can transmute these emotions rather than having to keep dealing with the same triggers. In some people, they may find that feeding their anger can actually lead to physical illness and conditions associated with the stress of agitation. You have a difficult time detaching yourself from your pain. You may want to spend your time doing therapy whether that means going to a licensed professional therapist or performing self-healing techniques on yourself at your leisure.

Collective Interpretation

Mars is connected to scientific discoveries and medical advancements. There could be some sort of scientific discovery pertaining to surgical instruments and technologies being innovated. Under this sort of transit, scientists are usually focusing their attention towards finding cures to various biological ailments and conditions. Unfortunately, some individuals will discover new diseases they didn’t realize they had or conditions they were aware of could potentially flare up if there are any negative aspects in their chart colliding with this transiting Mars. In the medical field, there could be more people looking to ease their physical pain or the symptoms of their mental conditions. If you are a scientist, biologist, chemist, engineer, doctor, surgeon, paramedic, pharmacist, pharmacy technician, drug dealer, or herbalist you may find an influx of discoveries or customers in your line of work over the next two and a half weeks.

Mars symbolizes civil servants (specifically those that are suppose to keep the public safe) such as firefighters and police officers. Mars, the planet of fire and blood, being in connection to Rahu could increase the public's need for safety. There could be an influx of accident, fires, electrical issues, and water damage (because of Shatabhisha's connection to water). At the worst, there could be more crime, riots, police brutality, and terrorism. Shatabhisha Mars could create more division amongst the people and the state as the state weaponize its police and military to suppress the public. There could be boiling tensions between world leaders and the people they are suppose to be leading. This is likely due to the world leader's inability to meet the needs and standards of the people they are to be ruling over. And because the world is feeling more desperate for safety and security, this encourages outcastes of society to look towards violence and crime to meet their needs. Thus stealing, scamming, and fraud.

Mars is also related to the military and war. And Rahu, at its worst, can relate to war as well but genocidal wars and various war crimes. Although Shatabhisha has the unifying energies of Varuna, Shatabhisha being ruled by Rahu is not the most promising sign for the collective. In order to Shatabhisha to not give way to the destructive tendencies of Rahu, each individual would have to accept that they are a part of a bigger collective. The collective is working through a lot of anger and trauma together, however the anger and trauma is caused by wanting to be separated. Mars representing (the perceived) enemies of the state and Shatabhisha being a nakshatra separate from what is perceived to be boundless, this could continue to encourage the genocides that are currently going on. Shatabhisha could inspire sides to further divide themselves and Rahu’s influence (especially with the eclipse in 24 hours) may blind the oppressive, genocidal side into thinking they are being attacked when they are not. This transit could inspire the oppressive side to also focus on technological advancements that they can weaponize against the defensive side. Shatabhisha rules oceans, lakes, rivers, streams, and reservoirs so there could be an offensive attack on water in order to drown people or pollute their drinking water. Shatabhisha also rules the sky and clouds so there could be more airstrikes. This negative influence will be the strongest between March 24 - 28 (when Shatabhisha Mars travels through the first pada and during the Lunar Eclipse in Hasta) and again between April 2 - 7 (when the Sun conjuncts Rahu and Mercury semisquares Mars).

#astrology #astrology interpretations #astrology transits #sidereal astrology #vedic astrology #jyotish #mundane astrology #collective astrology #nakshatra #nakshatras #mars #mangala #shatabhisha #shatabhisha nakshatra #rahu #north node

9 notes · View notes

madamlaydebug · 10 months ago

Text

Haha! Makes sense. 🤓

📷: Art by Ahmed Elblas

MER: THE GREAT PYRMID OF GIZA

The Great Pyramid Of Giza Known as Mer to the ancient Kemites is the most enigmatic structure on the face of the planet. Mer which translates to the “Place of Ascension” is the only surviving wonder of the ancient world and has inspired much speculation as to why it was built and what was its function.

According the the ancient Kemites themselves the Pyramids served as a ritual center for the Per Ankh schools of initiation. The Kings and Queens chambers were designed to harness resonance frequencies to induce higher states of conciousness. The structure of the pyramid was designed using sacred geometry which allowed the structures to tap into the subtle energies of the earth and the cosmos. The ancients harnessed this enegery for a number of purposes. It is said that the Pharaohs would use the Mer structures which were incased in highly reflective white limestone, capped with gold to "Turn night into day". A feat of such greatness would surely ensure their names and legacies would live on for thousands of years. They were right.

The mathematical accuracy and astronomical information encoded into the structure has baffled scientists for decades. The great pyramid is aligned within three sixtieths of a degree of true north, a more accurate alignment than any other structure on earth. It is not only aligned almost perfectly to the cardinal points, but its placement on the earth is intentional as well placing it directly in the center of the world's landmass.

The level of technological sophistication used to build this great monument far exceeds the capabilities of today’s greatest minds and we could not build anything close to the great pyramid today even with our perceived advanced technology and building machinery. The ancient Kemites did not use the inch as they do in our modern system.

They used the royal cubit which is one 25 millionth of the polar diameter of the earth which is the exact distance from the north to the south pole. If you chop that distance into 25 million pieces you get the royal cubit.

The length of a base side at the base socket level is 9,131 inches which translates to 365.242 royal cubits. This just happens to be the earthly year right down to a quarter day. The measurements of the length and width of the perimeter of the great pyramid corresponds to an exact fraction of both the longitude and latitude measurements at the equator. Scaled up this means the great pyramid directly corresponds to the circumference of the equator as well as the measurements from the equator to the pole, making it a scale model of the northern hemisphere.

If you take the location of the Great pyramid as a coordinate this number sequence matches the speed of light traveling through space measurement in meters per second. None of this is a coincidence and the vast information encoded about the earth and its relation to the cosmos points to the fact that these ancient Africans were far more advanced than we could ever imagine and the methods in which they collected and incorporated these high sciences into their structures and cities still escape scientists today.

Today I give thanks to the ancient Kemites and those that came before for their contributions of Mathematics, Sacred Geometry, Architecture & Astronomy. I am grateful for these gifts you gave to the world.

Black Genesis by Robert Bouval and Thomas Brophy

https://www.amazon.com/Black-Genesis.../dp/159143114X

𓊵𓏏𓊪 𓋹 Hotep Be at peace

Follow our YouTube Channel:

https://www.youtube.com/@knowthyselfinstitute

Visit our Virtual Museum:

https://www.knowthyselfinstitute.com/museum

"I have not spoken angrily or arrogantly. I have not cursed anyone in thought, word or deeds." ~ 35th & 36th Principals of Ma'at

11 notes · View notes

lucysweatslove · 2 years ago

Text

Finally back home!

So the “testing” was literally a brief 30 min convo where she asked some clarifying questions from my intake form and then I did the WAIS-IV. That’s it, just the WAIS. The psychologist did tell me though that she isn’t interpreting my scores on the typical IQ scale but is looking at how my own scores compare to each other. The psychometrist was taking times I think in between lines and for each problem, so I’m curious if they will be looking at how I fatigue and my error rate as time goes on for some tasks like the processing speed ones.

I also hate the general knowledge questions because how tf am I supposed to know the circumference of the earth around the equator in this setting if I have never not once heard it? I tried doing the fermi problem way of rationalizing it but I couldn’t quite scale what I know to be ~300 mi to the equator in my head. Whatever. And like. I give 0 shits about any European historical monarchy (or history in general- why bother remembering specifics when the internet exists) so my brain has pruned any of that information I may have gotten 15 years ago and thus I couldn’t tell you that stuff. I always hate how it’s administered because I have a VAST knowledge of anything sciency (you know, things I’m interested in) but nah if you cant remember who one monarch was and then can’t remember a geography question then who cares how much science info you’ve retained.

Anyway I was expecting that computer based attention test but nope just intelligence testing. And I won’t find out concrete results for 3 more weeks so I’ll see the NP before then. I was hoping to get some answers and be on a first trial medicine before I go to my rural site (one month from today) but I guess probably not. And I guess that’s also if they see patterns of ADHD in me. Which they might as I tend to do poorly on processing speed and working memory tests, I just don’t know if the effect size will be large enough for them to agree that yes I have adhd.

#it sucks because I’ve already been diagnosed twice #my personal therapist who is also a PhD even told me that she will talk to the NP and neuropsychologist about her observations #because I am so classically inattentive type per DSM that it’s ridiculous to put me through all of this #the second person diagnosed me after a clinical interview as well and I think that was just further clarity and assurance #like to say yes multiple people agree on this diagnosis #even my new NP thinks it’s likely but is getting this FOURTH opinion bc??? idk???#maybe it’s bc I have a history of depression but the WAIS isn’t going to tease out ADHD vs depression vs autism #like all 3 will lead to decreased in working memory and processing speed #because shockingly (sarcasm) all 3 can cause issues with executive functioning

44 notes · View notes

coutelier · 6 months ago

Text

Here's the whole first 2,000 words of a new short story, which does contain spoilers and bit of a summary for what happens in Irongate (on Kindle, and next month will be released on many other stores through Draft2Digital) as its set shortly after:

A graphic on the news showed a green cloud spreading from Irongate, like the tendrils of some vast eldritch terror gripping the Earth. A ‘terrorist’, as it was reported, had turned synthetic organisms intended to purify pollutants in our atmosphere into a mutagen intended to destroy all humanity. An anonymous source had leaked details of a vaccine to every lab and university on the planet, but much of the mutagen had ascended to the mesosphere, could descend anywhere, potentially mutate and evolve unpredictably. The source of it all had been the company Stag Corp, a subsidiary of Meridiem who had promised a full investigation into the rogue CEO and were offering whatever aid they could to governments and militaries to contain any outbreaks. They had acted quickly to capitalize on the situation, almost as if they’d known it would happen. The only thing certain was that the world would never be the same, but life - in whatever form it took - would go on. The advice for now was to stay indoors.

So it was that even as the networks competed to be the first to report the fall of civilization, Jennifer Airhart reassembled a music box amid the clutter that spanned the circumference of her workshop. The fair haired lighthouse keeper had been alone since the disappearance of her parents - while working for the aforementioned companies - but recent events had left her with an eleven - nearly twelve - year old ward. Tenley Tych flitted side to side of her, asking every minute, “is it fixed yet?”

“Almost,” Jenn sighed wearily each time, adjusting her magnifying lens as she tweezered another cog into place. Yet she smiled, in truth enjoying this project. Usually she tinkered with robots, computers, other devices much of whose operations were invisible to the naked eye and for all most knew might as well have been powered by pixies. There was something very satisfying about being to see how every part of a machine fitted, how every component worked together. It felt so much more real. For the first time since her parents had left her, it felt like there was life here.

Tenley did another circle of the room, curiously regarding the other contraptions inside. The most recent - that Jenn had just started that day - was a metallic ring, a couple of feet across, stood vertically on one of the benches. Stag Corp and Meridiem had been hiding many things, including the existence of a type of hyperspace - The Witch Way. But exploring it had been slow since anything from our realm that went in was instantly crushed and annihilated. The one being they’d created that had survived and learned to navigate that space they couldn’t control, and now she was gone and her secrets with her.

Still there was no need to rush with that. At Tenley’s insistence Jenn had prioritized the music box and at long last began closing it up, the black haired tween practically bouncing as she waited to see if the operation had been a success.

Tenley piped excitedly, “you need to wind it up!”

“Oh,” Jennifer nodded as if she’d been expecting just to push a button, “all right.” She cleared her throat, looked sternly down on the box, and began wagging her finger, “you miserable music box! Bet you couldn’t play a tune if it was just one note over and over! A singing sea bass has more artistic merit than you!”

Tenley’s head tilted, dark eyes glowering at Jennifer who pushed on undeterred:

“Your mother was a shoe-box, and your dad was a glass armonica!”

The tween blinked at her three times then stated flatly, “you’re not funny.”

“Aww, come on,” Jenn inhaled, glancing up at the growing tendrils on the monitor, “who knows if there’ll ever be a chance to use that one again.”

It would all blow over soon, she was sure; or at least the news would lose interest once it became clear it was going to take a much longer time before anything really dramatic happened and they went back to animals on skateboards. Sighing she wound the box up again - this time using the key - rolling her chair back to allow Tenley to see as the lid popped open and a blue fairy stood up and danced, pirouetting round and around to the dulcet chimes.

An immediate change came over Tenley; every muscle in the child’s body loosening at once, eyes drooping as she cradled the box, slumping into a swivel chair as the fairy transported her to another realm where the troubles of this one couldn’t harm her. It was still strange to Jennifer that Tenley really was just a kid, yet a kid capable of punching a hole in her chest, grabbing her spine, and pulling her inside out in under a second. Therefore although it warmed Jenn’s heart to see the girl so peaceful, she resisted the urge to hug unbidden.

She did ask, “why is that box so important?”

Tenley rolled her head back to rest on the pad of her chair, nostrils rising and deflating before she softly answered, “I just can’t sleep without it.”

Of the things Tenley had taken from her old home to the lighthouse - the box, a couple of Dinosaurs, one doll, a few books - it was clear the box was very special to her. Jenn didn’t push to find out why, knowing the girl felt a jumble of sometimes contradictory emotions about her old life being raised alone by a militant mother. She instead relaxed into her own seat, reflecting, “I used to have a teddy bear to help me sleep. One that would play tunes when you pressed her paw. I called her Candy because she had a scarf with red and white stripes.”

“What happened to her?” Tenley yawned.

“You know, I’m not really sure. But I suspect, well, mother was always trying to get me to throw things away. She thought I collected too much junk.”

Tenley’s dark eyes surveyed the interior of the lighthouse; benches loaded with bots in various states of repair, tools, microscopes and other devices whose function she couldn’t even guess at, monitors on every wall, thick wires and cables dangling everywhere. “No? Really?”

“Hm-hm. So, when I was ten a lot of my old toys started disappearing. I fear poor Candy was just one of the casualties of my mother’s purge,” Jenn sagged sulkily, still bitter.

“I don’t ever want kids,” Tenley admitted, “it seems moms always just end up hurting them.”

“I’m sure they mean well. Usually,” Jenn spun her chair around, peering through one of the monitors. There were already people blaming what had happened on everything from aliens to trans rights activists. It would have been a sad, disheartening indictment on the state of humanity, but Jenn’s glassy blue eyes narrowed as if trying to focus on something far more distant. “But I suppose that wasn’t really my family,” she whispered, “I’m not really me.”

Then Tenley peered confusedly and a little bit annoyed at her, “what are you going on about? Of course you’re you. Who else would you be?” In her mind it was that simple, and after all this was the only Jennifer she had ever known. But her adopted adult continued to stare away.

“I was just made to replace someone else.”

Which was sad - that a kid had died a long time ago - but Tenley didn’t see how it made her Jennifer less of a person. She did see, however, that Jenn was likely to mull on it for a long, long time, unless someone stopped her. “Alright,” the music box snapped shut and was put aside, “that’s enough, okay? Let’s go get ice cream.”

Jenn shook her head, unclear if she even heard Tenley at this point. “Years I spent waiting for my parents to come home, but all those memories might have just been a lie…”

Tenley groaned in growing frustration, “you’re just making yourself sad.”

Jennifer still only saw fog. “Did they really care about me at all, or was I just an experiment…”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Tenley sprung to her feet, and in a desperate bid to pull them both back from an evening of maudlin existential anguish, grabbed a spanner and threw it at the metal ring.

She didn’t think she had thrown it that hard, but for Tenley ‘not hard’ was a knock-out blow to a heavyweight boxer. The metal ring clanged and hummed, and like a bubble bursting in reverse a sphere formed inside it. Tenley quickly took hold of a desk as loose wires whipped up and small and the very air in the room began being sucked into the portal. This emergency did grab all of Jennifer’s attention, as she had to duck to avoid a hammer whizzing past her, so in that regard the plan had been a complete success.

As Tenley held on, Jenn pulled herself along the floor by a cable until she could reach the switches and yank out the wires powering the device. It was to no avail. “What?!” She blinked in astonishment at a monitor, straining against the wind, “it’s drawing power from the other side! Maybe if I invert this waveform…” a little keyboard tapping and the bubble popped out of existence just as quickly as it appeared. With a relieved sigh Jenn stood, patting down her loose messy hair and blouse. “Please warn me if you’re going to do anything like that again.”

In her old home Tenley would have expected a far harsher response. She opened her mouth to answer, perhaps even issue an apology, only to be interrupted by a muffled trilling ring. Scrunching her face she asked, “what is that?”

Jenn squinted confusedly at a spot under the lighthouse’s winding stairs. “The telephone?” She wondered. It definitely was, but, “the old telephone…” pushing aside some junk she revealed a dark box attached to the wall with an old dial and handset hanging on the side. She then stood back, twiddling her fingers as it continued to ring and shake, seeming unsure what to do. Eventually she turned to Tenley, “I-I suppose you’ve never seen a phone like this. To call someone you had to put your finger in there and spin it around to here.”

“I know how a phone works,” Tenley puffed, folding her arms over her chest, “I’ve seen old movies. And you’re not actually that much older than me, you know. Trying to act like you’re some wizened old crone who rode to school on a Woolly Mammoth or something.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you going to answer it? The noise is really annoying.”

“I didn’t know it was still connected,” Jenn bit her lip, now tapping her fingernails, “I mean, it’s probably just scammers or telemarketers. There’s no one else who would have this number.”

“But you won’t know unless you answer,” Tenley pointed out.

“You don’t understand - those people are pushy! It can take hours to find a way to wriggle out of the conversation.”

Tenley was continually baffled by how someone as clever as Jenn was also completely hopeless. “If it’s a scammer,” she sighed impatiently, “you just tell them to get lost, then hang up.”

“I-I,” Jennifer flushed and shifted nervously, aware that she was by all appearances the adult, but, “I just can’t do that. I can’t be rude to strangers. It’s just not how I was raised, I suppose.”

“What’s rude is people calling you at home to try and trick you out of money.”

“I’m sure they don’t really want to. They’re just forced into it by their economic circumstances.”

“And they’ll be used to people hanging up all the time. Why do you worry so much about everything?”

“I-I—”

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“W-wait,” Jennifer meekly lifted a hand, but there was no stopping the determined tween. “Don’t be rude!”

Rolling her eyes, Tenley lifted the handset and politely spoke, “Airhart Retirement Home. What the hell do you want?” The response was silence. Tenley thought the ancient thing must be broken, until she saw Jenn making circular motions with her fingers.

“Other… other way round,” she muttered, “the wire should be at the bottom.”

With another eye roll Tenley turned the handset the right way up. “Hello—” she leapt back, dropping it as a high-pitched whistle pierced her ear. Even Jenn had to cover hers as shrieking filled the lighthouse. Since its construction all the systems in the lighthouse were connected to Irongate University’s AI experiment - HULL - so although struggling once again to reach a screen, Jenn was able to analyze the signal.

“Looks like whatever’s coming through is unusually high energy,” Jenn winced, unsure if her ears were bleeding as she rapidly tapped keys, “trying to compensate… there!”

#writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #science fiction #writblr #sci-fi & fantasy #sci-fi #irongate

2 notes · View notes