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rambleonwaywardson · 4 days

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Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 18

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: As an update, I am eyeing another chapter after this followed by an epilogue. A nice, even 20 parts. Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, comments, shares, and otherwise supports this fic. I love you all so much. Now for some healing!

---

December 11 Nassau Bay, TX

A house is nothing but four walls and a roof, a place to live, a place to sleep. It doesn’t have to be anything special. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

A home, on the other hand, tells a story. Its walls are infused with the memories of a life lived, for better or worse, within their bounds. It’s made what it is not because of its structure, but because of the people who make it their own, all the little moments etched in time.

Growing up, Gale thought a lot about the difference between a house and a home, never quite sure which one he had. The little house he grew up in was nothing special. He doesn’t remember it fondly. He doesn’t have a particular desire to remember it at all. And yet, when he thinks about the off-white walls of that old living room, he can see himself playing on the carpet in front of the worn sofa, flying a toy F/A-18 Hornet through the make-believe sky. It had been a birthday gift from his dad, who was arguably proud of his son, if absolutely nothing else, because of his interest in aircraft.

Gale can see his father leaning against the wall by the door, watching him. Little Gale looks up at him with an excited grin as he makes whirring little engine noises, and his father gives a barely-there half smile back – Gale had to get that facial expression from somewhere, after all.

He can also remember the day he didn’t hear his dad calling his name because he was lost in the clouds, dreaming about flying a real jet someday. He remembers the way his dad stormed into that same living room, ripped the toy jet from his tiny hand. The way he sneered at the pale, vulnerable look on his child son’s face, scolded him for daydreaming when he should have been doing his chores. Maybe it was taking out the trash. Or doing the dishes. Or sweeping the porch.

Or maybe he did nothing wrong and his dad was just drunk again.

Either way, Gale remembers the way his dad threw that F/A-18 at the wall, the way the wing snapped right off. He remembers the way his dad shoved him when he cried, called him pathetic, said he needed to start acting like a man.

Later on, his dad repaired the wing with some super glue, but it never looked quite right again.

Gale has a lot of memories like that. A little good mixed with a lot of bad. The walls of that house told a story alright. He just doesn’t think it’s a story that ever earned it the title of home.

When he remembers the kitchen – light yellow walls, gray cabinets, a gas stove – he thinks about early days of his childhood, clinging to his mom’s bright, flowery skirt as she baked cookies that tasted like heaven. He remembers her light, comforting voice saying his name. He thinks about how she let him lick the spoon, asked him what sprinkles he wanted to use, let him help put the dough on the baking sheet with small, innocent hands.

But then he also thinks about setting the kitchen table for dinner, his dad burning his arm with a cigarette for breaking a glass. Or maybe it was a plate. He thinks about fingers wrapped tight around his teenage throat when he came back home too late one night. He can practically feel the bruises, hear the impact of being shoved unceremoniously against the door. Next time he was late, his dad threatened, he’d spend the night in the yard with the dog.

Other than the fact that it was nearing December and night time temperatures were below freezing, Gale couldn’t decide if that would be so bad. He got smacked for that, too.

When he thinks of the small master bedroom, he thinks of his mother. One day there, the next day gone. He remembers the smell of her perfume filling the room. Little Gale, still too young to understand why she wasn’t coming home. Why that scent would fade away, becoming nothing but a memory, something to pop up randomly here and there in his adult life and fill him with some sense of longing. He thinks about his father cleaning out all of her clothes, chastising Gale for not wanting to get rid of any of it, for trying to sneak out a shirt or a scarf that smelled like her.

Then there were two. Hardly a family, and far from a home.

The house on Nassau Bay couldn’t be more opposite.

He stands in the middle of the living room, looking around at the life he’s built. Warm, light beige walls decorated with artwork, prints of aircraft and spacecraft, photographs of his de facto family. Framed pictures of him and John are scattered around. In the middle of the room, across from their TV, is a coffee table, two armchairs, and a well-worn gray couch, semi-permanently occupied by Pepper and sometimes Meatball. Morning sunlight fills the room, leaving patches of light on the hardwood floor.

Gale has spent the last hour adjusting the furniture layout – spreading out the coffee table and chairs to make space, shifting the couch back so it’s under the window, putting away stray dog toys and shoes, cleaning up the blankets and pillows he’d been using to sleep out here – just to make it easier for Bucky to move around in a wheelchair or on crutches. He even rolled up the rug to keep the floor even.

He’s been obsessively doing anything and everything he can to make their home a comfortable space while Bucky heals. He bought a shower chair for the master bath and a plastic cover to put over Bucky’s cast to protect it from water. He bought an assortment of loose sweatpants, flannel pants, and shorts so Bucky has more options for what to wear over his cast. The kitchen has been stocked with his favorites of late. Soup, chicken and rice, or eggs for when he’s not feeling well. Or richer things like pastas and casseroles. There’s orange juice and smoothies and jell-o. And Marge – who rested a hand on either of Gale’s shoulders and told him to take a rest – is making chocolate chip cookies.

As Gale stands back and studies his work in the living room, trying to decide if it looks alright, his chest feels tight in a way he can’t quite explain.

As a young adult, he never bothered with buying a house, choosing instead to rent something out wherever he was stationed with the Air Force. When he and John both got selected to the astronaut training program based in Houston, they intrinsically knew that it was the right time to take that step. A sort of settling down, even though they were preparing to quite literally launch themselves off the face of the planet. Admittedly, they didn’t spend too long looking for a house, seeing maybe two or three local listings which were all perfectly fine. Then one day, Benny, who had been accepted into the program the year before, mentioned that a house down the street from him was for sale.

Gale fell in love with it the moment he saw it. And John loved it because Gale did.

It’s a one story, ranch-style house on a quiet street just a 5 or 10 minute walk from the water. A beautiful white brick and stone exterior with a sweet little front garden that they try to plant flowers in every year – an endeavor that often includes Gale trying to find plants that match the climate and sun exposure of their yard, while Bucky insists on “experimenting.” There’s also a backyard with a large patio for entertaining and enough grass space for the dogs to run around.

Gale remembers the day they moved in, sweating from the July heat but grinning from ear to ear with the excitement of a young couple on the verge of their future. Before they even started unloading the U-Haul, he stood in the middle of the empty, echoing house, staring at the walls, the ceiling, the windows. He couldn’t believe it was theirs. A place they could really make a life together. A place that he could call home, maybe for the first time in his entire life. Bucky found him standing, wide-eyed, in the living room. He wrapped his arms around Gale from behind, kissed him on the cheek, ducked down to rest his chin on his shoulder.

“Welcome home, angel.”

Gale remembers dragging the couch through the door, collapsing down on it that first day. They sat, leaning against one another, surrounded by shoddily labeled, mixed up cardboard boxes full of their belongings. Exhausted, Gale said something noncommittal about getting to work unpacking. But John pulled him to his feet, kissed him silly, lead him to the bedroom where their new mattress lay on the floor, bed frame yet to be constructed.

They lived off cereal and takeout for several days in a row, but they sure did break in every piece of furniture, every surface.

He remembers hot, desperate reunions when they each returned from their respective ISS expeditions, touching each other for the first time in six months. Their hands roamed over one another’s bodies with an insatiable desire to relearn every inch of each other. Bucky would grip his waist so hard he thought it might bruise, pressing him against the wall or the bed. Gale would twist his fingers into Bucky’s hair, kiss every place he could touch. He remembers it being rough and kind, a sense of desperation driving them to claim one another all over again as if the last time they were together was a lifetime ago.

He remembers late nights with their friends, Curt crashing on the couch, Benny or Marge in the guest room, sometimes Rosie or Alex on the floor. Midnights spent drinking and laughing, dumb jokes and good people. He remembers this house being filled with more people than it was meant to hold, buzzing with life.

He remembers the day they brought Pepper home, almost a year ago now. She was nothing more than a tiny, 10 week old ball of fluff with one ear still flopped over. He remembers the way they sat on the rug in the living room with her that evening, completely enamored with their new addition. “We’re a little family now,” Bucky said, smiling at Gale as he held the puppy up to his face. Gale scrunched his nose and closed his eyes, laughing as Pepper licked his cheek. Next thing he knew, Bucky’s lips were on his, and he felt himself melt a little inside.

Family. Home. Family. Home.

They’re not words Gale takes lightly. They’re words that he will protect. Even though they’ve only been here a handful of years, this house tells their story, memories built on memories that he holds close to his heart in a way he never knew he was allowed to before.

When he thinks of their kitchen, he thinks about making pancakes on Christmas morning, flour everywhere, chocolate chips and blueberries and chopped bananas spilling across the counter. Bucky singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio. He’d pull Gale close, plucking the spatula from his hand, and convince him to dance with him around the island until they were both giggling like children and the pancakes were starting to burn.

When he looks at the front door, he thinks about all the times Bucky flung it open, yelling “honey I’m home!” as he walked inside. Sometimes he’d bring flowers for the vase in the window or pastries from Gale’s favorite bakery. He thinks about stumbling through on their wedding night, eager and drunk on nothing but love for each other.

When he thinks about their yard, still drenched in sun and warmth in the middle of December, he thinks about the day he and Bucky stood in the middle of it, holding tight to each other's hands as they held the keys to their new home. He thinks about washing their cars in the summer, chasing each other with the hose. He thinks about Pepper and Meatball running outside to greet him. He thinks about standing in the driveway and watching Bucky teach some of the neighborhood kids how to ride a bike up and down the quiet road.

Of course, the house holds bad memories, too. Fights they’ve had, times they’ve lost their temper, raised their voices, slammed a door or walked away. Times Gale cried alone because John was in space for months on end and he missed the closeness, the warmth, the weight of John’s head resting on his chest, the soothing sound of his heartbeat. Times John got drunk for the same reason, wanting nothing more than to hold Gale tight and kiss him in the dark. Still too fresh in Gale’s mind is the memory of collapsing to the floor, Marge rocking him in her arms because he didn’t know if his husband would come home alive.

The walls will hold onto that memory. They won’t let him forget that the life he built here with John Egan very nearly became nothing but a flash in his mind, moments to look back on fondly, with a watery smile and a choked sob, a whispered I miss you.

That almost might never leave. It’ll be months before Gale can wake up in the morning secure in the knowledge that his husband is here with him. It’ll be months before he stops jolting awake with tears in his eyes and a scream in his throat. It’ll be months of hard work and pain and frustration to make Bucky feel whole again.

But it’s time to start pushing forward.

Gale has never been a particularly religious man, but he will gladly thank whatever Gods may be listening, because his prayers were answered. Starting today, two weeks after splashdown, there will be memories of John coming home to add to all the rest.

“Buck?”

Gale looks over to see Rosie standing in the entryway to the living room.

“Ready to go?”

Taking one last look around, Gale starts to nod, then stops short. “The mirror.”

He didn’t replace the damn mirror in the master bath. Benny was the one to clean the bathroom, dispose of the glass fragments and scrub the tile until it was free of Gale’s blood. Gale’s barely even stepped foot in there in weeks, choosing instead to use the guest bath.

Marge appears from the kitchen. “Benny’s on his way with a new one,” she assures him. “We’ll get it set up before you’re back.”

Gale doesn’t know what to say, so he nods dumbly as he twists his wedding ring around his finger, trying to quiet the storm of worries and hopes and needs and fears buzzing around in his head. Marge steps towards him and pulls him into a hug. “Take a breath, hon. He’s coming home.”

—

It’s raining, just the littlest bit. It’ll be done by the time they walk through the hospital doors, but dark clouds gather in the sky, casting shadows over the ground and darkening the hospital room. It makes Gale’s heart constrict with an unease, a sense of foreboding. He tries to shake it off, because he’s not in his bedroom on a stormy night. He’s not being jostled awake by Benny. His world isn’t crashing down with the water falling from the sky.

He leans against the doorframe of Bucky’s hospital room, hands shoved in his pockets, and he watches his husband for a moment. Bucky is looking out the window, watching the rain fall, the cars go by. He’s dressed in the same shorts and Air Force Thunderbirds t-shirt as he was the day before. A half finished plate of scrambled eggs, potatoes, and fruit sits on the tray beside him from breakfast, seemingly pushed aside and forgotten. Gale wonders if he didn’t finish because he felt sick or because he’s protesting hospital food.

He looks healthy, despite the whole being in a hospital thing. That damn cold lingers, making him stuffy, his face sore from the pressure. His lungs protest when he breathes too deeply, or sometimes even when he doesn’t, and the cough won’t go away. Not to mention the broken leg. But he has color back in his cheeks. His eyes are clear, his face unworried. His heart beats steadily, and he’s able to breathe well enough without the cannula.

“Hey, darlin’,” Gale says at last.

Bucky turns his head, and he stares at Gale for a good second or two, uncomprehendingly. But then a grin spreads over his face. “Hey, angel.”

Gale feels his heart swell, and he takes a deep breath before stepping into the room. As he sits on the edge of the bed, Bucky grabs his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“How ya feelin’ today?”

Bucky shrugs, looking down at their intertwined hands. He coughs once, holding his breath for a second to prevent it from getting worse. “I ain’t dead.” He squints, cocking his head like something is bugging him, but then he looks up and meets Gale’s worried gaze. “Almost went down in history for the wrong reasons, huh?”

John Egan. First astronaut to die on the moon. What a headline that would be.

Gale chuckles even though the acknowledgement of that damn almost makes him feel physically ill. “Think you’re goin’ down in history?” He forces back the flashing mental image of a tri-folded flag, a three volley salute, a missing man formation.

Bucky’s eyes have that mischievous glint back, that look of invincibility, like he’s daring the universe to take another stab at him. “Oh yeah. The world will remember John fuckin’ Egan.”

And the thing is, Gale knows they will.

By 1pm, Major John Egan is being discharged from the hospital. Paperwork complete, Gale carefully packs up every single get-well card, along with Bucky’s clothes and medications. Beary Egan gets carefully tucked into the top of the duffel.

Over the past few days, Nurse Clara has kindly worked with them, teaching Gale how to help Bucky with daily tasks: things like changing clothes, safely getting in and out of the wheelchair, covering the cast with plastic to take a shower, and anything else that may be hindered by his lack of mobility. She patiently answers every question Gale has, and he has a lot.

With the IV removed, Clara and Rosie stand by as Gale, all by himself, helps Bucky slowly get to his feet. With a few curse words, one panicked moment where Bucky nearly topples over, and a lot of strained encouragement – “we’re alright, we can do this, look at me, sweetheart” – Gale manages to help Bucky change into fresh clothes. The whole ordeal – while far more pleasant than the process of getting Bucky suited up on Starship and Orion – has Bucky swearing as he grips Gale’s hand or shoulder so hard his knuckles turn white, leaving accidental bruises on Gale’s pale skin.

It’s a bit cold out, so the outfit of the day is black and gray plaid flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt with an astronaut on the front. Above and below the astronaut are the words “Houston, I am the problem.”

A gift from Curt and Alex.

Finally, Gale helps Bucky shrug on a black zip-up hoodie and get settled into the wheelchair. Bucky forces a smile as he sits down, even leaning forward to kiss Gale on the cheek. “I love you,” he whispers.

They leave the hospital with a detailed rehabilitation, check-in, and physical and occupational therapy schedule. They also leave with a hefty hospital bill that Harding won’t let Gale so much as see, stating that NASA will take care of it.

Bucky doesn’t speak at all on the way home, not seeming to notice when Gale tries to ask him things like “how are you feeling?” or “excited to see Pepper?” He just stares out the window and watches the dark clouds roam across the sky, his brain too tired to do anything else. Gale has found himself wondering, in the last week, if there’s a reason why the brain fog is better on some days and worse on others. Other than night vs. day, he can’t find a rhyme or reason as to why Bucky gets confused sometimes, why he seems to fade away here and there. The doctors assure him it’s normal with the injury he had. Just like the shaking hands and fine motor control, it’ll take time. Gale hopes they’re right, but he still feels a painful worry twisting in his chest when he notices it.

When they pull into their driveway, the word “home” pops out of Bucky’s mouth, and Gale reaches over to squeeze his hand.

It’s only when they pull to a complete stop, really taking in the sight of their house, that they notice the Christmas lights newly strung up along the roof, a strand of brightly colored bulbs joined by sparkling white icicle lights. Gale certainly didn’t have time to hang them, and it’s the middle of the day, but they’re lit up anyways, welcoming Bucky back with some holiday cheer. In the back seat, Rosie says “would you look at that,” and he reaches forward to rest a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky focuses on those lights for a moment, and Gale watches the way they seem to ground him, waking up his brain a bit more as the blues and reds and greens reflect in his eyes. He squeezes Gale’s hand back.

When his offer to help is declined, Rosie hauls the wheelchair out of the car, leaves it in the driveway, and heads inside to give the newlyweds some space. As Gale helps Bucky to step out of the car and sit down in the chair, though, he sees that not everyone got the message. He catches a glimpse of curly red hair on the porch of the house across from them, and he can’t help but smile. “Incoming,” he whispers to Bucky.

Bucky looks up as he settles into the chair, blinking away the fatigue, and his face brightens when he sees Maggie. Jane rushes out the door after her, grabbing her shoulder. “It’s alright,” Bucky says quietly, and Gale relays this information, shouting across the road.

Maggie immediately breaks away from her mom’s hold, barrels down the steps, checks both ways before crossing their quiet street, and she stops just short of colliding with Gale. Always so expressive around them, the little girl suddenly turns shy. Unsure what to do, she half hides behind Gale as she takes in the sight of Bucky in a wheelchair for the first time, his cast visible at the bottom of the pant leg.

Bucky’s smile doesn’t leave his face, though, and he tilts his head to peer around Gale’s legs until he’s looking Maggie in the eye. “There’s my favorite little astronaut.”

With a gentle hand on her shoulder, Gale nudges her forward. “Go on,” he insists. With a hesitant little stutter step, she moves out from behind him, looking up at him as she does so.

“I told you he’d come home,” she says. Matter of fact. Like there was never a single doubt that John would survive.

Gale wishes he could have been that certain. He envies the way children view things like life and death, through a lens of naivete where the people they care for are invincible. He’s grateful, though, that Maggie was spared the worst. That she never knew the full story.

She doesn’t notice the way he bites his lower lip to choke back a sharp, startled inhale, but Bucky does. He glances at Gale, eyebrow raised with a myriad of questions that he can’t ask, but then he looks back to Maggie. He grabs her small hand in his even though his fingers shake, and she grips back so he doesn’t have to focus on holding on.

“Sounds like you were very brave while I was gone,” he says to her.

Maggie nods. She has this determined set to her eyes, a seriousness all over her face as she stands in front of him. Yet her voice is small and innocent, and Bucky hopes she’ll always stay this strong and kind. “I knew you wouldn’t leave us forever,” she tells him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to bite back tears, because, even though he knows, on some level, that it wasn’t really up to him, she’s right. He hides the thickness of his voice and the tightness of his throat with a cough that’s been tickling at his chest anyway. He directs it into his arm away from the little girl, then rubs a hand over his face. After he blinks a few times, willing away the wave of emotion that he’s sure will only get higher and higher throughout the day, he looks at Maggie again.

“Learn to ride that bike yet?”

Maggie shakes her head. “I waited for you.”

Gale remembers her words clearly, ringing in his ears. That awful day feels like years ago and like yesterday at the same time. The day he felt like his soul might disintegrate into the stars if he had to take one more breath without knowing if Bucky would survive. “He’ll come home. He has to. He promised he’d teach me how to ride a bike.”

“Might have to wait a bit longer. Until I get this thing off my leg.” Bucky pulls up his pant leg to better show the cast extending from knee to foot.

Maggie stares at it for a moment, unsure what to make of it, before she crouches down and runs a finger over the rough texture with a frown. She inspects the names written all over it – Curt and Rosie and Alex and Gale and more she doesn’t recognize. “Can I sign it?”

Bucky tells her of course she can, and Gale digs around in the duffle until he finds a few colorful sharpies to offer. Maggie chooses the purple one.

“Where’s a good spot?” Bucky asks her, leaning over to analyze the cast with her even though it hurts every single part of his body to do so. Maggie squints her eyes, analyzing her options, before she points to a spot above his ankle, right under Gale’s name. She looks at both of them for approval before uncapping the marker.

She signs her name in big, slightly wobbly letters: MAGGIE with a carefully drawn heart at the end.

“Perfect,” Bucky says, grinning at her as Gale takes the marker back. Then he adds, “by the way, that drawing of us? Museum quality.” He’s referring to the one that Jane brought to the hospital, of Maggie and Bucky on the moon together. Maggie rolls her eyes at his dramatics but looks pleased anyway. “You sure you wanna be an astronaut, not an artist?

The girl nods vigorously, her curly red hair bobbing against her shoulders. “I wanna be just like you,” she tells them, once again like she doesn’t have a single doubt in her mind. “I’m gonna go to space someday.”

Gale feels emotionally drained at this point, unsure how much more he can take even though everything about today is edged with hope and homecoming. He swallows thickly and puts a hand on Maggie’s shoulder as he glances back towards her house, where Jane is sitting on the porch. She waves to him. He looks back down at the girl, a little in awe at how he and Bucky have somehow managed to mean so much to her. How she has managed to mean so much to them.

“Well,” Bucky says. “If you’re so sure about that, I have something for you.” Gale takes his cue and rifles through the contents of the duffle bag until he finds Bucky’s PPK. Safely tucked into the bottom of it is a small, clear plastic envelope, which he lays in the palm of Bucky’s hand, face up so Maggie can see.

Inside the plastic is a thick, heavy coin about two inches wide, engraved with braided edges and the Artemis III logo in the center, designed by the crew members themselves. A big red “A” with the middle line swooping out to the left, fading from red to blue as it loops around the moon and ends with the Orion capsule docked to Starship in front. Overlapping the right side leg of the A are the roman numerals III in dark gray. Printed around the edges are the names of the astronauts: Egan, Biddick, Rosenthal, Jefferson.

“Do you know what this is?” Bucky asks Maggie. She shakes her head. “It’s a challenge coin,” he tells her, going on to explain that a challenge coin is carried by members of a special group, signifying their membership. Every big NASA mission gets its own challenge coin, and all of the crew members carry a few of them.

Bucky kept one for himself and traded one with one of the Navy guys on the USS Portland, so this is the last one he took on board Orion. “This coin is very special,” he tells Maggie, urging her to take it. So carefully, she plucks it from his palm, holding it up close to her face so she can read the names. “I carried it with me on the moon.”

Maggie’s eyes go wide, shooting back to Bucky, who grins at her. He presses his palm to hers, the coin in between. “Now it’s yours. Something that’s touched the stars. See? You’re on your way to being an astronaut.”

Maggie’s smile broadens, and, as she clutches the coin in her hand, she throws her arms around Bucky’s neck. It’s awkward over the chair as she tries to avoid jostling his leg, but she isn’t deterred, squealing an elated “thank you” as she holds on. Bucky wraps one arm around her in return.

When Maggie pulls back, Gale kneels down beside her, even though the pavement is still wet from the morning rain, and he wraps an arm around her. “Why don’t you flip it over?”

Maggie does so, and she runs a finger over the back of the coin, feeling the texture of the raised image. An astronaut on the moon, the Earthrise and the stars in the sky behind him. “Is that you?” She asks Bucky.

He laughs. “Could be.”

Gale points to the lettering along the bottom of the backside. “See that?”

“What does it say?” Maggie asks, rubbing her thumb over the italicized words.

Bucky recites them to her, but his eyes are locked on Gale the entire time. He watches Gale silently mouth the phrase along with him, not only the mission motto, but a promise to one another. “Ad lunam. Ad astra. To the moon. To the stars.”

—

With Maggie safely back across the street, Gale wheels Bucky up the walk to the front door. As he turns the knob and pushes it open, Rosie appears on the other side, holding it for them.

“Welcome home, darlin’,” Gale says as they enter the foyer.

Bucky smiles tiredly as he takes a deep breath that rattles his chest and nearly causes him to cough again, but it’s worth it to smell the scent of home. He tilts his head. “Cookies?”

Gale chuckles, but doesn’t answer, wheeling Bucky past the foyer and into the living room. The moment they’re within view, he’s met by a chorus of “Welcome home!” and the sight of his closest friends sitting around the slightly rearranged living room.

“Astrofag!” Curt calls out from his seat in the middle of the couch. On one side of him is Marge, Benny on the other, while Alex sits in one of the armchairs. Rosie trails in behind Gale. A banner with hand-lettered words is strung across the back wall: “We’re glad you’re alive!” More space balloons float around it, and in the time that Gale and Bucky were outside, Rosie has already displayed all of the get well cards from the hospital on the side tables and tv stand.

“Did you miss me?” Bucky grins, holding his hands out to the side like a risen savior as Gale eases him to a stop in front of the coffee table, close to the empty armchair.

“Had enough of you for a lifetime,” Benny jokes, calling back to what Bucky said to him in the hospital nearly two weeks ago. He gets to his feet, though, and walks over to Bucky, leaning down to give him a side hug.

“I almost died, you have to be nice to me,” Bucky claims as he returns the hug.

“And how long does that last?”

“Until Gale quits gettin’ all nervous every time I cough or somethin’.” Every time he coughs. Every time he zones out. Every time he feels nauseous or complains about his head hurting. Every time his fingers shake and he can’t hold his own fork or move his own wheelchair.

Everyone looks at Gale, who, in the presence of his best friends, doesn’t even try to hide his blush. He secures the brake on Bucky’s wheelchair before sitting in the armchair beside him, and Benny returns to his seat while Rosie sits on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

Bucky nods to a tray of cookies in the middle of the table. “Who made those?”

“Marge,” Alex says.

Bucky just about groans. “Thank god. They’ll be good then.”

“Hey,” Gale shoots back, offended, as Marge laughs.

Bucky waves him off. “I know you didn’t make ‘em, doll. Got my head on straight enough to know you’ve been with me all day.”

Marge gets to her feet to grab a cookie and hand one to him across the table. “I made them how you like them.”

Milk and semi-sweet chocolate chips, but not too much of either so that there’s parts of the cookie with no chocolate at all. It’s called balance, he told her once during a late night trauma-dumping/baking session.

Bucky takes the cookie, biting into it as he closes his eyes. Silently, he’s so fucking grateful that he hasn’t felt any nausea today. “Real food,” he mutters.

Gale scoffs, even though this ‘perfect cookie’ was his own recipe to begin with. “Not sure a cookie counts as real food.”

Bucky flips him off, his middle finger still not quite able to get all the way up without the others, and he takes another bite. It’s been too damn long since he had some quality snacks. It’s better than wheat chex, that’s for sure. And he’d take the wheat chex any day over the bland desserts they tried to give him in the hospital.

The guys – and Marge – stay for a bit, talking and taking comfort in being all together again, all of them alive, home, on the road to healthy. When Bucky starts to drift, going quiet as it becomes more and more difficult to focus on the conversation, everyone makes their excuses to head out, leaving the Buckies alone to rest.

Benny returns ten minutes later with an overenthusiastic husky straining at her leash – the antithesis of rest – and he passes her off to Gale through the front door before leaving them again. The dog knows immediately, her paws tippy-tapping on the hardwood as her tail wags so hard Gale doesn’t know how it doesn’t hurt. “You’re gonna have to stay calm, baby girl,” he tells her.

“Come on, Buck,” Bucky calls from the living room. “I’ll be fine.”

When Gale finally walks Pepper into the living room, Bucky has managed to get himself turned around to face them. Gale keeps her on a tight leash as they walk forward, holding her back from flat out charging at Bucky. Her entire body is wiggling as she tries to pull away. “Easy, babe,” Gale tells her.

When they finally reach Bucky, he loosens the leash, and Pepper immediately presses her nose to Bucky’s knees, his thighs, his cast, his hands, any part of him she can as she wags her tail and pants. She looks like she’s smiling, completely overwhelmed with the excitement of her other person finally being back where he’s supposed to be. Bucky laughs and scratches behind her ears and under her chin, letting her lick and sniff and press her head against him. He grimaces when she nearly jumps on the chair, bumping his bad leg, before Gale catches her and tells her firmly to stay down. Bucky hardly cares, though, his fingers clutching weakly at her soft fur, unwilling to let go.

“Hey, Pep,” he says, his voice strained with emotion. He tilts his head as he strokes her ears, his eyes fluttering closed so that Gale can see stubborn tears clinging to his eyelashes. Bucky takes a deep, rattling breath, and he stares at the dog as she sits loyally beside his chair, watching him with the same love in her eyes. She rests her head on the armrest and licks his hand gently.

Bucky gives her a wobbly smile. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

Gale sets a comforting hand on his shoulder, and time seems to freeze for just a moment. One perfect moment. A snapshot of their little family.

That afternoon, Pepper wolfs down all of her food, totally unprompted, for the first time in days.

—

For the first time since the morning of November 19, Gale sleeps in their bed.

He’s hardly stepped foot in this room except for this morning, when he took a deep breath, told himself it was time to get his shit together, and set about changing the sheets, getting everything ready for John to come home. Sharing this bed feels so familiar, and yet so different. He finds himself holding his breath, like if he disturbs the moment, breathes too loudly, blinks too hard, then it’ll simply evaporate, and he’ll be stuck in the same Purgatory that he was nearly a month ago. He tries to ground himself in Bucky’s warmth, the familiar shape of his body, his scent – different than usual due to being in the hospital, but somehow still him. Smoky and sweet.

It’s December. Even in Nassau Bay, Texas, the current night time temperature is near 40 degrees, and yet Bucky insists on sleeping shirtless while Gale tucks himself into an old NASA sweatshirt. At first, Gale worried about Bucky getting too cold, what with the pneumonia and the head cold and the TBI. But Bucky wouldn't hear it. “You’re gonna make me overheat,” he said.

Now, Gale doesn’t mind so much that he can feel Bucky’s skin beneath his hands. Warm, not cold. Alive, not dying.

They don’t sleep at first. They lay awake in the dark, Gale curled up with his head on Bucky’s chest. His cheek and ear nestle against Bucky’s bare skin, and he listens to the beating of his heart. Their hands cling to one another, and Bucky plays mindlessly with Gale’s fingers. That same old habit that he’s had since they were in college.

Gale wonders when such little things will stop making his chest constrict in anxiety and relief.

“I know you broke the mirror,” Bucky says eventually, his voice cutting through the silence.

“Mmm.” Gale doesn’t deny it.

“I ain’t dumb. It doesn’t even have the same frame.”

“Benny replaced it this morning,” Gale says passively, even though he’s staring dead ahead in the darkness, ublinking.

“You punch it or what?” Bucky knows his husband. He knows how stoic everyone thinks he is, how calm and collected Major Buck Cleven tries to be. But he also knows that Buck – Gale – can snap.

“Mmm. The morning I found out.”

“Straight to the dramatics.”

“Benny woke me up,” Gale drawls, his voice steady, measured, even though Bucky doesn’t miss the nervous undertone in the way it shifts. “I thought you’d be dead by the time I got to JSC.” He says this matter-of-factly. He doesn’t tell Bucky that he imagined his entire funeral, word for word, breath for breath. “It was touch and go for a while there.”

“I was the one dying.”

“You were passed out those first few days.”

They’re quiet for a while. Slowly, slowly they’ll learn what the other went through. Someday, they’ll fall apart late one night or early one morning, and it’ll all spill out in a tidal wave that threatens to crush them under the weight of this aftermath. They’ll hold each other tight and try to hold back the sobs and remind each other to keep breathing, remind each other that they’re still breathing.

But it’s not time. Not yet. It hurts too much, and they don’t have the words. Right now, they’re not sure that they’ll ever have the words. Right now, all they can do is hold on tight.

There was never anything that could break them, Marge said at their wedding. They may have come damn close, but here they are, unbroken.

So they sit in silence. Gale counts Bucky’s heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…

When he hits thirty-two, Bucky says, out of nowhere, “It was like I could hear you.” As if he’s been thinking over something troubling for some time now.

Gale tenses. “Mmm?”

“W-When I was, um…” Bucky takes a deep breath. He coughs once, weakly, and it jostles Gale. But he rests his free hand on the back of Gale’s head, holding him there, not wanting to lose that reassuring weight. “I guess I was unconscious. Those first days after I… after…”

Why is it that, in the dark, it feels easier to talk about the hard things, and yet it’s harder to find the right words?

“You were in a coma,” Gale says. “Completely non reactive.” That’s what Dr. Huston told him. What Curt told him.

“I know,” Bucky agrees. He makes a breathy, frustrated sort of sound, and Gale can imagine him squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his jaw as he tries to figure out how to say what he needs to say. Gale waits patiently.

“Everything hurt so bad,” Bucky finally explains. “I could feel it. I could hear Curt sometimes, too. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t fuckin’ think. I-I was just… I couldn’t… Fuck.” It was like he was floating, not part of the world, not part of his body, but in so much goddamn pain he wanted to scream. He doesn’t know how to tell his husband that, though.

Instead, he pushes forward to what he needs to tell Gale now. “But it was like you were in my head. I heard your voice. It made me… it made me keep breathing, y’know?”

Gale goes completely still, eyes wide, unblinking, not breathing. Bucky’s fingers try to grip his hair, but can’t seem to close around the strands. Gale grips Bucky’s hand. He bites hard at his lower lip.

Bucky’s voice gets thick and tight, and Gale can hear his chest rattling as he breathes, threatening another coughing fit. “I-I knew I had to… I had to…” Another painful pause. “I had to get back to you.”

Gale holds back the wet little gasp that wants to tear through his gritted teeth. A tear drips off of his nose and onto Bucky’s bare chest, and he wonders if Bucky feels it. He tucks his face against the warm skin, needing to be as close as possible as he curls around Bucky’s body in a way that makes it unclear if he’s trying to hide against it or protect it from the world, make sure it can’t break any more than it already has.

“I couldn’t leave you,” Bucky chokes out. Gale can’t see his face, but his husband’s voice alone is enough to cave his chest in with a crippling kind of sorrow. “I couldn’t do th-that to you. I had to… I needed…”

Gale can hear the tears building up in Bucky’s voice now, and he wants to make them go away. Yet he knows they both need this. They both need to feel this pain, let it drown them, just for a little bit, as they grip so tightly to each other that their fingerprints become embedded into each others’ souls. They need to face it, or they’ll never be able to move forward.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

“I-I think I…” Bucky takes a careful, controlled breath. He thinks about the stars he could see through Starship’s window, flickering in the darkness. He thinks about the pain burning like fire through his body and his brain. He thinks about wanting to die, near begging a god he didn’t believe in to carry him away from that damned place because death must be better than whatever he was going through.

But in the darkness, a star shines on. A heart beats. A mind dreams. The Earth turns. And even when he couldn’t wake up, when he was consumed in agony from the inside out, Bucky thought of his husband. He heard his voice, saw his face, wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and hang on forever. And even when he wanted to give up, he fought to stay.

Bucky’s breath shudders, and he feels tears dripping down his cheeks. He closes his eyes. “You’re what kept me alive, Gale.”

You’re the reason I had to stay alive. The reason I had to come home.

You are my home.

Gale is quiet for a long time, listening to Bucky’s heartbeat. He presses his lips against Bucky’s chest. “Don’t tell Curt that,” he whispers.

Bucky laughs wetly. He can feel Gale’s tears against his chest, and he strokes his husband’s hair. “I know,” he says, “But. It was you, angel. It was always you.”

—

It’s 1am when Bucky asks Gale if he’s still awake.

Gale, still tucked against Bucky’s side, nods sleepily. His eyes drift open, taking their sweet time adjusting to the darkness of the room. He shifts just slightly, making Pepper huff in annoyance where she lay curled up right at his feet.

He presses his lips to Bucky’s shoulder. “You okay?”

He waits so long for an answer that he wonders if Bucky actually said anything at all. But eventually it comes: “Hurts.”

“What does?”

A pause. “Everything?”

Gale nods again in understanding. Leg, head, chest, ribs. In that order. Possibly his back as well.

“I’ll get you some pain killers,” Gale says. He reluctantly pushes himself away from Bucky and crawls out of bed, his foot getting caught on the blanket as he goes. His mind flashes back to the way he scrambled out of bed on November 19th, sheets tangled around his feet as the room tilted, Benny approaching him like a wild animal.

His heart beats faster, faster, faster.

“Thanks, hon.”

Gale takes a breath. He walks to the kitchen, flicks on the lights, reaches for the little orange bottle of prescription pills sitting on the windowsill. He stares at the tiny print, remembering the doctor’s instructions. One pill every 6 hours as needed. He does some mental math, concludes that it’s been well over 6 hours since the last dose, dumps a tablet into his hand, and fills a glass with water,

When he returns to their bedroom, he finds Bucky sitting up with a pillow behind his back, looking at a too-bright phone screen – Gale’s too-bright phone screen. Gale turns on the lamp on Bucky’s bedside table. “What’re you looking at?”

Bucky sets the phone on his thigh so he can take the pill and glass of water, swallowing both down. Gale glances down at the phone, and he finds that the saved email from their wedding photographer is pulled up, the cover photo of the digital album displayed on the screen.

Bucky sets the glass down on the table, the bottom of it rattling as his hand shakes. He looks up at Gale, who is still hovering over him. “Thought we could look at them. Together.”

Gale can’t quite bring himself to smile, his brow scrunching into something pained but full of love. “Yeah,” he whispers. He walks back around to the other side of the bed, stopping to scratch Pepper on the head, and he sits back against the headboard. Tucking his legs beneath the covers, he presses himself against Bucky’s side.

Bucky offers him the phone, too tired to focus on making his fingers work right, and Gale opens the album once again.

It’s strange, really. These are the exact same photos that Gale looked at before. Some of them – especially those of John in the groom’s suite – he’s stared at and stared at, unable to look away and unable to move forward. These photos carved a hole into his chest even as he fell in love with every image, at one time thinking that if he never got to see his husband again, at least he would be left with such perfect, life-filled photographs.

They made him sob and they made him panic. They made him chuck his phone away because they filled him with too much everything and he was overloaded with the weight of it. They made him grieve.

But here they are. The same exact pictures, and they look completely different somehow. When the gallery opens, Bucky sinks down so his head rests on Gale’s shoulder, and Gale wraps his arm around him. He balances the phone on Bucky’s chest and turns to press his nose into his hair.

Bucky’s lips curve into the most genuine little smile the moment he sets eyes on the photographs of Gale in the bridal suite, and it hits Gale in the weirdest of ways that, even though he’s seen these specific pictures a handful of times now, Bucky hasn’t. This is the first Bucky has seen of Gale’s pre-ceremony experience. “You’re…” Bucky huffs out a disbelieving breath. “God, Gale, look at you.”

While Gale holds the phone, Bucky uses a finger to swipe from photo to photo, pointing something out here and there – how he didn’t realize Gale was so nervous, too, or how lovely Marge looks or how much he loved that white suit – or sometimes just staring with his hand poised over the screen like he’s eager to get to the next one but reluctant to move away from the one he’s on. He stops for a long time on a candid of Gale standing in front of the mirror, looking down with a nervous smile on his face as he adjusts his cufflinks. The light coming through the windows hits just right, making his suit seem brighter and his boutonniere pop. It highlights the freckles on his cheeks that Bucky sometimes likes to kiss or poke at.

Gale thinks he hears Bucky whisper the word “wow.”

“Sorry I ain’t that pretty all the time,” Gale jokes self-deprecatingly.

Bucky turns his head, glances up at him. “You get more and more beautiful every day, love.” He reaches a hand up to grab Gale’s chin, satisfied at the way it makes him blush. Gale feels the metal of the wedding band rub against his jaw, and he motions for Bucky to keep going through the album.

“Ah, look at that handsome man,” Bucky says when he gets to the pictures of the groom’s suite. “Whoever gets to marry him sure is lucky.”

Gale scoffs, hiding his face in Bucky’s hair. He squeezes Bucky’s hip with the hand wrapped around him and whispers, “I am.”

“Holy shit I was nervous,” Bucky admits as they scroll through. Gale stops him every once in a while, wanting to look at certain photos for just a little longer even though he’s drilled them into his mind already. Bucky biting his lip anxiously as Rosie fixes his cufflinks, Bucky kneeling down to pet the dog, Bucky with his head thrown back in a full body laugh, looking beautiful, carefree, happy.

They reminisce over their first look, feeling like they’re there all over again, seeing each other for the first time, reaching out to touch, at a loss for words.

And then it’s on to uncharted territory, the photos that Gale never managed to get to. He takes a deep breath, and he decides right then and there that it’s okay. After everything, right now, they get to look at their wedding photos together. Just like any love-struck young couple.

One small step on the road to normal.

“Someday I’ll thank her for holdin’ you up while I was gone,” Bucky says when they get to a picture of Marge walking them down the aisle. Gale can only nod, because nothing he could ever do could ever repay her for, well, everything.

“Were you crying?” Gale asks as he zooms in on a picture of them at the altar, holding tight to each other’s hands. Bucky is biting gently at his lower lip as he looks at Gale, and his eyes are glistening in the light.

“I don’t know,” Bucky laughs now. “I was so focused on gettin’ my vows right. I don’t even know.”

“Wait,” Gale smirks and leans his head down, trying to get a good look at Bucky’s face. “Are you crying now?”

Bucky shakes his head, but he also scrubs at his eyes with his hand. He presses himself even closer to Gale, if that’s possible. “I have a head injury,” he says meekly.

“Yeah, sure,” Gale drawls, kissing the top of his head.

There’s a few pictures of the ring exchange, and Gale remembers how badly Bucky’s hand was shaking that day. The irony of it claws at his throat, but neither of them say a word. He remembers how fast his own heart was racing. He remembers the feeling of that cool silver band sliding over his finger. He remembers the look in Bucky’s eyes.

They spend a long time looking at the series of photos from during and after their kiss, remembering how the entire world disappeared in that moment, just them, their own universe, the greatest love story ever told. Naturally, they’ve barely kissed since Bucky returned.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna kiss you like that,” Bucky promises.

“Why tomorrow?”

“Cause the meds are kickin’ in and I’m too comfy to move.”

That would make Gale smile, but he finds he already is. He’s barely stopped this whole time, even when the pictures bring tears to his eyes and shove a lump into his throat. He holds Bucky tighter.

After the ceremony photos – Bucky jokingly declares that the best one is the one of Meatball and Pepper crashing their kiss – there’s plenty of staged photos of the wedding party and even more of John and Gale. And then there’s the reception.

Speeches. Curt and Marge standing on a chair. The newlyweds holding hands at their table, whispering into each others’ ears, kissing sweetly like no one was watching even though everyone was watching. People dancing and laughing. Gale dancing with Bucky, with Marge, with Chick. John having a dance off with Curt and Alex. Cutting the cake – Bucky smashing a piece into Gale’s mouth. Kissing through the icing, staining their lips blue. John and Gale on the mezzanine, John kissing him on the cheek. Gale tossing the bouquet over his shoulder. All of their Air Force friends, Benny included, scrambling over each other to catch it like it was a football and they were trying to win the Superbowl. Meatball grabbing it in the chaos and running full speed through the reception hall.

Gale laughs as he sees those photos for the first time. “I didn’t even know that happened.” When he doesn’t get a response, he looks down at Bucky. “You still with me darlin’?”

“Mhm,” comes the reply. And Gale realizes that Bucky is struggling to keep his eyes open. But he blinks and glances up at Gale. “That was the best day of my life, you know.”

Gale’s lips part, but he doesn’t have anything to say. He wants it to have been the best day of his life, too. But after everything…

Gale doesn’t believe in miracles. But as far as he can tell, the day Bucky splashed down in the Pacific was as close to one as he’ll ever get. So after everything, is it strange that he thinks the best day of his life isn’t the day that marked the rest of his forever, but the day that kept that forever intact? The day John came home to him.

He can’t bear to say all that, though. So he nods as he turns the phone off, and he wraps his arms more fully around his husband, feeling the warmth of his bare skin and the reassuring weight of his upper body. He finds himself feeling comfortable, safe, secure, not afraid. He almost feels like he could just nod off right here. “It was a damn good day,” he agrees.

Within moments, Bucky is drifting off in his arms, relaxing into his embrace. Carefully, slowly, Gale eases them both down, so they’re laying more comfortably on the mattress, but he doesn’t let go. And for the first time since early October, together, in their own bed in their own home, they sleep.

—

December 12 Nassau Bay, TX

It’s raining.

For real this time. At least, John really hopes it’s real.

He sits on the couch and stares out the window, listens carefully. The house is filled with that eerie but comforting light of an afternoon rain storm, gray and blue and green with a daylight sort of darkness that settles over everything with hardly a shadow.

Drops of water drip down the windowpane, and Bucky watches them. He presses his finger to the glass and traces their path as they roll down. He listens to the steady beating of raindrops on their roof. He pretends he can smell the fresh earthy scent of a storm mixing with the salty air of their home on the bay. He pretends he can feel the cool water sliding over his bare skin, plastering his hair to his forehead.

The rain has been falling for over half an hour now, and his heart reaches out to it. He has to wonder if it’s real, or if it’s only a dream. He often wonders that – was all of it a dream? Is it all a dream? Will he wake up one day, still on Starship, and find out his trip home, his successful failure, wasn’t real? Maybe the accident never happened. Or maybe it did and he never actually woke up.

Or will he wake up one day in this very house, learn that he never went to the moon at all? Will he be shipped off to quarantine to do it all again?

But his leg throbs with his heartbeat, and sometimes his head still spins. Every cough reminds him he’s alive. He holds onto Beary Egan as he sits on the couch, Pepper at his side, and while many things are blurry or missing, there’s so much that he can recall in such detail. If he closes his eyes, he can see the surface of the moon stretched out before him. Nowhere and everywhere. But he was there.

“John?”

Bucky’s brain takes far too long to understand that someone is saying his name. When he finally tunes in, for a second he thinks it must be Curt or Rosie. Checking on him, trying to get him to eat something, telling him it’s time to do this or that thing that is going to cause him pain but is necessary anyways.

But the voice says his name again, followed by a gentle “darling?” and a smile slips over Bucky’s face.

He turns his head to see his husband, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. His hair is unstyled, soft and messy. He’s wearing jeans and a black sweater. Bucky is once again wearing his own Yankees sweatshirt – if for no other reason than to make it smell like him again. For now, it smells like Gale, and it makes him feel safe.

“You okay?” Gale asks. He raises an eyebrow in concern. He looks at Bucky like that a lot now – concerned.

The truth is, everything hurts. Everything feels icky. Everything about Bucky’s body feels wrong and out of control. But he nods. Because right now, he is actually okay.

He woke up in his husband’s arms, his dog at his feet. Gale made him pancakes, and when he couldn’t quite stomach those, he cut up a bunch of fruit and let Bucky drink as much orange juice as he wanted. Gale told JSC he wouldn’t be in today, and they spent their morning watching a movie on the couch while Bucky scrolled through their wedding photos again. Lazy and domestic, just trying to heal.

Bucky reaches an arm out towards Gale, making a grabbing motion with his hand. Gale’s face softens and he walks across the room, settling on the couch beside Bucky. He wraps his husband in his arms, and together, they stare out the window at the water falling down onto the Earth.

Gale closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, holding Bucky tight. He presses his nose against the dark curls at the back of Bucky’s head, where that shaved patch is finally growing back. He tries to remind himself that John is here, in his arms, safe, not going anywhere. He tries to block out the rhythm of the rain, wills it to stop.

All he can think about is that night, a storm pouring buckets over their town, when Benny woke him in the darkness.

One single moment can change the way you see even the most fundamental parts of the world. Something that once was beautiful, now bears nothing but pain. Fear and grief. That’s the song sung by the rain.

Gale listens to its melody, wondering if it’ll ever change its tune.

“You know,” Bucky says. He presses his whole hand against the cool window glass. His eyes flick momentarily to Gale’s, then back to the view of their backyard. “The rain is one of the things I missed the most.”

Gale blinks. “Mmm?”

Bucky nods. “The moon is so… empty,” he says, frowning. “I mean, it’s amazing. It’s beautiful. I wish I could go back. But it’s quiet. Unchanging. Dry. I missed water.”

Bucky seems to drift away again after that. One moment, he looks focused, speaking purposefully. The next, his eyes go a little hazy and the expression just drops from his face. He leans his head against Gale’s shoulder, and he stares out the window. Gale half expects him to fall asleep, but just as he’s about to ask Bucky if he’s still with him, Bucky shifts, tilting his head in thought.

“I remember wanting to feel the rain. I’d pretend I could feel it running over me, soaking my hair. I pretended I could taste it on my tongue. Like when we were kids, y’know? Playin’ in the puddles.”

Gale stares thoughtfully out the window, trying to see it in the same way. His heart beats a little too fast, though, when he can’t shove away the memory of that morning.

He tries to smile weakly, pressing his lips to the back of Bucky’s head to hide the way he wants to cry at the memory mixed with the visual of John here, in his arms where he belongs. “Come on,” he says.

Bucky looks at him questioningly, but he doesn’t have a chance to resist because Gale is already standing up, crossing the room, retrieving the wheelchair. And then he’s lifting Bucky in his arms and settling him into it.

Bucky shifts in the chair, grimacing as he tries to get his leg positioned right. “What are you doing?”

Gale puts a finger up and walks away again, leaving Bucky alone in the middle of the living room in a chair that he’s hardly any good at maneuvering on his own. But he returns moments later with the plastic cover for Bucky’s cast.

“We’re gonna go outside.”

Bucky blinks at him, then glances out the window again. “In the rain?”

“Mmm.” Gale kneels in front of Bucky, and Bucky watches as Gale gently lifts his bad leg, slips the cover up over the cast and secures the top of it at his knee. Then he helps Bucky get his leg in a comfortable position again. “Good?”

Bucky nods. Gale pats his good leg gently before getting back to his feet and wandering over to the coat closet. He hands Bucky one of his warmer raincoats so he can pull it on over his sweatshirt. “What?” Bucky asks when he notices Gale watching him do it. “I can get my own jacket on, Buck.”

What he doesn’t realize is that every time he does some menial task on his own, Gale’s heart is working to mend itself back together. Because Bucky doesn’t know the conversations Gale had to have with Dr. Huston and Smokey. He doesn’t know how terrified Gale was that Bucky would never be able to do these things again.

But outwardly, Gale just rolls his eyes, because Bucky doesn’t need to know all that. Not right now. He pulls on his own coat, ruffles Bucky’s curls as he steps behind him, and pushes him towards the front door. Pepper, finally convinced that they’re doing something worthwhile on this tired, rainy day, gets up from the couch to follow behind them.

The last time Gale stood in the rain, he was dressed in nothing but his work clothes. He stood frozen, drenched to the bone, unable to feel anything at all. Sandra had to save him. His mind flashes to that moment as he walks out the door, pushing Bucky out in front of him. He nearly freezes when he feels the cold raindrops hitting his face. He doesn’t bother to put his hood up.

But he notices something: he can feel it now.

As Gale wheels him out to the driveway, Bucky holds out his hands and looks up, closing his eyes as he feels the fat, heavy drops splashing onto his skin, soaking into his hair. Even on the Gulf, the rain is freezing in December, but it makes Bucky feel more alive than he has since he woke up in Starship half dead.

Gale steps out from behind him and takes his hand. “So you didn’t have this on the moon?”

Bucky laughs. “If we did we’d have colonized it by now!”

Pepper runs in circles around them, darting from one side of the driveway to the other with her face to the sky, her thick fur slowly getting matted down. They both laugh as she gets down and rolls in the grass, staining parts of herself green. Gale knows he’ll have a hell of a time giving her a bath, but it doesn’t matter.

He watches Bucky take in the vibrant world around them. The fresh smell of the rain and the salt of the bay. The bright colors of the Earth, the sound of the raindrops pounding the ground. Their house, their street, their dog, the trees and the grass and the water streaming down the road. All of it so alive.

When Bucky’s eyes finally reach Gale again, he stops. He raises an eyebrow, a grin brightening his face even as his hair is soaked to his head and his flannel pajama pants have no hope of ever being dry again. “What?” He asks.

And Gale realizes he’s been staring. He knows he must look like a wet dog, but Bucky looks at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I missed you,” Gale says. Like it isn’t obvious. Like those words can possibly encapsulate what he means.

Bucky reaches out his other hand and looks at Gale expectantly. “Help me up.”

Gale looks skeptical, but he hauls Bucky to his feet �� or, foot. He keeps one arm around Bucky’s waist, keeping him steady, and Bucky grabs onto his shoulder for balance. They’re getting better at it.

“Now what?” Gale laughs.

Bucky doesn’t say a word. Just ducks his head down and presses his lips to Gale’s. Gale freezes in surprise, but it’s not even a second before he closes his eyes and has to remind himself that he needs to be the strong one, keep himself steady, even as he melts. They grip onto one another, holding on for dear life, and Bucky kisses his husband like it’s their wedding day.

Gale sighs into it, and he feels Bucky smile. They’re both soaked to the bone, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters other than the two of them together, right here and now.

Because, finally, they’re home.

43 notes · View notes

factorialsotherfandoms · 7 months

Text

TW: homeless children, sick children.

Pac is thirteen, and Mike is finally asleep. His best friend got sick a few days ago, the pair having been caught out in the rain. Pac had avoided the worst of it, only to be up all night anyway, keeping track of Mike's fevers.

It broke last night, but then they had had to run - the owner of the cafe they were sheltering behind had returned from her holiday, and released a pair of dogs to scare them off. Thankfully they did not get close to either child, but the running and the searching for another place to sleep had it return.

Maybe it would be better, to try and beg there way into the keeping of another orphanage?

... Pac takes four seconds to remember why that is a bad idea.

Mike whimpers, sweating more than their water supply allows for as he shifts under stolen blankets. Pac brushes his forehead, and gently, mentally shushes him.

Pac is thirteen, which means that Mike is eleven, which means that Pac has to be the one to look after them both.

The dogs? He would have fought them. When they steal? Pac is the distraction, the one starting a showpiece of a fight as Mike scoops up the bags. When they are sick?

When they are sick, Pac pretends he does not feel his own fever, and dedicates himself to looking after Mike.

He isn't really sure what to do, but he knows someone is supposed to watch people with fevers when they sleep. They don't have enough water to waste on wetting a rag, like people do in books, but he puts one on Mike's forehead nonetheless. Mike gets the blankets, and the cushion they found lying in a puddle, and the driest spot under the overhand. Pac, meanwhile, has scraps of fabric, and cold concrete, and a very sick best friend.

It is very hard to stay awake, sick and exhausted as he is from days of looking after Mike. He would give him the world - has given him the world - but it is very hard to keep his eyes open.

Pac needs to do something, else he will fall asleep. And he is not sure why that is bad, but he knows that it is.

... One of the bags they stole was not a bag at all, but a sewing box.

Inside are threads, and needles, and buttons, and little scissors and offcuts of larger pieces of fabric.

Really, Pac should use them to fix their clothes, or save them for when things are even worse. He remembers just enough of the right classes to know that both he and Mike have growth spurts still to hit, and that will mean needing to lengthen their clothes.

But...

Pac is thirteen, and Mike is eleven, and also in the sewing box are a couple of small glass circles, like teddy bear eyes.

Pac looks at the missing button on his coat, then looks at Mike, sleeping and distressed and reaching for something that is not there.

Pac picks up the fabric, and begins to sew.

Sewing is not one of his greatest skills, but Pac knows a little about it; when Sister Isabela has been in charge of discipline, she had tended to making him help her with repairs rather than the usual punishments. Pac had been in trouble a lot, and so he had learnt to fix many things - clothes and buttons and electrical sockets and plumbing and all sorts. He had not been allowed to help fix the gas stove, but he had been made to watch it happen.

Fixing things is not quite like making things, but... but Mike is eleven, so Pac has to look after him, and the books he learnt to read from say sick children are supposed to cuddle toys.

Pac thinks it might be wrong - even before his parents hated him, he did not get to cuddle toys, and the Nuns and the Priest certainly never gave them any. Still, he has no water to make the rags wet, and he needs to steal some energy drinks in the morning and force Mike to drink them, and it's late and if he does nothing he will fall asleep too.

So, he grabs the scraps of fabric, and the needles, and the thread, and does his best.

None of the scraps are the right shape, and he is scared to cut them. Working fabric in 3D is very different to flat, but Pac does his best. The head is two approximately round shapes stitched together, with bits poking out for ears. It has a body and two arms and two legs, even if all of the limbs are different sizes and the stitching stretches a bit too much. It is a patchwork of colours - and an actual patch where some of the fabric tore, Pac does know how to patch things - stuffed not with proper stuffing but instead the remaining fabric scraps.

It is an ugly, ugly thing.

Pac, desperate for some way to help, tucks it under the blankets with Mike anyway.

In feverish sleep Mike clings to it, and clings to Pac's sleeve too. In the morning, still sick, Mike holds it even tighter when Pac has to go.

Pac comes back to their camp with a bag of stolen energy drinks, and a few sandwiches grabbed from the same rack, to find that Mike has named her Alegria.

Alegria does not survive the winter.

But two boys do, and that is what matters in the end.

#qsmp pac #qsmp mike #qsmp tazercraft #qsmp fanfic #i wanted to mention mike still keeping the eyes from the bear in his pocket but it didn't flow nicely #so just have that #maybe pac doesn't know about it #i'll probably add this to an au on ao3 when i upload it in the morning #but for now it can be by itself #this is like the flip of that fic where mike was looking after sick pac #but without the resources for a shitty hotel room #also with the toy idea i mentioned earlier

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is-the-pigeon-ok · 8 months

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Updates

Hoo, boy, it has been a HOT minute since I've posted anything here.

Welp!

Repairs on the new property have been painfully slow, due to paying mortgage there, rent where we still currently live, and both sets of utilities.

It's been a red light green light game of save up money, make a single repair, save up money for the next repair, rinse and repeat.

Roof and bathroom floors have been repaired, asbestos tiles in the wash room tiled over, mini split AC installed in the addition, dear hubby's office rewired to include ground wires, walls painted, central AC unit repaired, water heater converted from natural gas to electric, gas stove converted from natural gas to propane, hardwood floors professionally cleaned, and leaking faucets repaired.

It was built in the 60s, before ground wires were a thing, so almost the entire place still needs rewired to include grounding.

And the AC ducts under the house are fallen and torn, so those still need to be fixed.

Once that's done, we can *finally* start getting ourselves and our birds moved over.

What used to be a garage/kitchen on the property is going to be cleared of all debris and the new loft will be built there from the ground up.

After that project is completed, we will build a new quarantine building, also from the ground up.

Dear Hubby and I have been busting our collective asses, with the help of his family, on getting this done, and it's taken up pretty much all of our attention.

Spending time online has been a pretty low priority for me, but I have resumed posting updates on the flock and answering new asks on The Ramsey Loft blog, and as time and energy permit, may go through the posts here and answer.

I'm not going to promise any kind of schedule, but as I have updates to post there, I will endeavor to check here.

See y'all when I see you.

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dollsonmain · 26 days

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Yesterday I was rubbing my boobs because they ache and That Guy asked me if I always got that swollen before menstruating and I looked down, cupped one in each hand, and said "I'm not swollen. They've been this big since I gained the weight."

Then he started asking me about that weight gain like he wasn't aware of it, how quickly it had set in, or when, and I was like

...

He was THERE when it all happened. I turned 38 and gained 50 lbs over the course of a few months then leveled out. Yes, I've had my thyroid checked.

He's also been asking me confusing questions about previous home repairs, saying things like we'd gotten the whole house's siding replaced after that big hail storm and then the previous tree guys damaged our brand new siding! when no, it was just two walls and the roof and getting the roof replaced is why nails are still raining down now and then, he knows that and keeps being surprised when I mention picking up more nails (I think the small murder of crows that's been going from rooftop to rooftop lately has been picking them out of the gutters and dropping them on the deck), the segment that was damaged was old (and this reminds me the patch needs painted). Thought the gas company had installed the HVAC units but it was an HVAC company. Asked me what was it the gas company installed, than???? That would be the gas stove.

He has notably lost memory retention and cognitive function since bringing covid home from PAX in 2020. He used to be able to remember where a specific piece of paper was stored in a place he hadn't been in for decades assuming it hadn't been moved and now he's forgetting and not understanding all kinds of things.

I know I've mentioned before how people now experiencing long covid have become very much like me pre-covid both physically and mentally and how, I guess, interesting that is. It's been interesting watching That Guy turning into me and struggling with it.

On the one hand it makes me sad because I don't want anyone to have to be like this. It legitimately makes life much harder than it needs to be. On the other, watching others struggle because of becoming more like me makes me feel less weak for having also struggled with it. It's like the universe is saying "This thing I saddled you with? It really does suck, look at how everyone that's just now experiencing it can't handle it."

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thaliaisalesbian · 2 months

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i get myself twisted in threads

Chapters: 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30

Chapter 31: could it be easy this once?

“Jon, come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Working at the mall together?”

“Yeah! Nancy said she might if her internship at the paper falls through.” Why Steve is looking at those applications this early, Jonathan’s not sure. The internships are different; everyone knows the mall is going to be desperately hiring when it opens.

“I’ll think about it.” He’s working on getting an internship at the paper, too, though Steve might be right. Don’t malls sometimes have photo stations? He’ll have to look into it. Maybe he’ll find a record shop or something, that might work too.

He and Nancy were really looking forward to working together, though.

They’ve still got time, anyway.

“Are you doing anything for your classes over the summer?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know that it would be a good idea, anyway. Probably better to work and get something saved up.”

For what? As far as Jonathan knows, Steve’s parents aren’t going to kick him out or stop paying on the utilities when he turns eighteen, though honestly it wouldn’t be too surprising if they did.

“My mom called. She talked my dad around, apparently. He’s still upset that I didn’t get into any colleges.”

“Talked him around from what?” Nancy doesn’t even bother knocking anymore; Mom had somehow gotten Steve’s house key and made copies at the same time she made copies of their house key. Jonathan is not going to ask questions.

“He wanted to send me to a military school, though I’m not sure how that would have worked for him after I turned eighteen. After that, the plan was for me to pay the property taxes and utilities.”

“What are you actually going to have to pay for to stay there?” Steve doesn’t even seem upset about this. He must have been expecting worse news.

“Just groceries and gas for my car, still. At least until I graduate high school. Mom’s convinced him to start up my allowance again because ‘at least I’m trying to graduate’. It’s a lower amount, though.”

“How much do you have saved already?”

“I’ve got cash hidden in three spots in my room.” Steve says. “They’re still on my back account, I can’t take them off until I’m eighteen, so if they wanted to shut it down they could. Probably about two grand, total. I don’t know how long it would last me if I needed it. I’d rather have the extra, just in case. If something happens and I have to leave, my dad will shut down my accounts and I’d have nothing.”

Jonathan hasn’t even looked at his bank account in at least a year. He cashes his checks in sometimes, but mostly Mom just takes his to the banks with hers and puts them all in at once.

Though she hasn’t really been doing that for the past year or so; he’ll have to ask why.

“What about the money from Owens?” Nancy paces for a minute. “Where’s that? Mike and I both have some; we can’t access the full amount until we’re twenty-one, but there’s a monthly allowance put into an account our parents don’t know about for us.” When neither of them say anything, she continues. “Jonathan, your mom would probably have yours, because she’s in the know, Steve, you should have at least some of yours.”

“No one ever said anything to me about that.”

“Really? They talked to Mike and I when we signed the NDAs. I’m planning on using it for college.”

“I’ll have to check with Mom.” Jonathan says slowly. She has been really insistent lately that he doesn’t need to work, but she’s always done that. And there have been some repairs done on the house, but he’d figured some of that was paid for by Owens, after everything. “She hasn’t said anything to me, if that’s the case.”

But then he thinks about some of the art supplies Will has now; how Mom had brought him new film rolls for his camera; they have a new stove, even.

“You should. Steve, you might want to talk to Hopper.” Nancy’s got a plan going already, grabbing paper off of Steve’s desk and writing out the details.

If they have this money, then he can go to college without having to take out loans, probably. Especially if he gets a scholarship.

But then, if they have all of this money, why haven’t they moved? Gotten a bigger house, or added onto it or something?

Mom has to have a reason for that.

He wants to call her right away, but she’s at work, so it’ll have to wait. Jonathan doesn’t want to get her in trouble with her boss.

“What do you want for dinner?” Steve leans into him so that he can whisper and not interrupt Nancy’s muttered calculations and planning.

“How about that pasta bake you were telling me about the other day?”

“Yeah, I can do that. Chicken or ham? We’d have to throw the chicken on the grill, but the ham could just go right in.”

“Ham.” Sounds easier than chicken.

“Nance, you can plot your world domination in the kitchen, we’re making dinner.” Steve pulls her up smoothly, then does the same for Jonathan—only he sends them both to the floor instead.

“Really, Steve?” He kisses Steve’s cheek anyway.

“What, I’m not allowed to help you up now?”

“Not if we both end up on the floor. Did you hit your head?” When Owens and Irene had come by for a check-up last week, they’d told them about the concussion and bruising.

Now, they just have to convince Steve to go in for a bunch of scans to make sure he's okay. Owens said it’d be covered, so he won’t have to worry about his parents finding out through insurance or something.

“Wait, what are you making?” Nancy holds one of Steve’s crutches out to him, looking a little startled when he actually takes it.

“It’s a surprise.” Steve tells her. “You just worry about world domination. Jonathan and I will take care of everything else.”

“Everything else?”

“Yep. Your wish is our command.”

“Just name the time and place.” Jonathan adds. “If you’re going to take over the world, you need minions, right?”

“That’s what the kids are for.” Nancy’s mouth turns up at the corners. “You two wouldn’t be mere minions.”

“Then what would we be, my lady?” Steve asks, more dramatic with every word. “Your harem, kept up in a room for you to admire as you wish? Your enforcers? Arm candy?”

“I’ve heard that you can be quite threatening with that nail bat, Steve.” Nancy muses. “But we can’t have you getting any more injured, so publicly you’ll be arm candy. You’ll be in charge of the kitchen for the appearance of keeping you busy when you’re not with me, and you’ll make me any dessert I request. Jonathan, you’ll be in charge of making sure most of the place looks like it came right out of a photograph, and of course you two will have to switch off on your arm candy duties.”

She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, turning to grin up at them. “And secretly, you’ll be my most trusted advisors.”

“Why secretly?” Jonathan asks. Not that he minds; he doesn’t know of many people who would call him arm candy, especially next to Steve, and, well, he really likes that Nancy does.

“Well, if no one knows you’re my advisors, then why would they target you for anything? You’d just be my pretty boys.”

Steve stumbles a little, but Jonathan can’t tell if it’s because of what Nancy said or if it’s because his crutch slipped; he grabs his arm either way.

“You’ll have to tell us more while I—” Jonathan tightens his grip a little as Steve falters again, “while we make dinner. What would you make your little minions do? I can think of a few things for the shitheads.”

“I’m sure we all can think of more than a few. But that’s not the important part… yet. We have to get there first.”

“Whatever you say, High Lady.”

“No, that’s not going to work as a title.”

Their world domination chatter slows as their dinner bakes, and by the time they’re done eating and cleaning up, Nancy and Jonathan have to go home.

It’s a shame, really. Jonathan was looking forward to seeing how many times he and Steve could make Nancy blush with different titles for her new-found position.

finish on ao3 or continue reading

Once she’s safely in her room, Nancy lets herself think a little more about this world domination plan.

Mostly, she lets herself think how Steve had reacted when she’d called them ‘pretty boys’, and although Jonathan had been better at hiding it, she thinks he liked it too.

That just means she’s going to have to use it more often.

“Nancy! Joyce Byers is on the phone for you!” Mom must still be by the phone downstairs. She checks the clock; it hasn’t quite been long enough for Jonathan to make it back home yet, if that’s what Joyce is calling about.

“Hey, Joyce.” She hears her mom get off the line on the other phone.

“Hi, Nancy.” For a minute, she can forget that she’s talking to her boyfriend’s mom. It feels like Barb one of her friends has called and they’re about to talk about their plans. “It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you, I just wanted to check in.”

“Oh. You’re—you’re not calling about Jonathan?”

“No, he just pulled in, he’s fine. I know things have gotten busier, and it’s different now that Steve’s not staying with us or with Jim—” She always forgets that Joyce calls Hopper Jim. It is his name, and they’re both adults, so it makes sense, but it still feels so weird to think of him as ‘Jim’. “But we’ve had some good conversations, when we get the chance.”

Most of those are just Joyce giving her advice. Usually about dating her boys.

She hasn’t been wrong yet. Nancy wants to know how Joyce figured all of this out.

“We do.” Nancy agrees. “I miss talking to you, too.” She doesn’t realize how true it is until she says it.

“Well, I have the day off tomorrow—how about a girls’ lunch, and if we feel like it, we can invite the boys for dinner.”

“Girls’ lunch meaning just us…?”

“Max and Jane are included in that.” Jane. Right. That’s the name they’re using for El when they’re not supposed to be talking about her.

Nancy hasn’t found out why; she’ll have to ask. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Jim is dropping Max and Jane off at noon, but you can come by before that if you want. Eleven, maybe?”

“If you’re hoping I can help cook, Jonathan can tell you that I’m hopeless.”

“I’m sure you’re not as bad as I am.” Muffled, she hears, “I’m talking to Nancy, honey.”

“I’m worse, ask him.” Nancy says.

“She is!” Jonathan’s further away, and she just saw him, but hearing his voice makes her smile anyway.

“What do you say, Nancy?”

“Sounds like fun. I’ll bring my nail polish and some dress-up clothes. Max might not be into it, but E-Jane might find something she likes.”

“You’re a good one, Nancy.” She can hear Joyce’s smile in her voice. “Jonathan’s taking the boys to the arcade for most of the day; I think Jim wants to check in with Steve. And then we can have a family dinner afterward.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice.” Mom’s probably not going to be too happy, but Nancy doesn’t care. Mike won’t be home for dinner either.

“I’ll let you go, then. Don’t stay up too late!”

“I won’t.” She promises. “Have a nice night, Joyce.” Is it wrong that sometimes she wishes Joyce was her mom?

Predictably, her mom comes up to ask what the call was about.

If she was just going to ask anyway, she might as well have stayed on the line.

“Joyce just wanted to know if I wanted to have a girls’ day with her and the girls in Mike’s friend group tomorrow. I’ll be going over around eleven.”

“That’s sweet of her, to give them a break from all those boys.” Nancy wonders if one of them requested it. El might have, but given how attached she is to Steve, it seems more likely that she would have wanted a day with him.

Max… she doesn’t really know Max all that well. She doesn’t know if Max would have wanted a day away from the boys or not. Maybe she’d rather be beating them at arcade games.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun. I’m going to bring some of my old clothes for them to try on. They’ll be out of style by the time Holly is big enough to wear them, Mom.” She rolls her eyes when her mom tries to protest.

“Who are those girls? The redhead and who else? Someone at school?”

Fuck. What is she supposed to say about El?

“No, she doesn’t go to school yet. She’s staying with Chief Hopper for now, she was in a bad situation and school would probably be a little too overwhelming for her yet.”

“Oh, I see.” Her mom doesn’t step into the room, just stays in the doorway. How long is this going to go on? Normally she would have shut the door by now. “Well, you have a good time. Mike’s going to the arcade, and then he’s eating dinner at the Byers’.”

“I’ve been invited to dinner too, if I’m still there.”

“Of course you have. I’ll have to see if there are any movies Holly might like, then, and take her out. Just… you and Mike both be back before nine. Tomorrow’s a school night.”

“I’ll make sure we are, Mom.” She can’t tell what her mom’s thinking. It’s not like she told them she had anything planned for tomorrow; if she had, then Nancy would have declined the dinner invite. Mike would grumble about it a lot, but he’d make sure he was home for dinner, too. “I’m sure you and Holly will find a movie. Or you could bake something together, I remember we did that when I was little. It was always fun.”

That was before Mike was around, and when he was a baby. She and Mom had their special baking time when he was down for his naps, because Nancy had been ‘too big’ for naps.

By the time Mike was three, they’d become a monthly event instead of a weekly event. She’d been in school by then, so that limited their time, but they’d had weekends.

And when her mom found out she was pregnant with Holly, it seemed like the world had stopped. It’d only gotten worse after Holly was born.

It’s like her mom lost a part of herself, or something, and she didn’t know how to get it back but now she’s trying.

But she can’t make up for the years she’d missed, even when she’d been physically present.

Nancy hasn’t thought about baking with her mom like this in a while. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

“I’ll see if she’d like that.” Nancy has to restrain herself from saying ‘she will.’ Holly had been so happy when they’d made cookies with her. “If you want to, Nancy, we could try something a little more complicated now that you’re older. Just you and me, like we used to.”

“Yeah, I would like that. But I’m not very good at baking. Or cooking. Or anything other than mixing.”

“I remember your salty cookies.” Her mom smiles. “It was nice of you to try. I can teach you, you just need practice. I’ll go shopping this week and if you don’t have plans next Saturday, we can do it then.”

She’d been hoping to see Steve and Jonathan next Saturday, but given that she wants to spend pretty much all of her time with them, she’s going to have to disregard that thought for now.

“Next Saturday sounds good, Mom.”

“Good. I’ll set up a play-date for Holly, and talk to Mike about what he’d like to do so we can have the house to ourselves.”

As rough as things have been lately, Nancy’s just glad that her mom is at least trying now.

<- 30 32 ->

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vividentropy · 2 months

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Entry #1

The Entries Catalog | Monday, July 8, 2024

12:36 PM

I finally got my ass out of bed. Today, Hurricane Beryl decided to make its way here. We have no electricity, so I have no idea when this will be posted.

At least I charged my laptop so I can at least write what’s been going on. The back door suddenly opened from the wind. I ran over there to close and lock it. Figured my dad could just knock the shit out of the door when he needed to go in, but mom said to leave it unlocked and just make sure it was closed well. So, I did that. Then I told my cat he was a good boy for not running outside when the door was wide open. See, he’s a retired veteran from the outdoors. Usually, he would sprint the moment he sees his chance to relive his younger years but not this time. I take it the wind was too intimidating for him. I still called him a good boy for not running out.

My family got lucky. All we’re getting is high winds and no electricity. Some areas north and west of ours got flooding and worse damage. Don’t even want to think of the areas south of us. My far neighbor’s tree got split in half with some of the branches on top of the car. Three small parts of the fence in our backyard got toppled down. Those won’t be repaired until my parents come back from their trip. I can hear the rumble of a generator from a neighbor in another street. I wonder how they got their generator set up. It always powers on immediately when there’s no power and off when there is. I’ll ask my dad one day.

Currently, my mom is making homemade chili. We have a gas stove, so we can still cook food. We also have plenty of water. My family uses this water service this for our water dispenser thingy upstairs. They send several three-gallon things of water. I have some right now. My dad is working on our generator, wondering when my brother will get up. My mom is back to crocheting a shirt and my sis is reading this book on seeds. My cat is just laying on the floor all cute and stuff.

I’m not gonna lie, it is a tad humid in here. Thankfully, the sun is covered by the clouds, so we aren’t dying of the heat, but we do have light to see. I do have a handheld fan that I’ll grab in a second. That and more water since I’m thirsty as fuck.

Off in the distance I hear someone using a chainsaw. Probably to cut down the tree branches they can cut off. That’s wild, to be honest. The wind is strong enough to push me aside like tumbleweed. I have to use force to push the door shut. It’s not as bad as Harvey or Ike (I do recall with Ike that the wind being so strong I could see the wind punching the door partially open). But I know there’s still others less fortunate out there than I.

Anyways, to better things.

Yesterday, I downloaded FFXIV Online. I downloaded the free trial. Definitely did not expect it to take over six hours to download, but it did. I spent all that time waiting watching YouTube videos from AstralSpiff and Chickeninja42. The moment everything was done downloading, I hopped on the game. I only got as far as character creation. Which is not far, to be honest. But I did finish the character! I customized her the same way as I do in every video game that I own that has character customization - white hair, red eyes, fair skin, and some muscle. Her hair had to pulled back. Funny enough, choosing the voice I wanted for her took longer than anything else. It was great having my sister helping me out though. Not that she plays the game, but I like having her input. If I have time and electricity, I’ll put a picture of her below this paragraph.

[I am absolutely not in my computer to screenshot. RIP.]

I hope we get electricity back soon, but my gut tells me it’ll be a good while before it comes back. Maybe tomorrow morning. Will I even work tomorrow?

Eyyy, my brother finally made it downstairs. I’ll take it as my cue to go write or do something else. Cause, to be honest, I can only type as long as this laptop battery will last me.

5:41 PM

Electricity isn’t back yet. I’ve spent the last several hours napping my life away after I ate. For some reason the tiredness washed over me. Could keep my eyes open. So far, my phone is on 80% because I haven’t been using it. I need to remember to call my boyfriend later because I want to hear his voice. We won’t be able to FaceTime today which sucks but that’s okay. I need him to know that I’m alright. I mean, he knows I’m okay, but I want him to hear it out of my mouth.

The sky is blue. Like nothing ever happened. My mom stuck her tongue out at it.

I did finally wash my hair. I didn’t put conditioner, just leave-in. My lower back pain flared up which made me cut my wash time in half. Let’s see how long my hair lasts. For now, I’ll just sit here and talk to my mom and sister.

7:10 PM

My dad and brother got the generator working. It’s working upstairs for sure. Got my phone charging. I think they’re trying to get the refrigerator and freezer to turn on. I’m just saying, we can do without the TV. And we could just keep the power downstairs instead of both. I can sleep on the floor that’s chill.

For now, my mom is going to find something for us to eat. I am going to try to cool down some more. All I want is to cool down. At least the A/C is on so the upstairs can cool down. There’s nothing much else to say.

I did talk to my boyfriend on the phone for a little bit, but the call dropped. It was nice hearing his voice. He’s more freaked out than me, but in his defense, I’m used to this.

Just talked to bro. He said the freezer and fridge are working. He’s going to turn off the A/C because we don’t have enough gas. That’s cool, to be honest. We can survive the heat for a little while. It could always be worse. I have my handheld fan, it’ll be okay.

8:11 PM

WE GOT POWER BACK, BABY! Wifi isn’t working but honestly, I don’t care.

I’d like to thank the hard workers who oversee the electricity shit because I know they’ve been working nonstop. I also like to thank my boyfriend for being patient with me. Honestly, just give it up to the electricians who were working honestly all-day getting shit done.

Now, I have to be real, I’m probably one of the lucky ones. While the storm was only during the day, there’s probably still well over a million people without power. I hope they get theirs soon. For now, I’m going to finally relax, maybe take a cup of decaf coffee, and continue playing minesweeper for the rest of the night. Hey, I might even get on YouTube. I’ll see what I’ll do.

Until next time,

Vivid Entropy

#the entries catalog #blog #journal #hurricane beryl

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alexakeyloveloki · 2 years

Text

I really need to talk to karma. Like we need to sit down and see eye to eye and have an adult conversation.

I am a kind person, I really try to be warm and welcoming and patient and mostly kind to FUCKING everyone. In my core I am a people-pleaser but it doesn't bothers me at all. I just want to make people happy. It genuinely makes me happy too.

So why I live in the bigest shit-show in my life?! And to top everything:

My cat was so sick ( he is well now) I payed a small fortune to the vet. Our gas stove stopped working, it was freazing inside untill the guy to repair it came. We had a gas leak. I'm paying him with money I don't have, my bank will be elated. Oh, and the kid is back on asthma meds after 3 years of clear bill of health.

So, do not think I wont slip some laxative to karma caffee, when they not looking. I'm on my wits end.

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inastrangerskiss · 2 years

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recipes

Timothy Thatcher x Reader

content warning: fluff and nothing more, nothing less

summary: you bake a cake for tim's birthday

vaguely inspired by "mess it up" by gracie abrams

Crack one egg.

No, wait, turn the oven on. You never, ever remembered to preheat the oven. With traces of yolk running down the side of your hand you hurried to the old gas stove and programmed it to warm until it reached 325 degrees.

You had to get this right. You wanted to get this right.

“Please don’t get me anything. I hate my birthday.” Tim had grumbled, a hand against his mouth. “The best gift you can give me is to act like it’s just another day.”

At first you had told yourself that you’d adhere to his request. Not everyone loved their birthday the same as you loved yours. If he didn’t want to celebrate then that was his right.

But then you remembered last year. He had surprised you at home with a rented movie and dinner from your favorite place, the one on the corner below his apartment that was open at all hours of the night. You didn’t have the heart to tell him the food was horrible. You only loved it because when you were eating it it meant you were with him, curled up on his couch, perilously close to resting your head on his leg.

Once, in the early hours of the morning, you were sat in that exact position, picking at soggy fries, knowing you needed to sleep but feeling far too wired by his presence to succumb. As you stared at the images flashing by on the television he regaled you with a story about birthdays as a child and the cake his grandma always made him. Vanilla with chocolate icing. A basic recipe but one that was close to his heart.

You had to get this right.

Spoon the flour into the measuring cup, sweep off the excess. Repeat. Combine with salt and baking powder.

He was never very good at birthdays, he’d claim. He had gotten you all sorts of gifts before giving up. One year it was a water bottle. Another year it was a pack of scrunchies. One year he arrived on your doorstep with a composition notebook and a ballpoint pen. He always seemed mildly embarrassed by what he perceived as inadequate presents.

But you carried that water bottle everywhere you went. The scrunchies were always the one thing you never left the house without and they always held your hair back, never letting loose strands fall into your face. And the notebook went with you on every trip, every car ride and flight until every page was full with random musings and memories you never wanted to forget.

Beat the eggs, the vanilla, the almond extract with the sugar until combined. Fold in the dry ingredients. Add the milk and butter. Mix until combined.

You would do this for anyone, you reminded yourself. You loved giving gifts. You loved giving comfort. But something about this felt different. It was like the time that you had both gone to get your car repaired at a mechanic. You would’ve asked any of your friends to come along, there was nothing special about this invitation. But while you sat in the car outside of the shop a tension filled the space. Tim turned and smiled at you as if he felt it too. His hand grazed yours as it sat on the clutch and, although it felt as though the space had been vacuumed of air, you felt at peace. You wished he would do it again.

And he did, this time letting his hand linger for just a second longer than you had expected. When you looked at him he was looking at the back of your palm, like he too felt the electricity and was trying to understand it.

Pour the batter into the 8” pans and bake for forty minutes. Make the frosting by combining cocoa powder, butter, confectioners sugar and two pinches of sugar until fluffy.

You laughed as you found yourself babysitting the cakes in the oven. Maybe you did care more than you should. Maybe it was because Tim was your best friend. Maybe it was because you wanted to see him happy on his special day. Maybe it’s because he kissed you at that last party you were both at and you were hoping that you might get to experience that sort of elation just once more.

He had found you standing in the corner, ready to go and offered to walk you home. You accepted, not wanting to brave the dark and lonely evening by yourself. He walked with his hands shoved in his pocket, his back just slightly more rigid than normal. He walked you to the front door of your apartment building and you apologized for taking him from his friends so early in the night.

“I’d rather be here.” He shrugged. You didn’t know where “here” was but you smiled pleasantly all the same.

You assembled the cakes on the base of your handy little cake carrier, finishing it with a layer of sprinkles across the top. It wasn’t gorgeous but it looked like the sort of thing he’d appreciate. You snapped the lid to the base and slid your shoes on. Carefully, you walked down the sidewalk and to his building, the fast food place still churning out greasy burgers and fries despite the time of day. You waved to the doorman who gave you a pleasant nod. You pressed the button on the elevator, not wanting to brave the stairs with your hard work in hand.

Then a sense of anxiety settled in your stomach. He said to ignore his birthday - what if he really meant it? What if this made him upset? What if you overstepped a boundary? What if he opened his home to you and saw what you had done and slammed the door in your face.

You had time to turn around, you had time to leave and send him a text telling him you hoped he had a good day. Before you could do any damage control the elevator doors opened and there was Tim, unlocking his front door, looking as if he were fresh from the gym.

“Tim!” You called, immediately kicking yourself. Now there was no escape plan.

He looked up at you, almost shocked that you were in his hallway. The shock turned into a warm smile, the parentheses around the side of his mouth deepening as genuine happiness became him.

“Hey kid. What’re you doing here?”

You held the cake out as you approached him. He looked at you and then the carrier, his brow furrowing for just a moment causing your heart to race.

“For me?” He asked. He didn’t seem mad. He only seemed confused.

You nodded. His hand reached out for your arm, gently holding it as he continued to examine the baking masterpiece you had created for him and him alone. His thumb ran in slow, small circles over your exposed skin.

“You shouldn’t have.” He murmured.

“I wanted to.”

There was a pause. You felt like you might explode but then, with the most gentle grin he turned his head up to face you. He leaned in cautiously and placed a kiss on your cheek.

“C’mon. There’s candles inside.”

He waved you into his home, allowing you to walk ahead of him. His hand on your arm moved down to your waist as you entered, shutting the door behind you.

The night was young, the cake was fresh. It was his birthday and you were exactly what he had hoped he’d receive.

#I said I’d post a lil sumn sumn #timothy thatcher imagines #timothy thatcher imagine #timothy thatcher fanfiction #timothy thatcher x reader #timothy thatcher #timothy thatcher fanfic #okay so the content of the song doesn't exactly go with the story but the vibe is there

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aquietwritingcorner · 2 years

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Fandom: TMNT 2003 Word Count: 5058 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: K Characters: Donatello, Raphael, Ms. Morrison Warning: NA Summary: Raphael’s been asking Donatello for advice on repairing things. The only problem is, they aren’t the types of items that the turtles own. Curious as to what is going on, Donnie decides that his best course of action is to follow Raph and see what’s going on. He didn’t expect what he found, though. Notes: I know nothing about repairing anything, really. Sorry for any inaccuracies. AO3 || ff.net

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Sanctuary

Something was up with Raphael. That was something Donatello was positive about.

The thing was, it wasn’t something that necessarily would have caught anyone else’s attention. He was still acting pretty much the same. He trained, roughhoused and teased with Mikey, argued—both friendly and not—with Leonardo, sat and watched a little TV with Master Splinter, helped April in her shop, went out to “bust heads” with Casey, and went off on his own, as he was wont to do. He even, as wasn’t unusual, worked side-by-side with and helped Donatello with several of the projects in the garage. If Donnie was going to trust anyone with work on the Battleshell, it was always Raph.

So, as evidenced by the mental list Don was making, no one else would have noticed anything off with Raphael.

But Don did.

It started off small. It started off with Raphael asking him about how to do small things. Things like sealing windows or making sure that a normal door—something that they did, admittedly, lack in the lair—was square and closing well. Donatello didn’t think too much about it. He just assumed that he was helping April with some basic repairs, and that Casey was too slammed at the garage he worked at to help out. And while Donnie had taught his brothers how to do quite a number of things, home repairs like that had never been on the list. They just hadn’t been something that was needed. Basic carpentry, wiring, welding, plumbing, sewing, the sorts of things that generally went into getting homes like theirs livable were what he had focused on teaching them. He even went more in depth with certain things with certain brothers, like automotives with Raphael, forging and metal work with Leonardo, and wiring, coding, and basic tv and kitchen repair with Michelangelo, along with whatever else he could teach the orange banded turtle that would allow him to repair his own things and let Donnie focus on other stuff.

Funny how Mikey had the broadest set of knowledge among his brothers.

Donnie honestly didn’t mind teaching his brother these things. He thought was good… and, selfishly, maybe a bit useful to him… for Raph to learn more about repairing things. He asked from everything from windows and doors, to hot water heaters, to washing machines, to toaster ovens, to ice makers, to gas ovens, to, currently, a heater.

It was the gas oven that really tipped Donatello off. He knew that April’s oven was electric, not gas. In fact, except for the very rich, who thought it was trendy to cook with gas, most people in New York City had electric stoves and ovens. The only other ones who didn’t were either historically accurate buildings, or buildings that were very, very old.

Donatello and Raphael were currently elbow deep in an old heater that one of them had scavenged from some junkyard somewhere. Donnie hadn’t been intending to turn it into a lesson on how to repair heaters, but Raph had been interested when he had seen the old thing, and so Donnie had rolled with it. Although they weren’t exactly cold-blooded, they weren’t exactly warm-blooded either, instead some weird mix of the two thanks to their mutation. Because of that, a little extra heat in the winter was always a welcome thing. They had long ago learned to scavenger for heaters whenever they saw them, just to keep their lair a bit warmer. These days, if they had more than they needed, Don often fixed them up and then gave them to April to sell. She’d give him the money from whatever sells she managed to make on his stuff, which gave them a little money, at least.

“Okay, but this one’s an electric heater, right, Don? How’d it be different from a gas one?”

Don paused in what he was doing and looked over at Raph. “…That is a very specific and somewhat unusual question, Raph, considering we use electric ones.” He saw Raphael tense, and then he looked back down at the heater they were working on, shifting through the innards again. “With all the questions you’ve been asking me lately, I’m starting to wonder if you’re trying to move out.”

He gave his voice a bit of teasing lilt, hoping to put his brother at ease, or at least not to make him too suspicious. It only partially worked, as Raph had a tendency to be suspicious by nature anyway, especially when he was hiding something.

And Don was sure he was hiding something.

“Just thought you’d appreciate the helping hand,” Raph said, turning a bit sulky. It was just an act, though. Donnie could see right through it, although he didn’t let on.

Instead, he gave a rebuttal. “Which would be great,” he said, “if you were actually helping out around the lair with what I’ve been teaching you.” Don turned to look at him more fully. “But we don’t have anything that runs on gas, aside from a camping stove we have just in case, and we don’t have windows and doors to worry about. So, I have to wonder just what this is really about, Raphie.”

He had hoped that the use of the childhood nickname might loosen his brother’s tongue a little, but it didn’t seem to work. Instead, Raphael grew defensive and a bit huffy.

“If yer not gonna teach me, then I’ll figure it out on my own!” his brother snapped, pushing to his feet to quickly to be casual, and too slowly to be called “rocketing.” He turned on his heel and left the garage, heading back down to the lair, and, if Don had to guess, to his punching bag.

Don looked back down at the heater thoughtfully, not at all phased by this reaction. It was one of the possibilities he had accounted for. Honestly, though, he wasn’t too happy with the idea of Raphael, untrained in the ways of natural gas, messing around with anything that used it. He’d hoped to get more of an answer so that maybe he could help out a bit more. But if Raph wasn’t going to give him one, then perhaps Donnie would just have to find it on his own.

He returned to working on the heater, his hands moving almost automatically as he ran through possible scenarios in his mind and made plans for what his next steps would be.

Like most evenings when there was nothing planned, everyone assumed that Donatello would be busy puttering away in his workshop, working on this project or that. There was also good chance that he would be in the garage above, if something up there needed working on. And sometimes, every once in a while, he would go out scavenging alone. Ninety-five percent of the time, someone would go with him, but there were times when he went alone, usually when he was going to look for more of the delicate things that he would need.

While most of the time his brothers didn’t mind going to the junkyards with him, as there was usually plenty to find and enough to keep even Mikey entertained, the trips for specific electronic parts were not particularly enjoyable for his brothers. Mikey would quickly grow bored and fidgety, trying not to accidentally hurt anything useful. Raphael would be somewhat useful, as he had an eye for things that could be useful, but his eyes would glaze over at some point, the components that Don was looking for all starting to look alike to him. Leonardo was probably the most useful, his attention to detail making him pretty effective as far as looking for particular items, but he was also pretty bad at noticing what might potentially be useful.

So. Don usually made those trips alone. Which also made them great cover.

Don emerged from his workshop, duffle bag in hand, slinging it across his chest as he made his way towards the door of the lair. Naturally, this caught the attention of the others, even if they didn’t stop what they were doing. Mikey glanced up from his game of Mario Kart. Leo, although he didn’t pause in his kata practice, did look his way for a moment. Raph, giving his punching bag a good beating, glanced up at him, too.

“Going somewhere, Don?” Leo asked as he continued working through the forms.

“Just need to go get a few things,” he said. “I’m short on some of the wiring I need for this project, and the motherboard I have isn’t in as good of shape as I hoped it would be. I think I can repair it, if I can use pieces from other motherboards, but I’d really rather just find one in better shape.”

Mikey had already turned back to his game, clearly not wanting to be asked to go with Don on his trip. That was fine by Donatello. He didn’t want company tonight.

“Do you want someone to go with you?” Leo asked as he entered the final steps of his kata.

“No, that’s okay,” Don said, waving it off. “Those dumpsters and junkyard are generally safer than the ones we go typically go to, and I’ve got my bo, some shuriken, and my shell cell. Hopefully it won’t take too long, and if I lose track of time, you can always call me.”

Leo had reached the end of his kata now and turned to look at Don. “If you’re sure,” he said.

“I am,” Don responded. “Don’t worry, Leo, I’ll be safe.”

“I know,” Leo said. “But still. Just be careful, alright?”

“As careful as I can while getting the components I need,” Don said, with a wave of his hand as he started back through the door.

Leo pulled a face. “That’s what I’m worried about,” he said, part teasing, part admonishment. “Don’t get too lost in your search!”

“I’ll be fine!” he said with a wave as he headed out the door.

He didn’t miss the look of opportunistic planning that crossed Raphael’s face, no matter how quick his brother was to cover it up and continue punching as if he hadn’t ever thought about doing anything else.

Donatello was, as his brothers would attest, a patient turtle. He was also an observant one and knew his brothers’ habits well. So, after implementing a program on the shell cells that would make it look like he was at the dumpsters he had been claiming on going through, he settled into the garage and waited. It only took one hour and thirty-seven minutes before what he thought was going to happen, happened.

The elevator into the garage came up, opening, and Raphael stepped out. He, as they always did, took a sweep of the garage before moving into it. Don had made sure to hide himself deep in the shadows, to reduce his presence to a minimum. Raphael had always been good at feeling when a threat was near, or when he was being watched. It was part of that protective nature of his. Fortunately, Donnie had always been exceptionally good at staying still and hidden, at making his presence as unobtrusive as possible. That worked in his favor now, as he watched Raphael head over to the workbench, picking up a spare bag on the way, and putting several tools inside of it. Donatello recognized them right away as the same tools he had been using to repair the heater, which was exactly what he had been expecting.

Once he was satisfied with the tools he had gathered, Raphael headed out of the garage. He didn’t take the bike, and he didn’t have the same look on his face that he did when he was getting ready to meet Casey. Don wasn’t sure what it was, but he did know that he was going to find out. Silently, he swung out of his hiding place, stopping only to pick up a couple of more tools. If Raph was going to be working on a gas heater, then there were a couple of things that he was going to need that Don hadn’t had the chance to show him.

Following Raphael was always a tricky game. He moved fast, typically, and sometimes seemingly erratically. You had to stay close to keep an eye on him and not lose where he was going. However, if you got too close, then you risked being seen and confronted, which was the exact opposite of what Donatello wanted tonight.

Fortunately, Don was a turtle of many talents, and that included tracking his brothers in less-conventional ways. Namely, by using the tracking on the shell cell and some night vision googles that had a setting attuned to himself and his brothers.

Don paused on a roof, taking a second to look around. This wasn’t an area that was outside of their usual patrol areas, but it wasn’t one that they went by a lot either. The neighborhoods here generally took care of themselves, to some degree, and didn’t require as much intervention as other parts of the city, although it still wasn’t what most humans would classify as a very “safe” area.

“Where are you going?” Don softly said to himself as he watched the tiny blip that was Raphael move on the screen.

Donatello followed Raphael for about fifteen more minutes, doing his best to make sure that he wasn’t caught. Still, it became easier to follow him when the red-banded turtle narrowed his focus until he was in front of one old apartment building. It looked like it had been built fifty or sixty years ago, maybe longer. The front of it had been updated more than once, it looked, so that obscured the actual age of the building a bit. Raphael stared at it for a moment, quiet and still as he observed the street. Donatello stayed just as quiet and still, knowing that one move could alert his brother to his presence.

Finally, after a few minutes, Raphael made his way across the street, and down to street level in the alley. Not wanting to risk following him just yet, Donnie lowered a pair of goggles over his eyes, zooming in on his brother. To Donatello’s surprise, he knocked on the door and waited. Within just a few moments, the door opened to reveal an elderly lady. She and Raphael seemed to exchange a few words, both of them absolutely at ease. Raphael patted the bag he had, and the older lady clutched a wool shawl closer around her. Then she stepped back, Raphael entered, and the door shut.

Donatello took off his goggles and stared at the spot his brother had been in just a few minutes ago. Normally, he’d just leave after this. Yes, it was odd what Raph was doing, but there didn’t seem to be any harm in it, so he’d just tuck this into the back of his mind, leave it there, and go on about his business. However, with the possibility of a gas heater in the mix, he was a little more hesitant just to let it go. It only took him a moment of deliberation before he decided to head across the street himself. Maybe he could just peek in a window or something.

Carefully, with the ninja training developed over the past sixteen years of his life, Donatello snuck up on the home, careful to stay in the shadows. He could hear his brother’s voice, as well as the older woman’s. It was a bit difficult to make out the words, but everything sounded friendly enough. Moving closer, he kept himself just below the window, hoping to at least hear what was happening, and pick the right time to look in. He heard the clanking of tools being laid out on a floor, and the sound of feet moving about. Raphael seemed to be saying something about a heater, and the woman was saying something about it being trouble and…tea? Donnie wasn’t sure about that part, but it seemed to get the two of them out of the room they were in. Don decided to risk it and peeked up.

The room was empty, which was Don’s first concern. The second was looking at the heater that he could see across the room. It was an older style one, which fit with the time period he estimated this building was constructed during. It was also gas, which, again, fit. But it had Donnie blanching as he looked at it. He had instructed Raph on modern electric heaters. And while Raph was pretty intuitive about a lot of mechanical things, heaters were notoriously tricky things. Adding gas on top of that was also a problem. It also made Don worry about the instruction on the stove and hot water heater, and maybe even the dryer. All of those things could be run on gas as well. He’d need to find a way to get in there and double check the work, just in case, but how was he going to manag—

Before he could even finish the thought, there was a hand on his shoulder, the grip solid and hard enough to bruise, pulling him back and away from the window with enough force to throw him off balance. Of course, Don wasn’t a ninja for nothing, and he twisted, turning as he fell back, using a well-practiced move to break the hold and tumble onto his feet, bo at the ready.

“Donnie?”

Raph’s surprised voice broke the battle-ready tension, and Donnie found himself relaxing from it. He could tell, too, that Raphael, who had before been geared up to fight, had now dropped that stance and was, instead, staring at his brother.

Don straightened up. “Um, hey, Raph,” he said, a bit sheepishly.

Raphael skewered him with a look. “Don. What the shell are ya doing here and why were ya creepin’ around the window?”

“Um…”

Before Don could even try to come up with a reasonable explanation, a new voice—or at least new to Donatello—rang out in the dark.

“Raphael? Dear, what is it? Are you alright?”

Raph immediately turned at it. “Yeah, yeah, it’s all good Ms. M. It’s just—well, it turned out to be one of my brothers.”

“Oh?” Donatello could see the old woman standing at the door, turned towards Raphael. “Well, why don’t you invite him in. It wouldn’t do to leave him outside in the cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Raphael said, his voice relaxed and respectful in a way that Donatello didn’t often hear. He shot a look at Donnie that was neither but gestured for him to come in anyway.

It seemed a bit odd to Donnie to just willingly follow Raphael into this random woman’s home, but Don trusted his brother. If there was something dangerous, or even the least bit sketchy, there was no way he’d be willingly leading Donatello into it. Or, at least, he wouldn’t be leading him into it in such a relaxed manner. He was sure he’d get an explanation from Raph soon enough.

He stepped through the door and into what seemed to be a quintessential old woman’s house. The furniture was older, worn, but still cared for. The decorations were a bit dated, but they seemed to be in fairly good condition. There was an older television and radio, and a hutch full of matching dishes.

“Hello, there,” the woman, Ms. M, Donatello assumed, said reaching out a hand towards him. Don had a mild panic as he tried to figure out what to do. “I’m Ms. Morrison. Please, dear, won’t you take my hand? I won’t know where you are until you do. I’m blind, you see.”

Several things clicked at once in Donatello’s head, and he obligingly reached to take Ms. Morrison’s hand. “Oh, yes ma’am,” he said, letting her hold onto him, and wondering what she thought about that. After all, even blind, she had to be able to feel the oddly formed hands and unfamiliar skin. Still, she didn’t seem to blink twice at it, metaphorically speaking. “I’m Donatello.”

“Donatello. What a lovely name. Why don’t you come into the kitchen, Donatello, and tell us what you’re doing here. Raphael, can you fix your brother a cup of tea?” Ms. Morrison said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Raphael said. “I’m kinda interested myself in knowin’ what he’s doin’ here.”

The look he shot Don spoke volumes and Don tried to shoot him a sheepish look back even as Ms. Morrison was leading him into the kitchen. It didn’t seem to help matters any.

Ms. Morrison led him to a table, and Donatello made sure that she was seated before he sat down. Raphael was already at the stove, pouring some hot water into a cup and adding in a tea bag.

“Now, dear, why don’t you tell us what you were doing outside?” Ms. Morrison said.

Don grimaced. “Ah, well, it’s, um… it’s a little complicated,” he began.

“What’s complicated about it?” Raph said, sitting a cup and saucer down in front of Donnie. “Ya followed me here,” he said. “I thought ya were ‘electronics shoppin’.’ Did Leo put ya up to this?”

“Electronics shopping?” Ms. Morrison said. “At this hour?”

“It’s, um, a bit of specialty place I shop in,” Donatello said. “It keeps odd hours for customers like me. And no,” Don said, turning an annoyed gaze on Raphael, “Leo did not put me up to this. He didn’t put me up to anything. As far as everyone else knows, I am ‘electronics shopping’.”

“Then what the—what in the world are ya doin’ here?” Raph said. “Followin’ me and spyin’ on me like… like I’m off getting myself into trouble or somethin’!”

“To be fair, you do get yourself into trouble a lot,” Donatello said without even thinking, “But no, I didn’t think you were getting yourself into that kind of trouble.”

“Then what kind did ya think I was gettin’ into!” Raphael practically exploded.

“Boys!” Ms. Morrison’s voice cut through the tension, and almost immediately, they both backed down. “Raphael,” she chided him. “At least hear your brother out. He might have a perfectly good reason for following you. And Donatello,” Don straightened in his seat. “Go a bit easier on Raphael. I don’t know what kind of trouble you think he’s gotten himself into before, but he’s a good boy, very helpful, and good company to an old woman like myself.”

Don was a little surprised at the defense, but he, like Raphael, responded with a respectful “Yes, ma’am” before continuing with his explanation.

“I followed you because I was concerned,” Donatello explained, his voice going back to a soft, almost apologetic tone as he looked at his tea. “You’ve been asking me a lot of questions about repairing things lately. At first, I thought that you were helping April, one of our friends,” he explained to Ms. Morrison as an aside, “because Casey’s been busy lately, or maybe you were just trying to learn more to help me out, which I appreciate, but I got suspicious when you started asking me about gas appliances. We don’t have any, or if we did, I’ve converted them over to electric at this point, and April doesn’t have any either.” He looked back up at Raph. “The heater today was just confirmation that something was going on, and you left before I could answer your question. Knowing how tricky working with gas can be if you don’t do it right, and not knowing the state of the appliance you were working with, well… I was worried.”

“So, ya followed me,” Raph said flatly.

Donnie raised his chin and looked his brother in the eyes. “I did,” he said. “I didn’t want to intrude if it wasn’t necessary, so I planned to keep my distance. And, provided it wasn’t anything dangerous, I wasn’t going to tell Leo or Mikey. I just wanted to make sure that you were working safely with whatever it was that you were working with. If it was, I was just going to walk away and keep it to myself.” He glanced around the house, and at Ms. Morrison. “For the record, I don’t see a reason to tell them anything even now.”

Donatello saw Raphael relax a little at that, and Don knew that he had made the right call. Whatever this was, it was important to Raphael to keep it his and his alone.

“Ah, I see,” Ms. Morrison said, although her lips turned up a bit at her phrasing, clearly a bit amused. Raphael finally sat down, and Donatello watched as a white cat jumped up on him, clearly comfortable. “You were asking your brother about repairing my things. What a thoughtful boy you are, Raphael. And your brother just wanted to make sure that you were being safe. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just invite him over to help. I wouldn’t have minded.”

Don blinked, for a moment wondering if he was imagining it, but no, he wasn’t. Raphael was looking embarrassed. “I, uh, I haven’t exactly told anyone about me coming over here so often,” he said. “I… it’s just nice, ya know? Bein’ able to come here and talk ta ya and help out. I just… I wanted to keep that.” He sort of mumbled the last part, but they heard it anyway.

“That’s right,” Ms. Morrison said. “You have four brothers, don’t you? And are being raised by your father. I’d imagine that privacy and things that are just yours are hard to come by.”

Both Donatello and Raphael laughed lightly at that.

“You’re right, Ms. M,” Raph said.

“I don’t think there’s ever been a time when we weren’t in each other’s space or business somehow,” Don said. “And someone has always borrowed someone’s something to do something it wasn’t intended to do.”

“Especially Mikey,” Raphael said.

“Especially Mikey,” Donatello agreed.

Ms. Morrison chuckled at them. “Well, then I’m glad that I was able to give you that space, Raphael. And it seems as if Donatello is willing to let you have it as well.”

“Sure,” Don said. “Like I said, I was just going to walk away, if everything was fine.”

Raph looked at him for a moment, then gently elbowed him in the side. “Well, boy genius?” he said. “Is everythin’ alright?”

Don grinned at him. “Well… not exactly. I brought some more tools with me that might be more useful than the ones that you took.”

Raph’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, just how long were ya watchin’ me?”

Don’s grin turned cheeky. “Long enough to draw up new blueprints in my head for some modifications I want to do to the Battleshell.”

“You are one sneaking tu—teenager, Don.” Raph said, catching himself just before he said “turtle.”

“Of course,” Don rebutted. “You don’t think you’re the only one that sneaks out, do you?”

They both grinned at each other, and Ms. Morrison chuckled.

Raph finished off his tea, and then stood up. “Alright, Brainiac, since yer here, why don’t ya walk me through fixin’ this heater?”

Don smiled at him, a genuine one, and stood as well. “Sure thing, Raph. Ms. Morrison. Would you mind if I give Raphael a hand?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Its good boys like you two that give me hope for the future.”

They walked with Ms. Morrison back to the living room where the heater was located, the cat, who Donnie found out was named Lucy after she crawled on his shell when he and Raph were working, walking with them. Then the two brothers got to work, Raph taking on the main bulk of it while Donnie walked him through the process, teaching as he went. As he expected, Raphael caught on quickly and had an intuitive knowledge about it, his practiced hands in the garage translating over nicely to work like this. It didn’t take them more than an hour to get the heater back up and running and for Raphael to look satisfied with what he had done. Don could have had it fixed in a fraction of the time, sure, but he didn’t mind spending the hour with his brother, helping him learn, and found that Raph’s expression was well worth the extra time.

Afterward, he checked over Raphael’s other work wanting to make sure that anything with gas was properly installed and repaired. Most of it was good work, and Don made sure to let Raph know that. The only “fixes” he really made were more of adjustments that he knew would help in the long run, and those he had learned from experience.

Ms. Morrison fed them some cookies before they left, and thanked the both of them once again, telling Raphael that she looked forward to his next visit, and telling Donatello that she hoped she’d hear from him again at some point.

“Yeah... I might bring him around every once in a while,” Raph said, and Don couldn’t help the warm feeling that grew in him, knowing that Raphael was willing letting him into a sanctuary that he had.

As the two brothers walked away, Raph slung an arm around Donnie’s shoulders. “Ya know… there’s probably still a couple of hours left before Leo tries to call ya to make sure you’re alright. That’d be enough time to get at least a little of your shoppin’ done, won’t it?”

Don turned his head to look at his brother and grinned. “Why, Raphael, are you volunteering to come ‘electronics shopping’ with me?”

Raph’s arm moved up, giving Don a light noogie. “Only for a little bit,” he said. “At least until Fearless can’t stand that both of us are out, even if he’ll let us stay out longer if we’re together.”

“Hm. Pushing Leo to the edge and getting hard to find components. Sounds like a win-win to me,” Donnie said with a grin.

Raph grinned back at him and his not oft seen display of pushing back on Leonardo, and headed up towards the rooftops. Don followed him quickly, and both brothers took off, a little lighter in mind and spirit as they ran alongside each other.

#TMNT #TMNT 2003 #TMNT2k3 #tmnt donatello #tmnt raphael #TMNT fanfic #TMNT fan fiction

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