Chapter Text
It was so desperately unfair.
Months of service, months of sacrifice, months of pain, and what did NASA reward her husband with? A week of shore leave. One. Measly. Week. And it was almost over.
Lucille scrubbed roughly at the casserole dish in the sink before her, consciously slowing her breaths. She had to calm down. Flipping out would upset the boys, and it would hurt Jeff; she wasn’t going to ruin their precious last thirty-six hours as a family if she could help it. Especially since Jeff wasn’t likely to be on the surface again for months.
Which would mean he’d miss their anniversary. That wouldn’t be so bad—he’d been in space for the first, after all, and several since—if it weren’t for the fact that this was the tenth. Ten years since she’d stood out on the front lawn and promised to love him until death did them part.
A possibility that was looking increasingly likely, these days.
She blinked back the tears that threatened to fall into the sink, viciously attacking a stubborn piece of stuck pie crust. Sometimes she wished, just a tiny bit, that Jefferson Tracy could be a little more selfish. That he could bear to put his own love for his family over his duty to the rest of humanity.
But, were that the case, he wouldn’t be the man she adored.
She gave the pan a last swipe and rinse and dumped it in the drying rack with a clatter. She should be thankful. She had her sons, after all—four beautiful, wonderful boys—and she had possibly the best mother-in-law in existence. Most war wives weren’t so lucky. But reflecting on the gratitude she should have didn’t make it any easier each morning when she rolled over and found her husband’s pillow empty.
“Luce?”
She flinched, gripping the bench, refusing to turn around. If she looked at him, she’d break down, and then there went the evening. Minutes were precious. Seconds were precious. “Are the boys in bed?”
“Yeah. Even chance Johnny’s just faking sleep, though, so keep an ear open.” She listened to Jeff’s step across the tile—stayed stock still as he slipped his arms around her waist. Normally she’d turn around and snuggle against his chest; but if she did that now, if she let herself relax even for a second, she would officially lose it.
His grip tightened in response to her stiffness. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” She had to be. He needed her to be. The last thing he needed was to go back out into the fray with a massive guilt trip. But, despite her best efforts, the hurt and frustration and borderline hysteria were surging up in her throat, and everything was too much, and she couldn’t bear it a second longer—
She twisted out of his grip abruptly, eyes stinging, a sharp breath ripping through her lungs as she fled to the other side of the kitchen and pressed her forehead against the pantry door. “I’m sorry,” she croaked, knowing full well the expression of pain he’d be wearing right now. “I’m sorry. I’ll pull myself together. Please just—” Make it stop hurting, her mind begged, even as she knew it was impossible. “Just give me a minute.”
He said nothing, and she was both grateful and disappointed. She crushed the latter emotion down and forced herself to breathe, slowly and rhythmically, subconsciously taking in the sounds of him filling the kettle, opening cupboards, clinking cups and rustling leaves. He was making tea. A bubble of utter and complete adoration swirled in her chest. Jeff hated tea.
“I can’t find the good sugar,” he said, after a couple of minutes of wordless activity.
“It’s in the pantry,” she replied automatically.
“The, uh, one that you’re leaning on? That pantry?”
“Oh. Right. That pantry.” She chuckled weakly and pulled away, providing access, letting herself look at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. He was beautiful. An odd word to use, perhaps, but it was the only way she could describe him. Oh, he was handsome, sure—absolutely gorgeous—but it was more than that. Each deepening crease in his brow, each emerging thread of grey hair, each darker fleck in blue-grey eyes, held a story—a tale of bravery and kindness and sacrifice and love.
He retrieved the sugar, hefting the tin experimentally in his hand, then stepped back and looked down at her, taking a hesitant breath. “Luce, honey, I—”
“You don’t have to apologise,” she said softly. “I already know.” She half-smiled. “And I really don’t want to waste tonight sobbing, so please don’t make me cry.”
He mirrored the smile. “I’ll do my best. But I’m afraid we do need to talk.”
That was ominous. And required liquid fortification to face. “Let me get some tea into my system first.”
Jeff obliged; and five minutes later they’d migrated to the living room and curled up on the sofa facing each other, a mug of tea in her hand and a glass of scotch in his.
“Better?” he murmured, taking her free hand in his.
“Functional.” Lucille took a preparatory gulp of steaming Earl Grey. “Lay it on me.”
He breathed in deeply and rested his head against the back of the sofa. “You’re familiar with the Thermosphere Protocol?”
She nodded. “Defines the scope of the battlefield, right? No shots below 300,000 feet?”
“Yeah.” He pressed his lips together briefly, staring down at his scotch. “According to the hackers, there’s been some under-the-table chatter about scrapping it. Not on our side, to be clear, and I don’t think anyone is really serious—the consequences would be too dire. It’s all just bluster to try and lower morale. But—”
But. Lucille bit her lower lip. One shot from a gun cruiser, and bye bye to half the Midwest. She thought of her boys upstairs, asleep and oblivious, and anger churned in her gut. Why would anyone think that getting civilians involved— “I see.”
Jeff’s grip on her hand strengthened, his fingers intertwining with hers. “I’m not telling you this to scare you. I’m telling you this so you’re prepared. I’ve made some calls this week. Remember the old TA Pacific test base?”
“Kind of hard to forget my honeymoon.” Especially since it had been memorable for somewhat unconventional reasons. An abandoned tropical island had seemed like a great vacation spot—until the cyclone had rolled in. Instead of camping in a nice, sunny, sandy cove, as intended, they’d spent the week holed up inside a draughty old Cold War era hangar-slash-bunker with the heavens raging outside. But hey, it had still been fun. “You mean …”
He nodded. “I’ve had it prepped and stocked with emergency supplies. It won’t withstand a direct hit, but it’s a whole lot safer than here. So if I call and tell you there’s a threat, you take Mom and the boys and you fly out there immediately. Understood?”
She swallowed and looked down at her cooling tea, suddenly nauseous. Could she do it? Could she knowingly abandon the rest of the planet to who-knew-what fate?
It wasn’t a question of ‘could’, though, not really. She would do it, because Jeff wanted her to.
“Understood,” she whispered.
“Thank you.” He released her hand and gently tucked an errant strand of red hair behind her ear, then tilted her chin upwards. Grey eyes met brown, and they watched each other for several seconds, unwilling to put any of what ought to be said into words, scared to make the threat more real by giving it voice.
Finally, Jeff broke the silence with a low, rumbling chuckle, his hand dropping to her shoulder. “I had such grand plans for that place. Seriously, I had architects look at it and everything, a couple of years back. You know those villas you like? I was gonna build one on the mountainside. The concept art looked amazing.” He looked down at his scotch and swirled it. “I was going to tell you as an anniversary present. This year. But then the world went stark raving mad, and, well …”
Lucille took the scotch from his hand and placed their cups on the floor. Then she shuffled forward into his willing arms, and they sat, nestled together, absently watching the light die from the embers of the evening’s fire.
“Jeff?” she murmured, after about a minute.
“Mmm?”
“Be safe, okay? I don’t need you to perform some grand romantic gesture because you feel guilty about missing our anniversary. Really. Just stay alive.”
“That’s not enough.”
She closed her eyes, gripping his shirt, breathing in the scent that was somehow, indescribably, his and his alone. Only thirty-five hours left of this, and every second was worth the world. “Yes. It is.”