Work Text:
"That's stupid."
Lou looked up from his tea.
Across the room, Cole was sprawled upside down over the couch, one leg hanging off the armrest. Jay was occupying far more of the cushions than any one person reasonably should. Zane sat beside him with a book open on his lap.
"What is?" Lou asked.
"Missing the launch."
"It wasn't intentional."
"It kind of sounds intentional."
"It wasn't."
Cole pointed accusingly.
"You liked Mom."
"Correct."
"You knew you liked Mom."
"Also correct."
"You had a chance to tell Mom."
Lou sighed.
"Yes."
"And then you didn't."
"I was running."
"Slowly."
"I was not running slowly."
Jay snorted into his drink.
"History disagrees."
Lou shot him a look.
Jay raised both hands.
"I'm just saying, if I spent years in love with somebody and then discovered they liked me back, I would've found a way to arrive before the giant spaceship left."
"Thank you, Jay," Zane said without looking up from his book. "Your contribution was deeply insightful."
"It was."
"It was not."
Cole sat up.
"So what happened?"
Lou glanced toward the kitchen.
Lily was standing at the counter pretending not to listen.
Pretending very badly.
He smiled despite himself.
"What happened," he said, "is a very long story."
"Good."
"It isn't."
"It is if you tell it right."
Lou laughed softly.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
And for a moment, the years seemed to peel away.
The first time Lily left a note in his toolbox, Lou assumed it was a mistake.
Maintenance Bay Three was not a particularly romantic place.
It smelled faintly of fuel, overheated wiring, and whatever industrial cleaning solution the custodial staff were using that month.
The note was folded into a square no bigger than his palm.
Inside were three numbers.
143.
That was it.
No name.
No explanation.
No context whatsoever.
Lou stared at it for nearly thirty seconds.
Then threw it away.
"You threw it away?"
"I didn't know what it meant."
"You didn't ask?"
"Ask who?"
Cole opened his mouth.
Paused.
Closed it again.
Jay covered his face.
The second note appeared three weeks later.
Again in his toolbox.
Again with only three numbers.
143.
This time Lou kept it.
Mostly because he wanted to figure out who kept leaving cryptic messages among his wrench sets.
He considered the possibility it was a prank.
Maintenance crews were not known for their maturity.
Then Lily appeared in the hangar later that afternoon.
Grease on her sleeve.
Hair slightly windblown.
Smiling for no reason he could identify.
And suddenly the notes seemed significantly less mysterious.
"How did you figure it out that fast?"
"Your mother is not subtle."
From the kitchen:
"I was very subtle."
"No."
"Thank you," Zane said.
The third note appeared inside a maintenance manual.
The fourth arrived taped to a wrench.
The fifth was tucked into the pocket of a jacket he hadn't worn in months.
By the seventh, Lou had developed the ridiculous habit of checking every toolbox before opening it.
He refused to admit why.
The maintenance crews noticed anyway.
"Expecting something?"
"No."
"Then why are you smiling?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
After that, the notes became routine.
Inside maintenance reports.
Tucked beneath spare parts.
Folded into the pages of manuals.
Always the same three numbers.
Always appearing just often enough to keep him thinking about them.
Not often enough to force a conversation.
Years passed that way.
Years of lunches.
Conversations.
Shared walks through station corridors.
Watching launches from observation decks.
Years of convincing himself that if Lily had truly meant something by those notes, she would've said so.
Years of Lily apparently reaching the exact same conclusion.
Neither of them were particularly proud of this in retrospect.
The day of the launch began like every other.
Too early.
Too loud.
Too busy.
Lou spent most of the morning helping prepare equipment for departure.
The mission wasn't unusual.
At least, nobody believed it was.
Just another Rite.
Just another crew heading into the dark beyond the station.
Just another promise that they'd be home soon.
Lily spent half the day getting yelled at for being in maintenance bays she technically wasn't supposed to be in.
This was also not unusual.
By lunchtime she'd somehow acquired another grease stain.
Lou suspected she was doing it on purpose.
"She was."
Lily looked up from the kitchen.
"I was not."
"You absolutely were."
"I needed an excuse to visit."
"You could've just visited."
"Oh, look who's talking."
Jay immediately pointed.
"She's got you there."
Across the station, Lily was having a considerably worse day.
She had rewritten the note three times.
The first version had been too obvious.
The second had somehow been even more obvious.
The third consisted of three numbers and several years of emotional repression.
It was, in her opinion, a reasonable compromise.
Looking back, nobody else agreed.
She folded the paper carefully.
Then unfolded it.
Then folded it again.
There were easier ways to confess feelings.
Unfortunately, she had ignored all of them.
The launch announcement echoed through the corridor.
Lily stared at the note for another moment.
Then she smiled to herself.
There was still time.
The final note appeared two hours before launch.
Lou found it while reaching for a diagnostic scanner.
Folded neatly.
Waiting.
He opened it.
Expected another joke.
Another number.
Another excuse not to think too hard.
Instead he found:
143.
Written slightly shakier than usual.
For the first time, it felt less like a game.
Less like a joke.
Less like something he could ignore.
Looking back, there had been signs.
Signs such as Lily volunteering for maintenance tours despite having no interest whatsoever in maintenance.
Signs such as Lily learning the difference between six different engine components.
Signs such as Lily somehow appearing in whichever maintenance bay he happened to be working in.
At the time, Lou had believed these events were unrelated.
The realization struck all at once.
Not gently.
Not gradually.
Like a meteor through a window.
She had never been subtle.
Not really.
He had simply spent years assuming nobody could possibly feel the same way.
"See?"
Cole pointed triumphantly.
"That's the stupid part."
"I am aware."
The launch announcement sounded moments later.
And suddenly there was a deadline.
A real one.
Not someday.
Not eventually.
Now.
So Lou did the only thing that made sense.
He ran.
Someone shouted his name.
He ignored them.
Someone else attempted to ask where he was going.
He ignored them too.
He ran past maintenance crews.
Past observation decks.
Past families gathering near the viewing galleries.
Past every opportunity he should've taken years earlier.
He should have said something years ago.
During lunch.
During one of their walks.
During that festival where she'd spent half the evening standing beside him despite knowing dozens of other people.
During the observation deck conversation neither of them ever brought up again.
During literally any moment before today.
Instead, he was sprinting through the station like a man who had suddenly discovered consequences.
The station blurred around him.
Announcements echoed overhead.
The crowd grew thicker.
Louder.
Closer.
Until finally—
He reached the railing.
And the engines ignited.
Nobody spoke.
Not in the story.
Not in the room.
The ship lifted slowly from the docking platform.
Light flooded the viewing gallery.
People cheered.
Families waved.
Children pressed against the glass.
Lou searched desperately for one specific face.
One final glimpse.
One last chance.
But the distance was already growing.
The ship climbing.
Higher.
Farther.
Gone.
For a long moment, he simply stood there.
Breathing hard.
Watching the stars swallow the vessel whole.
The note remained clenched in his hand.
143.
Three numbers.
Three words.
Years too late.
Around him, the viewing gallery slowly emptied.
Families returned to their homes.
Children excitedly reenacted the launch.
Technicians drifted back toward their shifts.
Life moved forward with the same steady rhythm it always had.
Lou remained at the railing.
The note sat unfolded in his palm.
For years, he had treated it like a puzzle.
A joke.
A mystery.
Anything except what it actually was.
"Idiot," he muttered softly.
Nobody disagreed.
"So what happened when she came back?" Cole asked.
Lou and Lily exchanged a glance.
"That," Lily said.
"Is a different story."
"Did you tell her immediately?"
Lou looked away.
Cole gasped.
"Dad."
Jay stood up.
"IT GOT WORSE?"
"Significantly," Lily said.
Cole groaned.
Jay groaned louder.
Zane turned a page.
And somewhere beyond the station windows, the stars continued their silent journey through the dark.
Just as they always had.
Just as they always would.