Musings, written Thoughts

but there's something else there. you know there is. no one's ever stayed long enough to see it, you don't think, but it's there. when you called him your boyfriend, he gave you a look to kill.

"stupid fuckin' word," is what he said, but those wet eyes of yours made him grit his teeth and let out a frustrated groan.

"but i don't want anyone else, simon."

"well..." you felt a kiss through the mask touch your cheek. "neither do i."

well, that means he gets upgraded to boyfriend status. and boyfriends get boyfriend privileges.

🐥: hi baby

💀: Bit busy. Talk later.

🐥: miss u </3 do u miss me? [Attachment: 1 Image]

he doesn't answer for a few minutes. you think, for a little while, that maybe you did something wrong. maybe he doesn't like pictures. maybe he finds them in bad taste. maybe you caught him at a really bad time, and he's really not in the mood—

💀: 👍

thumbs up? fucking thumbs up? your smoking hot new girlfriend sends you a photo of herself in nothing but her new lingerie set, and you send a thumbs up? you don't care what the fuck he's doing. you pick up the phone and dial his number.

it takes a few calls for him to finally answer. he kisses his teeth on the other end, sounding already annoyed.

"wot part of bit busy, talk later is hard to read, love, eh?"

"are you fucking serious?" you snap. "your girlfriend sends you a half naked picture of herself, and all you can do is say you like it? with a fucking emoji?"

"tha' wot this is about, yeah?"

"yeah!" you breathe. "what the fuck else?"

"y'r off, sweet'eart," simon grunts. "most gorgeous thing i've ever fuckin' seen, now don't get bloody clever now and turn this around on me, yeah? i'm workin'. i'll call."

"i'm just gonna send more now," you spit. "i'm gonna send videos. and voice notes. i'm gonna moan so fucking loud that when your big, fat finger inevitably clicks on the wrong thing, all you're going to hear in your stupid meeting is your girlfriend crying your full government name—"

"jesus, fuck," simon groans. your jaw drops when you hear something wet-sounding on the other end, and you laugh humorlessly.

"are you kidding me? are you touching yourself right now? are you serious?"

"bloody hell," simon sighs. "keep talkin'."

"you are the worst boyfriend in the entire fucking world," you say. "selfish, rude, misguided asshole that does nothing but make his girlfriend wait around all day for you to call or text or do anything, i swear to god, simon, when you get home, i'm taking my key back!"

"ah—love—" simon breathes. you lay down on the bed, closing your eyes, and the grunts you hear are too familiar. you can hear his hand, smooth and quick as it slicks up his wet cock, and you arch your back as the sounds get nastier and wetter and louder. your fingers slip down your pajama shorts. "—gonna fuckin' come—"

"i miss you, simon," you whine. you close your eyes, your fingers finding nothing but warmth and wet pooling in your panties. "miss you. miss my big boy."

"fuuuuck—" simon groans, from deep within his chest. you hear a bang on the other end, but he just laughs. you hear his deep, panting breaths, and you slip your fingers out to stick them in your mouth, whining around them as you listen to simon as he comes into his fist a little too fast. you let your fingers go as the other end of the call shuffles a bit, like he's moving around. "happy now, love? huh?"

you giggle, squeezing your thighs together.

"what? hearing you come in 10 seconds like a fresh-faced rookie?" you hum. "it makes me feel a little better, yeah."

"talk later, love. promise."

Tagged:

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Not the glass one above the range this time. The real office. Door shut. No interruptions. No room for jokes.

Simon knows what it is before the file even hits the desk.

The weight of it.

The way Price looks when he is carrying orders that matter.

"This is it," Price says.

No warm up.

No softening.

He flips the folder open and turns it so Simon can see.

Maps. Satellite images. Names he already knows. Places he does not want to know better. Strings of intel that have finally stopped being background noise and started lining up into something ugly and deliberate.

Makarov's shadow is all through it.

Not rumour now.

Not a maybe.

Active movement. Confirmed links. The sort of op that stops being hypothetical the second your captain says the word window and means deployment, not planning.

"How long," Simon asks.

Price's jaw shifts.

"Initial projection is six weeks," he says. "Longer if it snowballs. We'll be in and out of multiple sites. It's not a one hit. It's the real thing."

Simon looks down at the pages.

Six weeks.

Could be more.

Not training. Not a local support job. Not a run where he can be home in time for tea and bad telly and your feet in his lap.

A real one.

He feels Ghost straighten in him.

Sharp. Focused. Almost relieved to finally have a shape to point at.

He also feels Simon, husband, homeowner, man with your ring line burned into his finger, want to swear until the walls shake.

"Dates," he says.

Price names them.

Hard dates.

Wheels up in four days.

Simon is quiet long enough that Price looks at him properly.

"You alright," he asks.

"No," Simon says honestly. "But I'm here."

Price nods once.

"That'll have to do."

There is a beat.

Then, because Price is still Price even when the room is all steel and files and consequences, he adds, "Go home and tell your wife before MacTavish finds out and tries to break it to her with a balloon."

That nearly gets a laugh out of him.

Nearly.

He does not tell you right away.

Not because he wants to hide it.

Because he wants, for half an hour, to pretend the evening is still yours.

You are in the kitchen when he gets home, sleeves shoved up, flour on one forearm, arguing softly with a bowl of dough like it can hear you.

"There is no earthly reason for you to be this sticky," you mutter. "I have done nothing to deserve this."

He stands in the doorway for a second and watches you.

The house is warm. The radio is on low. There is a little notepad by the fruit bowl with half a grocery list and your handwriting all over it. Percy is in the window catching the last of the light like his life depends on it.

Home.

You look up and smile the second you see him.

"You're late," you say, but you are already coming over for a kiss.

He takes it.

Lets himself have that first.

Your mouth is soft and familiar. Your hands slide up into his hair. He could lose a week just standing here with you if someone let him.

When you pull back, you clock his face.

Your smile slips.

"What happened?"

There it is.

No easing into it. No chance to pretend.

He exhales through his nose.

"Orders came through," he says.

The room changes.

You feel it. He sees you feel it.

You do not panic. That is the first thing he loves you for in this moment. You do not go pale and flinch and make him carry your fear on top of his own. You just get very still.

"Okay," you say. "How bad."

He reaches for your hand automatically and guides you to the kitchen table. You sit across from each other, fingers still linked over the wood.

"It's a real one," he says. "Longer. Makarov linked. We've got hard dates now."

Your face stays composed for exactly one heartbeat longer than usual. Then your thumb tightens around his.

"When."

He tells you.

Your mouth presses into a line.

"Four days," you repeat.

"Yeah."

You look down at your joined hands. At the rings.

Then back up at him.

"How long?"

"Six weeks on paper," he says. "Could be more."

You nod once, sharply, like if you can make your body obey then the rest of you will follow.

"Okay," you say again.

He hates that word already.

"Love."

"No, let me," you say quickly.

He shuts up.

You take one breath. Then another. Your eyes look brighter, but they stay dry.

"Okay," you say a third time, steadier now. "Then we plan."

That nearly breaks him more than if you had cried.

Because there it is. The difference. The thing that changed with the wedding. You are not girlfriend hearing bad news in a borrowed flat. You are wife at a kitchen table in your own house, reaching automatically for the notebook.

He watches you stand, pull it from the counter, flip it open to a blank page.

You write three words at the top in neat block letters.

Before He Leaves

He feels something fierce and painful and impossible move in his chest.

"Bills," you say, half to yourself now. "Auto pay is set on most of it but I want the passwords in one place. Bakery order schedule. Staff rota. Mrs Talbot can keep an extra eye on close if I ask her. Your spare key with Maya in case something goes wrong with the house."

He gets up and comes around the table to sit beside you instead.

You slide the notebook between you.

"Tell me what you need me to know," you say.

He looks at the page.

At your pen.

At the calm way your hand waits.

"I need you to lock the back door when you're in the kitchen," he says. "Even if you're only gone from the front five minutes. No bins alone. No walking home late if I'm not there. Call Johnny or Gaz or me if I'm reachable. And if none of us answer, call Price. Don't care if it's two in the mornin'."

You nod and write as he speaks.

"Okay."

"I need the alarm set every night."

"Okay."

"And if that creep comes back into the bakery, you don't engage. Staff deal with him, or the police do. Not you alone."

That one makes your jaw tighten, but you nod.

"Okay."

He reaches for the pen then, scribbling his own list beneath yours. Insurance details. Unit contact number. Where the extra cash is. Which neighbour has the ladder? The code to the lockbox in the utility room.

Practical things.

The sort of things that make the leaving real in a boring, devastating way.

When the page is full, you both stare at it.

Your handwriting loops around his.

The shape of marriage, reduced to ink and logistics and shared panic management.

You close the notebook and press your palm to the cover.

"Okay," you say softly. "Now I can be upset."

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

"Come here."

You do.

He folds you into him right there in the kitchen, standing between the table and the counter, your face tucked into his neck.

This time you do shake.

Not with sobs. Not dramatically. Just a quiet tremor that runs through you once and then again.

He holds on tighter.

"I know," he murmurs into your hair. "I know."

"I hate it," you whisper.

"I know."

"I know what I signed up for," you say, voice fraying a little. "I know I did. I'm not taking it back. I just... hate it."

He closes his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

The days before he leaves are all lists and little rituals.

At base, Ghost and Simon pull in opposite directions.

Ghost likes the clarity of a real job.

The body knows what to do with purpose. With kit checks and route plans and fresh intel. The hours sharpen him. He sleeps lighter. Thinks cleaner. Notices more.

Simon hates every second he is not at home.

He finds himself checking his phone between drills, not because you are needy. Because he is. Because a photo of Percy in the sink or a badly lit shot of your lunch on the bakery counter feels like proof that the house is still there while he is being turned into a weapon again.

Johnny notices.

Of course he does.

They are in the locker room after a long day, half dressed, half feral, when Simon checks his phone for the third time in ten minutes.

Johnny looks over from the bench.

"Message from the missus," he asks.

Simon grunts.

Gaz, towelling his hair dry, snorts. "He's gone all soft. Give him another week and he'll be asking if his wife can come on deployment."

"She'd sort this place out in twenty minutes," Johnny says. "Better coffee, for one."

Simon slides the phone into his pocket and gives them both a look.

"Shut up."

Johnny grins. "See. Family man now."

The word lands strange and warm.

Not mocking. Not really.

They mean it.

That is the thing that catches him off guard.

Something about the wedding changed the way they say your name. You are not "the baker" anymore, not really. Not "your girl." Not "that sweet one from the flat."

You are family. That means something in the 141.

It means Johnny asks if you have enough people around while he is gone and does not pretend it is casual. It means Gaz quietly slips him a list of the security contacts he trusts near your end of town and says, "For peace of mind."

It means Price asks no stupid questions when Simon requests the final half day before wheels up.

He just signs the paper and says, "Go home."

At home, you pack him like you are building a spell.

The duffel lies open on the bed. His kit is already sorted, folded in those brutal practical lines you have come to recognise. Shirts. Socks. Unders. The ugly green things that never smell right even when washed. He packs his own work gear with quick efficiency, but the rest of it becomes yours.

You tuck in more things this time.

More deliberately.

Not random comfort. Anchors.

A fresh notebook with a pen clipped to the front.

He picks it up and looks at you.

"What's this?"

You smooth your hand over the duvet.

"For things you want to tell me when you get back," you say. "Stuff you can't text. Stuff you think of and do not want to lose."

His face goes unreadable for a second. Then very soft.

He sets it down in the bag like it is something breakable.

You add a little tin of butter tarts, wrapped individually so they will survive the journey.

"Those won't," he says.

"I know," you say. "That's why you'll eat them first."

"Bossy."

"You married me."

More lemon bars, of course. Packed better than last time.

A pair of warm socks you know he will pretend not to need and wear anyway.

A photo from the wedding that you almost did not include because it felt too on the nose. Then you looked at the way he was looking at you in it and decided he could cope.

He watches you tuck it into a side pocket with that same expression from the bedroom door. Like he is watching you build something bigger than a bag out of sugar and paper and stubbornness.

"What," you ask when the silence stretches.

He shakes his head.

"Nothin'."

"Liar."

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

"You make it hard to leave," he says quietly.

You go still.

"Good," you say after a second. "That's sort of the point."

His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sad.

You go to him and stand between his knees, hands on his shoulders.

"You're not leaving because you want to," you say. "You're leaving because this is part of what it means to be you. I know that. I am not going to stand here and act abandoned because I knew who I was marrying."

He rests his forehead lightly against your stomach.

"It still feels like I'm walking away from something I should be protecting."

You thread your fingers through his hair.

"You are protecting it," you murmur. "Just in a way I wish I liked more."

His hands settle on your hips.

You stand there in the quiet a while. The bag open beside you. The ring on your hand catching the low bedroom light every time you move.

"Say it," you say softly after a while.

He tilts his head back to look at you.

"What?"

"The thing you're not saying."

His face tightens.

Then he says it.

"I'm afraid to leave you," he says. "There. Happy."

Your chest hurts.

"No," you say honestly. "But thank you."

He looks away, then back.

"Ghost is fine," he says. "Ghost likes having a target. Ghost understands the shape of the work. Simon..." He huffs. "Simon keeps thinkin' about the back door lock and whether Percy's getting enough light and whether some prick from your shop decides to be brave because I'm not physically here to stare him down."

You smile despite yourself.

"Percy's a plant."

"He's your plant."

That does something very bad to your heart.

You bend and kiss him, slow and soft.

"I've got the house," you say against his mouth. "I've got the bakery. I've got your side of the bed and your stupid mugs and your weird tea order. You go do what you have to do. I'll hold this."

His eyes shut.

When they open again they are bright.

"Wife," he says, like a prayer and a wound.

"Yeah," you whisper. "That's me."

The night before he leaves is not mournful.

Heavy, yes.

Tender, yes.

But there is a steadiness under it all that did not exist in the early days. Something rooted.

You eat dinner at the table. Real plates. Real forks. Candle because you lit one without thinking and neither of you blew it out. You talk about practical things until you cannot bear another practical thing. Then you talk about nonsense on purpose. Johnny's inevitable attempt to steal something from the transport plane. Whether Gaz has ever smiled with his full face in public. The fact that Percy really does look better on the kitchen sill than the bedroom one.

You both laugh.

That helps.

When the dishes are done, the house goes quiet around you in that strange pre departure way. Every room starts to feel outlined. The packed bag by the door. The boots lined up underneath the hook. His phone charging on the counter.

You are brushing your teeth when he comes up behind you.

His hands slide over your hips and just stay there, warm and heavy.

You look at his reflection in the mirror.

His face is tired already. The kind of tired that comes from bracing for tomorrow before today is even over.

"You alright," you ask.

He nods once. Then shakes his head.

"Come here," he says.

You spit, rinse, set your toothbrush down, and turn in his arms.

The kiss starts quiet.

His mouth on yours, his body pressed close, the familiar soap and skin and Simon of him filling your senses.

Then it changes.

Not violent. Not careless.

Just fuller. Hungrier. Like he has too much in his hands and nowhere safe to put it except on you, into you, through you.

You feel it in the way his fingers tighten at your waist. In the way he kisses you deeper, almost immediately. In the little sound he makes when you drag your nails lightly over the back of his neck.

"Bedroom," you murmur against his mouth.

He shakes his head.

"No," he says, rough. "Here first."

Your pulse jumps.

This is not your first time against a sink or a counter or a wall. Married life apparently came with an aggressive appreciation for horizontal and vertical surfaces alike. But tonight there is a charge in him that feels different. Less playful. More like he is trying to leave pieces of himself everywhere before he goes.

"Okay," you whisper.

He strips your shirt off first, hands not quite steady. His own follows. Then your trousers and underwear, then his. Clothes hitting tile one by one, discarded without neatness.

When he lifts you onto the vanity counter, the cold stone kisses the backs of your thighs and you gasp.

"Sorry," he mutters automatically, and kisses the sound away.

He checks in anyway. Always.

"You good."

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

That seems to steady him just enough.

He kisses down your throat while his hand slips between your thighs, working you open with the kind of certainty that makes your knees fall wider without thought. You cling to his shoulders, already breathless, already wanting.

"Missed this," he says against your skin. "Going to miss this."

You catch his face between your hands and make him look at you.

"Then have it," you say.

Something in his expression cracks.

He pushes into you with a low, wrecked sound and you both go still for a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

The rhythm he finds is a little rougher than usual. Not punishing. Not angry. But there is too much emotion in his body and it comes out in the strength of his hands, the way he pulls you close to meet every thrust, the way his mouth keeps seeking yours like he cannot bear the space.

You hold on just as hard.

At some point your nails are digging crescents into his shoulders and his name is the only word left in your mouth.

When it gets too much in this position, too much standing and counter and his knees surely going to give eventually, he carries you to bed without breaking the kiss.

He lays you down and follows immediately, hands all over you, like if he stops touching you for one second he will lose the thread.

This time you roll him.

His eyes go wide for a second as you push him onto his back and climb over him, hair falling around your shoulders, ring glinting in the lamp light as you brace a hand on his chest.

"Let me see you," you say softly. "Need to."

His throat works.

"Alright."

You take him in slowly, watching his face the whole way.

That is what you want tonight. Not darkness. Not your cheek pressed into the pillow while he grits his teeth into your shoulder.

This.

His eyes on yours.

His mouth falling open a little as you sink down.

The way his hands land on your hips with reverence first and then need.

"Christ," he whispers.

You move over him slowly at first, feeling every inch, every breath, every tremor of restraint in the muscles of his stomach.

He watches you like a dying man watches a light go on.

You know exactly what he is doing.

Memorising.

The line of your body over his. The way your mouth parts when you find the right angle. The bounce of your hair against your shoulders. The sound you make when he sits up just enough to mouth at your breast.

He reaches for your ring once, just brushes his thumb over it where your hand is planted on his chest.

"You're my wife," he says, like he still cannot quite believe it.

"Yes," you say, voice breaking around the word. "I am."

He groans and his hands flex, guiding your hips harder.

The pace picks up.

The bed creaks. Your breath comes quicker. The pressure builds and builds.

He is losing control, and you can feel him fighting to hold onto the moment long enough to store it somewhere deep.

You put your hand in his hair and pull lightly.

"Come back to me," you whisper.

His eyes snap to yours.

"Always," he says.

That almost undoes you on the spot.

You come first, shuddering, your body clenching hard around him as his name spills from your mouth.

He follows with a broken sound, hands locked on your waist, forehead pressed to yours so hard it almost hurts.

"I will come back to you," he whispers.

Not maybe.

Not if.

A vow, not a guarantee.

You kiss him through the aftershocks.

"I know," you whisper back, even though that is not exactly true. Even though no one knows.

But you know this. That he will try. That he means it. That he is pouring every piece of himself into the promise because it is the only thing he can control.

Afterward, you lie tangled under the covers, your head on his chest, his fingers combing through your hair in slow absent lines.

The packed bag waits by the door.

Morning is already on its way, no matter how much you both pretend otherwise.

You keep your palm over his heart until sleep finally takes you, and he stays awake longer than you do, counting every breath.

💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰

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Once their custom-fit suits were checked and the astronauts were ready, they walked out to greet the crowd at our Kennedy Space Center in Florida. After saying hi to everyone, including their families, the quartet made their way onto the Orion spacecraft that would carry them to the Moon.

The astronauts entered Orion and completed more checks. Next, the closeout crew closed the final hatch on Orion.

Then, it was time for the big moment – well, the first big moment of the mission: Liftoff!

Orion was on its way to the Moon, and the astronauts aboard had plenty to do.

They exercised…

and conducted interviews…

all while showing the camaraderie and collaboration that make missions possible.

And that means Rise, too! The little plush zero gravity indicator was a constant companion throughout the mission.

Finally, it was time for them to go around the Moon and observe its far side. As the astronauts began to describe features of the Moon that they saw, they had a heartfelt moment when suggesting that a crater be named after Reid's late wife, Carroll.

During the lunar flyby, the foursome experienced a solar eclipse that only they could see!

All throughout the mission, there were many moments of "Moon Joy."

After the crew completed their observation duties, it was time to start the journey back home.

On April 10, the Artemis II astronauts safely splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, bringing the mission to a triumphant end.

These GIFs are just a taste of the amazing imagery and memorable moments from Artemis II. Relive it all on our YouTube channel: youtube.com/NASA