#sfth bubba

"Are your legs bothering you?" Jeremiah asked. "I can bring you some of that special ointment the doc gave us."

Bubba reached out absently, rubbing the seam between his skin and the cube prosthetics, but he shook his head. 

"No, it's fine," he said without looking up at Jeremiah. 

"Some tea then? I think we still have a few bags of that chamomile blend that you said you liked."

"I said it's fine," Bubba insisted, and Jeremiah frowned. 

"You've not slept right since we got home, Bubba, don't think I haven't noticed. Do you need the blankets changed, a different pillow? A new prescription for ambien? I want to help you, but I can only do that if I know what the problem is." 

He took a step closer to his husband and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

"Don't touch me!" Bubba exclaimed, violently jerking out from under Jeremiah's arm and getting to his feet.

Jeremiah froze, holding up his hands in surrender.

"I just want to help-" he began, but the words died in his throat as Bubba turned to face him. 

His husband's eyes were wide and bloodshot, and the way he was staring at him reminded Jeremiah of the look of an animal in a trap as the hunter approached. 

"Why would you want to help me?" Bubba asked in a ragged voice. 

Jeremiah bit his lip. 

"Because you're my husband," he said slowly, "and I love you." 

Bubba shook his head, fresh tears welling up in his eyes. 

"No. No, you're not him. You're...you're whatever thing they put in his place. You took him from me!" 

The words lanced through Jeremiah's heart, cutting deeper than any sword ever could. 

"Bubba," he began, but Bubba cut him off. 

"Jeremiah died in my arms. I felt-" he faltered, and his voice trembled with emotion. "I felt the life drain away from his body, and then I had to leave that body behind when I went inside that godforsaken cube, and whatever you are, you're not...you can't be..." 

"Bubba, please," Jeremiah begged. "It's me, I promise that it is." 

He took a step forward, but Bubba took a step back and shook his head again.

Jeremiah's heart began to beat faster, panic threatening to swell up and overtake him. This wasn't the first time he'd had to talk Bubba down after a flashback, but normally he was able to help by reminding Bubba that the war was over, that they were home and safe and together. But this...this was a completely different beast. 

"What can I say to convince you?" he pleaded. "I'm not some...some copy, I'm the same me I've always been. I don't feel any different, and I remember everything! From the day that we met to the day we said our vows to the day that you followed me out to war with the cubes, it's all there."

"That's exactly what a copy WOULD say," Bubba snarled, and Jeremiah took a breath.

"I...I even remember dying, Bubba." 

Bubba's face shifted, ever so slightly, and Jeremiah swallowed.

"I remember the cold when the blade went in, I remember you catching me...I remember looking out at the sunrise as you held me in your arms, and I was afraid...not just because I was dying, but because I was leaving you to face the cubes alone."

"You...no, that's not possible," Bubba said, though he sounded less sure than he had a moment ago. "How could someone remember dying? It's a trick, it has to be a trick..."

"When you laid me down, I...I don't think I was totally gone yet," Jeremiah whispered, and Bubba's eyes widened. 

"You mean–"

"I was still clinging to life when you rode off to the mothercube...and the last thing I remember before it all goes dark is another cube floating over to me, blocking out the sun." 

"What did it do to you?" Bubba asked, and Jeremiah shook his head. 

"I don't know. Maybe it absorbed my body, maybe it took my memories, I don't know how the cubes work because I'm not one of them, Bubba. I just know that I woke up inside that cube, and that you were there and that nothing else mattered to me.”

Bubba closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his face twisting into an expression that Jeremiah knew all too well: it was the face he made when he was in pain. 

“I…I want to believe you,” he said, so quietly that Jeremiah almost didn’t hear him. “I want that so fucking badly, Jeremiah.”  

“Please,” Jeremiah said, his voice breaking on that simple syllable. Bubba looked up at him, and Jeremiah felt tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he repeated, holding out a hand. 

Bubba stared at it, the silence between them heavy with a hundred unspoken fears. Jeremiah didn’t move, didn’t speak, hardly even breathed; he just held his hand out, waiting. 

“You know…when I asked that cube for your life-jelly,” Bubba said eventually, his voice hoarse, “It asked me why I wanted you, and not someone more important, like Obama. Do you know what I told it?” 

Jeremiah shook his head, and Bubba’s face melted into a sad smile. 

“I said that love doesn’t have limits…and that if you can, you should reach for it with–”

“–with two hands and never let go,” Jeremiah finished, a tear rolling down his cheek. 

“So you do remember our vows,” Bubba said softly. 

Jeremiah nodded, and as the first rays of the sunrise began to peak out over the horizon, Bubba finally reached out and took his hand. His husband’s palms were rough and hardened from years on the farm, and Jeremiah ran his thumb over the familiar scars and calluses. 

As the two pulled one another into an embrace, the sun fully rose behind them. It was no longer a perfect circle in the sky, but a dazzling dodecahedron shining with the promise of a new day. Their lives, just like the earth, would never be the same again, but at least they would be able to face it the way they always had: 

Together.

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