nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *loading a pistol* moon’s stuck in a time loop. do you have extra ammo? this won’t be enough.
nasa employee: enough for…what?
astronaut: *finding extra clip of ammo, pocketing it, and getting back on the rocket-ship* don’t worry about it!
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *emerging from supply closet with a space harpoon, getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early astronaut: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: what?
nasa employee: how did you know what i was going to say?
astronaut: *punching in key pad code for base evacuation signal, getting back on the rocket-ship* i told you…moon’s stuck in a time loop.
*red warning lights begin flashing*
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *rifling thru bookshelf of operating instructions, selecting one that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: moon’s stuck in a time loop. hey, do you have anything to eat? i’m starving. *opens random drawer, finds nothing, closes it*
nasa employee: a time loo- uh, we don’t have food in here…we can’t…eat in the control room, only the break-room.
astronaut: *sighs*
nasa employee:…my lunch is in like 10 minutes, though, and if my lunch is actually STILL THERE and not STOLEN, AGAIN, i can share it with yo-
astronaut: nah, that’s ok…no time. *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* or…too much time. but thanks, anyway. OK, bye!
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: you’re…welcome? wait, a TIME LOOP?!
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: yup.
nasa employee: …?
astronaut: *sitting down next to nasa employee* so…do you ever like…wonder what the meaning of life is? the secrets of the universe?
nasa employee: aren’t you supposed to be ON the MOON?!
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: hey, what the hell is that?
astronaut: that’s the code red override klaxon. moon’s stuck in a time loop. oh, and there’s an explosion imminent. But don’t worry, we can deal with that tomorrow. So, you have any siblings? *pulls beer out of space suit, cracks tab* want a drink?
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: do you know frank in IT?
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: do you know frank, who works in IT?
nasa employee: yeah, but why are you guys back so early?
astronaut: moon’s stuck in a time loop. call frank, tell him there’s a virus in the security patch and the system’s compromised. then get the hell out of the base.
nasa employee: wait what? what? where are you guys going?
astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* back to the moon. it’s stuck in a time loop. call frank!
nasa employee: *picks up phone* ugh, straight to voicemail. i wonder wha-
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: *grim silence*
nasa employee: i said, you guys are back early…hey, what are you…?
astronaut: *randomly opening drawers until they find a pair of scissors and some duct tape, getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
*sticks head back out the door of the rocket-ship* by the way, if you go to the break-room in exactly 2 minutes and 45 seconds, you’ll catch the person who’s been stealing your lunches for the past two weeks.
nasa employee: what?! WHO IS IT?!
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: *running for the break-room* FUCK!!!!
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *sits down, sighs, pulls a beer out from their spacesuit* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: …ok, and? hang on, how did you get a beer? you can’t have that in here.
astronaut: what do you know about project floyd?
nasa employee: I mean, the usual amount? i’m not really on the project anymore, why?
*alarm begins blaring*
astronaut: COME WITH ME TO THE ROCKET-SHIP, we don’t have ti-
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: yeah. moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *loading a pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop. see you tomorrow. maybe.
nasa employee: WHAT?!
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *sighs, rubs hands over face, and loads pistol, before getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop. and, uh…you should call your mother like you’ve been meaning to. and tell her you’re not actually mad and that you will come to dinner tonight. you’re gonna be hungry.
nasa employee: wait, what? WHAT?? how do you know my mom?! why am i gonna be -
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what?
astronaut: *grabbing two pistols, an extra box of ammo, a pair of scissors, some duct tape, a space harpoon, and a booklet of operating instructions that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” starting to get back on the rocket-ship, but dropping everything with a horrendous clatter* FUCK! goddamn moon’s stuck in a time loop.
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back early
astronaut: moon's stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: what? also, hey, where’d you get that duffel bag?
astronaut: *grabbing two pistols, an extra box of ammo, a pair of scissors, some duct tape, a space harpoon, and a booklet of operating instructions that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” shoving them into the bag, and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back earl-
astronaut: *grabs nasa employee and kisses them passionately*
nasa employee: what? WHAT?!
astronaut: *loading a single pistol and getting back on the rocket-ship* moon’s stuck in a time loop, sweetheart.
nasa employee: what?!?
astronaut: a time loop!!! i love you!!! get out of the base!!! stay alive!!!
nasa employee: *presses fingers to lips, confused but intrigued, as alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee:….
nasa employee:…
nasa employee: ho hum what a regular day at the office
*alarm begins blaring*
nasa employee: what the hell is that?!
nasa employee: oh hey u guys are back earl-
astronaut: *grabs nasa employee and kisses them passionately*
nasa employee: what? what?! WHAT!?!? also, hey, where’d you get that duffel bag?
astronaut: *grabbing two pistols, an extra box of ammo, a pair of scissors, some duct tape, a space harpoon, and a booklet of operating instructions that says “AIRLOCK MANUAL OVERRIDE INSTRUCTIONS,” shoving them into the bag, then cupping nasa employee’s cheek with free hand* moon’s stuck in a time loop.
nasa employee: the moon’s stuck in a what?!
astronaut: a time loop, sweetheart, but we don’t have much time ourselves, so you have to listen to me RIGHT now
nasa employee: *faintly* …“sweetheart”?!
astronaut: in 2 minutes and a few seconds, you need to go into the break-room and find frank.
nasa employee: wait, frank from IT?
astronaut: yes.
nasa employee: how do you know he’s gonna be in the break-room? i can’t just call him at his desk right now?
astronaut: how do i know this?! because, one, time loop, ok? and…also…because…heismaybetheguywhohasbeenstealingyourlunchfortwoweeks
nasa employee: that BASTARD i KNEW it
astronaut: BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT’S IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW. hey! listen to me! go in there, catch him red-handed with your burrito, and tell him lunch is on you FOREVER if he goes RIGHT NOW and checks the last security patch - because there’s a virus and the whole system’s compromised. then you need to get the hell out of this base, ok?
nasa employee: …ok. ok. and…and what about you?
astronaut: *cocking pistol and getting back into rocket-ship with duffel bag* me? i’m gonna shoot for the moon.
EPILOGUE:
nasa employee: so, how many loops in total?
astronaut: i mean, it was hard to keep track. somewhere around six months, if i had to guess.
nasa employee: damn.
astronaut: yeah.
nasa employee: and in those six MONTHS, the best zinger you came up with was “shoot for the moon”?
astronaut: hey, you know what, i had some other stuff on my mind!
nasa employee: i mean, i guess. it sounded like you found time to flirt with me each time.
astronaut: yeah, like i said. other stuff on my mind.
*they look at each other, blush, and look away*
astronaut: sooooooo. you’re sure your mom is cool with me coming over for dinner?
nasa employee: can’t make the day any weirder. plus, i owe you for ratting out frank, right?
astronaut: he did help us save the world; we can’t be too mad at him.
nasa employee: you’ve had a little while to get over it, i might need some more time. and it wasn’t even your food!
astronaut: ok, that’s fair. what if i buy you lunch to make up for it?
nasa employee: hmm, when?
astronaut: tomorrow?
nasa employee: well, i’ll have left overs from my mom, and you might too if you play your cards right. day after tomorrow?
astronaut: honestly, anytime is good for me.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Do not send the 118,” Tommy snapped, dragging the Bell out of a tailspin through sheer stubbornness.
“We’re picking up speed,” Swann said.
There was a little he could do. The Bell fought him, but he got her nose up. If they were lucky they would lose a strut. If they were fucked the rotor would go. He was not going to let them get fucked.
“Brace yourself,” Tommy said, and Swann folded into crash position, face pressed to her knees and hands laced over the back of her neck.
The sky opened its fist and the Bell dropped fast and then faster. Tommy kept his eyes on the ground as it rose to meet them. I wonder if it will be friends with me, he thought inanely, and braced for the hit.
“There’s this place that sells uniforms and scrubs,” said Evan, who was not a shy man by nature, but there was an odd tentativeness to the words. “I pass it all the time. I could stop on my way home.”
Tommy was at the back of the hangar, standing under the burned out light. On the roof of the 118, Evan was waiting for him to flirt back.
“Fuck,” he said.
In which Tommy tries again and again and again.
For @beanarie, who won my Fandom Trumps Hate auction. I hope you like this fic as much as I loved writing it. And thank you for being so patient.
And thank you for everyone who liked and reblogged all the snippets I've been posting. It really kept me going. I love you all.
I am working on a fic inspired by @dr4gonwriter, a Groundhog Day-esque time loop fic wherein a lonely, middle-aged Gale Dekarios is trapped within a single repeating day. It's just him and his newly aching back... or so he believes at first. After the fourth or fifth encounter with a lovely stranger at the Temple of Beauty, it's clear that not all is as it seems.
The story is called Sune's Whirlpool, and this is a snippet for you. Six days ago I had promised to have it done in a week, but it looks like I might accidentally a novella so we might have to push the posting date back by a few days.
The heat penetrated every muscle, every joint, and Gale felt his entire body sag in relief as he eased himself down onto one of the underwater seats that ringed the pool. When he finally opened his eyes, heavy-lidded in relaxation, he could see a pair of people entwined on the other side of the waters.
They were unremarkable in appearance, not distinguished by any particular beauty or that animation of the features Gale had always believed denoted a particular type of intelligence. Still, there was something about them, about their unselfconscious closeness.
He closed his eyes again, willing the heat into the gnarled muscle of his back, spreading his arms out to take his weight. When he rose again to awareness the couple was still there.
Still that sense of intimacy rose from them, nearly as visible as the water vapor in the air. A quiet laugh, a brief look… there was a language there, between them, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear.
He had the eyes to see, but this was not for him and so he looked away. The sight did not pain him as it would have done a decade ago, when he had returned to Waterdeep alone. Alone after his whirlwind romance in Baldur's Gate had dissolved alongside his dreams of the crown.
That had been a love for the ages, he had believed. He'd had to believe it.
He'd been wrong.
Tagging @tiger-shrike, @alleiramagic, @theendofanerror (where my chapter 7), @heartcrystal2000, @12thhouse-sun, @the-sixth-house, @gloura, @saylofwaterdeep, @galesilkleaf , @wizard-dagger, @fireflyeyes and @asorceresswrites
time loop fic idea where andrew gets stuck in a time loop & the only way to break the loop is to make sure kateaaron survives the trip to andreil’s house…
i have a few death scenarios for aaron i need to inflict immediately… involving katelyn in it as well… maybe kevkateaaron even…
ok beans im sorry time loop fic will not be a fun time. I'm thinking this will be the intro?? we'll see i still only have vague ideas of how she'll go take my hand 🫴 let's see where this takes us
The limitations of the time loop are concrete. The day always starts at 6:14 am on Thursday, March 20th, 2025. As long as Tommy stays conscious, time moves forward until 6:13 am on Friday, March 21st, 2025, at which point Tommy wakes up at 6:14 am on Thursday, March 20th, 2025, regardless of what he was doing beforehand. If Tommy dies, he wakes up at 6:14 am on Thursday, March 20th, 2025.
No matter what he does, Tommy Kinard will inevitably wake up at 6:14 am on Thursday, March 20th, 2025, on a bare mattress on the floor of Eddie fucking Diaz’s house. An arm will be slung over his chest, the hot line of a body pressed against his side. His stomach will itch from the come drying in the hairs there, bile will rise up his throat, and he will choke on a scream.
“You ready to see Marge?” Gale doesn’t answer but John reckons there aren’t adequate words anyway to express everything lurking in the melancholy twist of his not-quite-a-smile, so he doesn’t press. “Yeah, I’ll bet…Form 1A.”
“Checked.”
Pre-flight checks. John’s mouth remembers the shapes of them better than his mind does, so he lets them roll off his tongue without too much thought to tangle the words up and spit them out in the wrong order. They get through them without trouble, much to John’s relief, and then it’s a quick taxi, a lining up on a runway he suspects he’s going to keep seeing in his dreams long after he’s settled down somewhere just barely close enough to excuse a visit or two a year, no more no less, to see the man he’d flay himself open for.
They trundle forward, then roll, then gallop, and they’re in the air and headed for home. It’s a beautiful day in East Anglia but the fact that it’s England means they still have to cut through a thick layer of clouds before they reach altitude, the world abruptly nothing but gradations of white too numerous and indistinct to describe, shapes and infinite shades seeming to come and go so subtly it’s either a trick of the light or the eyes. Still, they’re climbing, so some few minutes later they break through into the sun overhead and Gale relaxes beside him, shoulders loose and a less complicated smile on his mouth than when he hadn’t answered the question about Marge. He’s always loved to fly, and John has always loved him, and that’s never going to change.
“Not long now ‘til we’re home,” Gale hums like there isn’t still the entirety of the Atlantic ahead of them to cross, not to mention the southern coasts of England and Ireland until they reach even that – hardly a short journey.
“American soil here we come,” John grins anyway. Humoring Gale is as easy as it ever was, no matter the heaviness of everything else unspoken sitting like lead weights wrapped around all his ribs. For good measure, he parrots “Not long now, Buck.”
—//—
May 28, 1945
Two pilots – war heroes and former prisoners of both the German Luftwaffe and their own minds – are making the journey from England to a new Air Force base on the coast of Maine, and from there? Home, to embrace the sweet promises of the post-War American dream. The future they truly long for, however, a very different future than the ones they’ve been promised, cannot be found on the other side of the long journey across the Atlantic. Instead, as they’ll come to learn very soon, it may only be found in the Twilight Zone.
[Chapter 1 below the cut]
“Jesus, where was this on the weather report, huh?”
“Dunno,” Gale hums and his eyes are keen when John glances at him, soft blue muted to stormy gray by the fog pressing in on all sides. Gale’s artificially gray eyes flicker in every direction, an assessing circuit that ends on the instruments in front of them, though at least everything there looks normal enough. “Lead pilot to navigator,” Gale says into his radio; the boys have been quiet for a while, presumably asleep, but John agrees with that call — they either need a new heading or they need to be damn sure they’ve still got the right one before they dip low enough to try landing in this pea soup.
Silence crackles and Gale’s frown is the twin of John’s.
“Pilot to crew,” John tries, sharper than Gale’s husky rasp. “Someone wake Jones up, we gotta check our heading.”
Silence. Crackling. “Jones!” he barks and damn everybody’s sleep, “We gotta land this thing and we’re flying blind, damn it, wake up!”
Silence. Radio static.
“You do it, you navigate just fine,” Gale suggests, gaze darting again, mouth still frowning.
“Fine. We near enough to the tower to radio in and triangulate, you reckon?” John asks as he fumbles with his gear to try to haul himself out of his seat.
Gale doesn’t bother speculating, he just opens the long range and tries it: “Limestone Tower this is Homebound 3 requesting landing instructions. Over.”
John sinks back in his seat at the first garble of chatter through their headsets that clears quickly into clean sound.
“…-this is Clearup Tower. You are clear for overhead approach, runway 281 at 1,200 indicated. Winds are 240 at 12, altimeter, 29.96. Be advised, visibility extremely poor.”
John stills, and it feels like around him Gale and all the rest of the world holds its breath for a moment.
“Limestone Tower, please repeat,” Gale asks, a beat later than sounds natural.
ATC said Clearup. That can’t be right. They’ve been flying over the Atlantic for an entire goddamn day, this fog bank appeared over the ocean not even a full 20 miles from the coast of Maine, there’s no way-
This time the static crackles loudly enough to hurt John’s ears before it abruptly clears and allows the rest of the transmission, “———, this is Clearup Tower. Clear for overhead approach. Runway 281 at 1,200. Winds, 240 at 12. Altimeter, 29.96. Be advised: poor visibility on runway.”
Wide, unnaturally grey eyes full of an equally unnatural fear swing to meet John’s. He swallows and keeps his eyes fixed on Gale’s as he nods, heart thundering in his ears and his palms suddenly cold in his gloves with clammy sweat.
Gale’s hand is steady on the radio switch. “Roger…Clearup Tower. Overhead approach Runway 281 at 1,200. Over.”
“Buck-“
“Save it ‘til we land, Bucky. Somethin’ isn’t right.”
That seems like a fucking understatement.
They fly on in relative silence, the fort rumbling and rattling around them, and John tells himself it can’t possibly sound more hollow than it has all day, that it’s only his mind playing tricks after a long day of flying. They have a full crew in the belly, they're just playing some strange prank is all. But he and Gale are taking these boys home. They’re going home.
John charts their heading and Gale follows their landing instructions to the letter, all grim focus as he somehow sets down neatly on a tarmac with functionally no visibility whatsoever. They taxi to hardstand 3. Muscle memory.
When they stop and power down, without the engines the cockpit is deathly quiet, metal creaking and echoing softly with machined clangs as the engines cool rapidly in the wet foggy press, the clicks and bangs echoing through the frame.
“You see anything out there?” John asks, though he knows the answer already.
“No.” Gale’s quiet, studying the featureless gray swirling in invisible patterns against the glass. “We gotta get out and take a look from the ground.”
John nods around the unfounded certainty that getting out now will somehow mean going to meet their deaths. He goes first, notes the distinct lack of men clamoring for the hatches as he opens the one near the nose and swings down out of it with a rustling clink of his gear, the thud echoing up through his legs when his boots hit the tarmac. For what it’s worth, the ground and his body, at least, are real.
Gale drops down behind him and settles so close to his side that their shoulders brush.
“Okay. Eyes peeled,” Gale murmurs.
“Sure, Buck. Which way we goin’?”
If this is really Thorpe Abbotts, which is utterly impossible, then the path Gale strides off on should lead them to the tower. John marches along it right beside him, grim faced and his elbow brushing against Gale’s every other stride just to be sure he doesn’t disappear along with everyone else.
“Majors! There you are,” a voice calls out of the fog, pure relief, and John freezes with his hand clutched around Gale’s wrist to keep him close, his entire body held equally still beside him. He doesn’t relax an inch even when the owner of the voice emerges, familiar curls smashed under a knit cap and a sturdy frame swamped just a bit by shapeless coveralls. The patch on the chest reads ‘Lemmons’, clear as day, because who else could it be? “Sorry day to be testing this poor bird, can’t believe you even got cleared to fly! Any problems we oughta know about before we look her over?”
It takes a beat too long for John to answer and he doesn’t miss the flick of Ken’s eyes down to where he’s still holding onto Gale’s wrist. It’s that glance that loosens the knot in his throat enough to croak, “Seemed fit as a fiddle, Kenny. But let’s not trust the Brits too much, huh?”
“Yes sir,” Ken smiles, almost laughing. He turns his head to cup his hands around his mouth and calls, “She’s on 3 boys, let’s get her ready!”
Through the fog there cuts the rumble of a jeep, headlights turned into faint will’o’the’wisps as they swing around and trundle by on their way to the hardstand. Ken Lemmons walks past with a salute and a smile to head off to meet them there, and John uses his grip on Gale’s wrist to pull him all the way to the tower looming darkly so they can duck beneath it.
His throat is tight, voice as low as he can force it, when he glances up at the sound of footsteps creaking overhead and says, “We gotta get in there and find today’s weather report or somethin’.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
John squeezes his wrist harder than he means to as he looks back down at him only for the explanation to die in his throat, unvoiced.
“Buck,” he breathes instead, free hand rising. Despite the touch being of the tender sort they’ve never quite managed before, Gale allows it, brows furrowed and mouth pressed in a thin line but that doesn’t matter as John fits his palm against his cheek, round and pink and unscarred, still a little tan even in this wan light. He looks like he’s just stepped out of John’s best memories, and he can’t help but brush his thumb over the scar he’d had just this morning — and doesn’t anymore.
“John?”
“We’re…I got an idea but–” John stumbles, his thumb still stroking Gale’s miraculously unblemished cheek. He looks so healthy, so young, unburdened if not for the wary fear in his eyes that have seen too much. He hasn’t looked like this in so long, not since before his first mission that John couldn’t fly with him for, couldn’t find the words to warn him about properly before he left, “–it’s gonna sound nuts without any proof.”
“You sound nuts already. Let’s get moving.”
John nods and forces himself to let go of Gale entirely, but before he can get more than a step or two towards the stairs at the side of the tower Gale’s dragging him back with a fist in the back of his jacket hard enough that John stumbles right into his chest, heels nearly slipping out from under him on the dewy grass.
“What-” “Shh.”
John obeys, freezes and even holds his breath as the door creaks open overhead, footsteps on the metal grate walkway calm, and measured, and then clanging on the stairs.
“–get another shipment until after the rest of the group arrives so tell Egan and Cleven they’ve got to go pick up enough masks and parachutes for a fully staffed mission from the Brits and be back no later than supper tomorrow. I want that supply shed stocked and inventoried ASAP.”
“Yes sir.”
Huglin.
They’re out of sight here under the tower with a half-backwards view of the stairs, and it’s been years since he was the CO in Thorpe Abbotts to begin with, but John still knows his face if only thanks to how often he’d once fantasized about caving it in with his fist. He recognizes him well enough to feel some flash of that same old frustration that he’s helpless to stop, though the worst of his irritation with Colonel Huglin seems so petty now in comparison to…everything else. He may be a bastard and a shit flier but he’s got nothing on the misery inflicted by the Germans. John’ll give him that.
Huglin disappears into the fog along with the man trailing behind his shoulder, and John looks up again at the sound of more footsteps, the door creaking open again. That’d be the ATCs out next, trooping to the ground all in a line and then away, the same direction as Huglin back towards base. No more flying today.
They wait in the quiet for long minutes but all that comes to them is the shouts back and forth of the mechanics, invisible from here of course but nothing worrying or out of the ordinary (besides the fact of their existing in the first place.)
“Okay, let’s go,” Gale breathes and John’s off before he’s even finished, quick and silent across the grass and up the stairs. Gale’s on his heels and when they slip through the door into the tower it’s perfectly still, eerie if only for the way they’re both on edge and unsure. John goes straight for the day’s flight plans and weather reports and all, a careless scatter of khaki folders on the central desk. He takes a deep breath in and holds it to steady his hands.
You heard me the first goddamn time, Gale.
He ignores the radio equipment he’d commandeered not long ago to announce his return from the stalags to the only man he cared about knowing it to instead flick open the first folder he can reach, and he supposes he must gasp or whimper or make some other noise he can’t hear past the rush of blood in his ears because Gale’s behind him in an instant. He crowds up warm and solid against his back and stretches his arm out to rest his hand next to John’s so he can keep the folder open with the tip of his middle finger.
May 28, 1943.
“Jesus,” Gale breathes and, as impossible as it should be, he’s not so stubborn that he can’t see the puzzle pieces slotting into place just the same as John has. “We’re back at the beginning.”
