Part 13

Neil gripped the armrests with white-knuckled hands as the plane's wheels struck the tarmac hard, bouncing the passengers roughly skyward again. A second bounce followed, nearly as hard as the first. On the third touchdown the plane stayed in firm contact with the ground.

Clare gave the wide-eyed Neil a sympathetic look as she bent to retrieve her handbag from under the seat in front of her. "It's over. The flight itself went okay, though, right?"

"Easy for you to say," Neil replied, exhaling sharply with relief as he unwound his fingers from the armrests. "You slept for the whole of it, from the moment we left the gate."

"I did not." She'd zoned out pretty good though. "Well, not all the way. I'm sorry. But we're here."

Neil was recovering quickly from the rough landing; he did manage a thin smile. "We are at that. And don't be sorry, there was nothing to be gained by you staying awake and watching me be anxious." This time they didn't have to wait to disembark, one of the privileges of flying first class. At the last minute Clare had remembered Fiona's call from the night before and her vague warning (before Clare had hung up on her) to avoid a commercial flight. She'd been unable to puzzle out the reasons why, but an upgrade had seemed as if it might be prudent, and she'd dialled the airline and made the arrangements while Neil was back in his room gathering his luggage.

Fiona's alarm appeared to be for naught, though, because so far the trip had been completely uneventful. Nothing out of the ordinary at either Dulles or on the flight itself, other than Neil's mild distress. Now Clare gave a quick look around the terminal; completely unremarkable, just the usual weekend travelers.

"Something up?" Neil followed her gaze.

"Not that I can see. Let's go." She explained Fiona's phone call on the way to the parking deck. "I had, ahem, other things on my mind, though, so I'm afraid I was a little rude and hung up on her. Here, give me that. I appreciate the chivalry and all, but you're overloaded." Neil was pulling a suitcase and toting a large duffel of his own and had been trying to drag Clare's wheeled duffel as well. He passed her the handle, and they resumed their trek.

"Anyway," she continued, "Fi was going on about not flying commercial, told me we ought to charter instead. So I've been trying to figure out why."

"Well, we weren't hijacked or rerouted through Madagascar on a puddle-jumper or anything. So that is a touch odd," Neil agreed. Clare popped the Jaguar's trunk and he lifted the bags inside.

She sent him a sideways glance as she slammed the lid and pressed the keytag to unlock the doors. "No, the only thing noteworthy was you getting airsick at takeoff," she said slyly.

"Almost getting airsick," Neil corrected her. He wagged a finger in her direction. "Be kind to me now. Just because you're some kind of zero-gravity stud doesn't mean I can't bend you over and pop you one."

"Oh, you were yakking, admit it," Clare teased. "I may have had my eyes closed but I heard you there, gagging on your immortal soul. And I peeked, and boy, were you greeeen. . ."

Neil made a grab for her. He missed the first try and Clare tried to duck between the car and the wall, but he was faster and caught her coming around the other side.

"Gotcha," he said smugly, lifting the giggling Clare off her feet with one arm around her waist. "So do we have any more smart remarks forthcoming? No? I thought not." His hands drummed a few staccato beats on her rear end. "There. That's for making fun of my sad sorry self. Now apologize."

"So-RRRRRYYY-UH." Clare drew the word into a loud, exaggerated retch. She tilted her head impudently up at him. "Better?"

Neil's answer was another gentle swat on the butt. "And that was for the blatantly insincere apology." He released her, warning cheerfully that "this isn't over. I just need to figure out how I'm going to exact further retribution. But a truce for now; let's go home. See, I'll even play the gallant gentlemanly role and hold the door open for you."

It was after seven and just starting to get dark when Clare punched the code and shut off the alarm system. "Just offload your stuff in the bedroom," she instructed Neil. "You know where it is." Earlier in the week she'd considered clearing out a couple of drawers for him but decided against it, thinking perhaps it might seem too forward. Now she wished she had - it just made more sense than making him live out of a suitcase for a week.

But if Neil minded he didn't say. Clare busied herself opening the blinds and turning on the pool deck lights while he got himself settled, noting with slight irritation that the motion sensor light at the back of the property seemed to be malfunctioning again - it kept flicking off and on at random. She flipped the switch back and forth in a futile effort to get it to behave, even though her engineer's brain knew better.

"Pretty view."

"Ai!" Clare gave a little start. "Didn't hear you."

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to sneak up." Neil wrapped his arms around her from behind. "It's pretty out there," he said again, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look. "How long have you lived here?"

"Two years, and yeah, these windows and the view over the water were pretty much what sold me on it. It faces east, so I don't get the sunsets, but sunrises can be pretty intense. I wasn't all that keen on the pool to start with, but I've ended up using it quite a bit." She leaned contentedly back against him. "It's nearly eight. Any idea what you want to do about dinner?"

"I'm not terribly hungry, probably due to the time changes," Neil told her, "but I can eat and I might as well get on some kind of schedule. It'll be nice," he added, "to stay put somewhere for a week." His arms tightened around her and he kissed the back of her neck, then rested his chin on the crown of her head. "How about we just cook something easy? I'm no gourmet chef, but we ought to be able to concoct something edible together."

"Oh." Clare paused. This was going to be a problem. "I kind of thought we might go out."

"Mmmm, rather stay in tonight, if that's okay. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate. I'll even do all the washing up after." Neil dropped his arms and started for the kitchen. "Come on, it'll be fun."

Clare shuffled after him reluctantly. "Um, there's one little hitch in that plan, is all," she warned. "Actually not so little. Major, in fact. I don't have much in the way of food here."

"No problem, all we need are some basics." Neil was optimistic. But a thorough search of the kitchen confirmed that cooking anything wasn't going to be in the plans. Neil stared at the net yield of one bag of coffee beans, some half-and-half, a can of elderly Pringles, two open bottles of Diet Mountain Dew, and a box of Cap'n Crunch and admitted defeat. "Okay, you may now amend that statement to read you don't have any food here."

"Lass, what do you eat?" he went on, incredulous. "Protein bars, meal replacement drinks, and caffeine? Please tell me I've just caught you a long time between grocery shopping trips."

Clare lifted the box of Cap'n Crunch and shook it. "And cereal. Don't forget the Cap'n. He's a taste sensation," she offered, a weak effort at disguising her embarrassment under offhandedness.

"I'm sure he is," Neil answered mildly, "but it isn't exactly crammed with nutrients. I thought you astronaut people had to pass all manner of rigorous physiological testing?" He opened the refrigerator door once more, as if the makings of a seven-course meal might have somehow magically appeared while they were analyzing Clare's diet.

"Oh wait, here's something." Having spied something in a drawer, he reached in and pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with a brownish-green substance which bore a strong resemblance to algae. He held the grim treasure aloft for Clare's inspection, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed amusement. "What," he asked, "is this?"

"Lettuce?" Clare ventured a guess. She honestly couldn't remember.

"Not anymore." Neil toed open the lid to the waste bin and dropped the bag in.

"Really, I'm sorry. I should have gone to the store this week, I meant to, in fact. It's just never a high priority for me." Clare felt her face turning crimson; what if Neil thought she couldn't afford to eat? "But honestly, yes, I do eat a lot of protein bars and stuff, but that's breakfast only. I don't live on it. I mostly eat at work at the commissary or go out with the guys there. Or get takeout. Often. It's just me here and, well, I don't see the point," she finished lamely.

Neil leaned his elbows on the island countertop and shook his head in feigned exasperation. At least, Clare thought, he was finding the situation humorous. "We'll go first thing tomorrow," she vowed.

"Ach, stop, it's nothing to get fussed over," Neil assured her. "It's just incongruous with the rest of what I know of you, that's all, which is why it's funny. Truly, I'm not particularly hungry anyway. We have time to figure out a Plan B." He reached across the island and grasped her hands. "How about a drink while we determine the next course of action?"

Clare brightened. "A drink. Yes. Absolutely. Booze, I got. Come on."

They carried their drinks out by the pool, where Clare lit a couple of tiki torches to keep the bugs at bay. She'd opted for red wine, fearing that anything harder might make her loopy. Neil had been pleased to discover a three-quarters full, albeit somewhat dusty, bottle of what he proclaimed to be his favorite, a brand of scotch whisky called The Macallan. Now he offered her a taste, and she took a tentative sip and pulled a face.

"Yuk, tastes like dirty socks."

He laughed. "Don't care for whisky, huh?"

"I'm not much of a drinker at all." Clare wiped her mouth with the back of her hand a few times. "I have all that stash mostly left over from parties here - thanks to the pool, I've kind of ended up with the status of hostess-by-default any time someone finds an excuse to celebrate something. Dad's a liquor distributor so I can get beer, wine and whatnot at cost if I plan far enough ahead to get on the shipping schedule. I just call my brother and he sends whatever he thinks I'll need." She changed the subject abruptly. "Since I failed so spectacularly on the home cooking front, what do you want to do about dinner? We could just order pizza. . ."

"Or there's the Cap'n," Neil teased.

"Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it." Clare refilled her glass from the wine bottle she'd brought outside with her and leaned over to clink it against Neil's. She was about to suggest Chinese delivery as another option when the phone shrilled an interruption.

"Ah, crap," she sighed. "Why did I even bring that thing out here?" She glared at the phone as if to intimidate it into silence.

"Go ahead and answer, it won't bother me," Neil told her. He looked relaxed, very much at home reclined on one of the chaise lounges, swirling his Macallan and ice idly around in its highball glass.

It was Elliott, on a rare night off from Mission Control. "I'm on my way home from Rina's with a shitload of Indian food if you're interested", he told Clare. "She's been giving me cooking lessons all afternoon. I assume you have a guest?"

"I do, and just a sec." Clare held the phone up. "It's Elliott," she informed Neil, "and he has food. Indian, if you're interested."

"Indian food?" Neil perked up. "By all means, if he's offering then tell him to come on."

"We're out by the pool, so just come down when you get here," Clare told her friend. "And thanks, this is really sweet of you."

"I know," Elliott replied with his customary blitheness. "Be there in about ten."

"Shitload" turned out to be an understatement. The box Elliott deposited in Clare's kitchen was loaded with an assortment of Tupperware. Clare pulled the lid off of a one-quart container and sniffed. "Yum."

"Chicken tikka," Elliott said. "And I have jasmine rice, could probably use a blast in the microwave, and oh - this is my favorite." He handed Neil a foil-wrapped package. "Onion bhajis. Try one, they should still be warm," he urged.

"Elliott, you and Rina made all this?" She was impressed; Elliott was a pretty good cook, but this was a step up. "There's enough to feed all of Mumbai in this box." She set a stack of plates and silverware on the countertop. "Your timing was perfect, anyway. We've been trying to decide what to do for dinner."

"I thought as much." Elliott took a plate and ladled some rice onto it. "I'm guessing," he said to Neil, who had his mouth full of bhaji, "that there's not a scrap of anything that could really be considered 'food' in the house. Unless you count protein powder and dry kiddie cereal. Clare, for all her sterling characteristics, does tend to forget that most people like to eat real food."

Neil swallowed and picked up a plate. "Well, no, at least not that we could find," he admitted, grabbing another bhaji. "But this is great. Solves the problem perfectly for now, until we can make a grocery run tomorrow." He put his free arm around Clare's shoulder and gave her a brief, affectionate squeeze. "Should we eat outside?"

"You two go on out and start eating, I'll put some music on," Clare agreed. "Elliott, can you light a couple more torches? The bugs aren't really a problem but we could use the extra light."

"Under control, missy," Elliott called over his shoulder, holding the door open for Neil.

Clare took a quick look at the CD changer in the house system - whatever was there had been since the Labor Day party. Mainly she wanted to be sure no one had stuck any Rush in the rotation; something told her Neil preferred to not hear his own band's music during his down time. She made a few changes, grabbed her plate and a roll of paper towels to sub in for napkins and went to join Elliott and Neil. As an afterthought she grabbed the bottle of The Macallan on the way out, in case Neil wanted a top-off.

The two were deep in conversation and didn't hear her come out. Clare stood at the top of the steps and re-balanced her precarious load before descending the stairs one foot at a time.

". . .fucking brilliant," she heard Elliott say. Then the door slammed behind her and both men turned. Neil set his plate aside and jumped hastily to his feet, retrieving the bottle and the paper towels from her as the first notes of Roxy Music's Street Life emanated from the speakers.

"Thanks," she told him gratefully. "I had visions of myself tumbling down the steps in a heap of Indian food and broken glass. And smelling like the dirty-socks-Scotch. What's 'fucking brilliant', Elliott?"

"You." Neil confirmed that they'd been talking about her. She colored slightly and shot Elliott a hard look.

"All good," he protested. "You don't have to stare daggers at me."

"It was," Neil assured her. "He was telling me about how you finished up at the top of your undergrad class at MIT. And that you completed two doctorates concurrently in just a little over a year and a half." He beamed at her, clearly impressed, but there was something else there, something deeper. He held her gaze for a moment longer and Clare felt a warm glow that very definitely wasn't from either the wine or the heat from the torches.

"And she still doesn't know how to cook. I'm warning you now, Neil, don't let her anywhere near a stove." Elliott knew how to keep her grounded, that was for sure. Clare picked up her fork.

"They didn't offer cooking at MIT," she rejoindered and took a bite of rice. "Or if they did, it wasn't core coursework, thus I skipped it. Besides, there's always you. If you decide spaceflight doesn't do it for you, I'll hire you full time."

"You couldn't afford me," Elliott parried, getting a laugh out of Neil. "Speaking of which," he went on, "I have news." He took a long sip of wine and set his glass down, looking to Clare for further prompting.

"Well, what?" she finally demanded.

"There's been a change. Rumored change, anyway, nothing definite. But it looks like I might be on your crew." He sat back and resumed eating.

"Elliott," Clare gasped, "that's fucking fantastic, pardon my French." She turned to Neil. "We used to daydream when we were in high school about being on the same crew on a spaceflight. Talk about all these hypothetical heroic antics and argue over who would be in charge. Elliott, you seem. . .underwhelmed."

"It's not definite, so don't get too excited and don't tell anyone," Elliott cautioned. "The thing of it is, the circumstances behind it really suck. Someone on your crew flunked a drug screen. And by 'flunked', I mean it was off the charts positive. That's the word, anyhow."

"Get. Out." Clare was stunned. She drained the rest of her wine in one gulp. "Who? Ceriso? He's been here, likes a party as much as anyone, but I've never noticed anything that might make me think that. . . but if you're the replacement it has to be another MS" - She stopped. "Not Para," she said in disbelief. Elliott just nodded. "Christ, he's the poster child for the corps. That guy won't even take ibuprofen for a headache. I am not believing this."

Clare turned to Neil, who had been following the exchange with rapt attention. He looked unsure whether to be happy about Elliott's sudden turn of luck or dismayed at the news that an astronaut had been caught with drugs in his system. "Scotty Peralta has logged more missions and more EVA hours than any active astronaut," she explained. To Elliott: "What in the hell was he thinking?"

Elliott shrugged. "It was his last mission anyway; he's eligible for full retirement from the Navy. Maybe he just thought he was home safe, that his reputation was untouchable. Who knows? Anyway, I've been approached as the replacement because, as you know, I was backup already. Backup's no big deal," he added for Neil's benefit. "Backup crew never get to fly, I mean never, it just doesn't happen. I'm excited, I just wish it didn't have to be like this."

Neil spoke up. "I guess I never really thought about you guys undergoing drug testing," he mused, looking at Clare with protective concern. "We'll have to be careful with you if you're going to any shows with me from here out. I hope you are, but I don't want you getting jeopardized because of secondhand pot smoke from the crew."

"Pot smoke from the crew?" Elliott echoed. "What about the band? You mean you don't"- He realized how that sounded and stopped. "I mean, not that I thought you were some drugged out rocker anyway, just that. . .oh, shit, Neil, I'm sorry. And I don't have a problem with it at all, in fact I think pot should be legalized. . .oh shut up," he muttered at himself. "Gatewood, open mouth, ram foot down throat."

"Elliott, it's okay," Neil laughed, "I know what you're trying to say, and no offense taken. Look, I'd be lying outright if I said I never did. But it's very, very seldom these days, and it's never anything more than a few hits off a joint. What can I say, I'm boring." He touched Clare's hand lightly and got up to refill his glass with ice and more scotch. "Anyone else need anything?" He held up the nearly empty wine bottle.

"Not me, thanks." Elliott finished wiping his mouth and dropped his paper towel on top of his plate. "I have to go back to work tomorrow. Missy, you seem to be imbibing more than usual tonight - you finish it."

Neil poured the last few drops into Clare's outstretched glass and dropped back into his chair, stretching his long legs out so that his toes touched hers. "Clare mentioned you're working some odd hours" he commented to Elliott.

"Tomorrow, the day after that, the night after that. . .I've decided Chavvie's a great guy as long as he's on the ground. In orbit, complete pain in the ass."

"Lots of arbitrary changes?" Clare asked.

"Not only arbitrary, but frequent," Elliott complained. "It's ridiculous - I've never seen so many requests for rewrites in one short period of time, and most of it's picky little shit that makes not a lick of difference in the overall picture. Neil, I'm sorry, you didn't take a week's vacation to listen to me and Clare talk about work."

Neil raised a hand, indicating he wasn't bothered. "Not at all, Ell. I find it fascinating, actually, and it's a refreshing change of pace to hear about someone else's work. Not as if you're CPAs talking about accounting. Chavvie, Chavez - that's the commander, the one I met when I got you lot in trouble for using the simulator?" he remembered. "Funny, he seemed really laid back."

"Yeah," Clare agreed, "I mean, I don't know him all that well, but he never struck me as the type to turn all control-freak. I hope like hell he's not treating his crew that way."

"He was fine, I'm telling you, until about twenty-four hours into it. Laughing, goofing off on the pad waiting for go, no indication he'd get so tight-assed. And so far he seems to be okay with the crew. It's just us poor saps on the ground who get an earful and a raft of demands every day. Jay's on his second CAPCOM rotation right now and they had to cut the NASA TV feed on the first day, it got that bad. They were openly cussing each other - loudly - and Jay was dropping f-bombs left and right and calling Chavvie a 'sonofabitch'. And worse. Cain was super pissed."

"I have got to hear the recording of that one - can you get ahold of it?" The wine had made Clare a little light-headed, and the image of the two veteran astronauts engaging in a long-distance shouting match in Mission Control was an absurdly funny one.

"CAPCOM - that's capsule communicator, right? The guy you see on TV footage of Mission Control down front and center?" Neil piped in with genuine interest. "Every time I've ever seen that broadcast, everything's so dead quiet."

Elliott looked at Neil. "You watch that stuff?" he asked. "'Cause I think it's like watching cement set. And yes, correct on the acronym."

"I've watched the odd bit over the years, channel surfing. And I watched the last launch. Lately I've been a little more interested." Neil's eyes met Clare's; it was too dark to tell, but she thought he might be blushing a bit. Once more she felt that flooding rush of warmth.

"Gee, I can't imagine why that might be," Elliott deadpanned good-naturedly. "But a little swearing . . .surely you've seen worse in your line of work, Neil?"

"I'm afraid not, not from ourselves, at any rate." Neil looked down into his mostly-empty glass with a wry smile. "I meant it when I said we really are quite dull. Well, compared with public preconceptions of how a touring rock band acts. No trashing hotel rooms. No drunken encounters with female fans. Geddy and Alex are two of my closest friends, so there's none of the egotistical upstaging you might expect from three musicians. We argue, sure, but it's usually not that heated and it never lasts long. Really, the closest we get to anything really zany is a lot of practical joking. General silliness. Like the fish." He grinned at the recollection.

"Fish?" Clare was intrigued.

"Fish," Neil confirmed, elaborating, "Last tour, a couple of years back or so. And yours truly was the target, and it carried on for most of the six months. I was finding fish everywhere. I'd go for soundcheck, and there would be a fish lying on my snare drum. Or I'd go to get in my bunk on the bus, and there would be a fish under the sheets. Dead, of course, just regular small garden variety fish from the supermarket. Herrings or something like that. It would stop for a while, and just as I'd start daring to think the joke was done, I'd find another one. But yeah, that's about the extent of the bad behavior amongst ourselves. Dead fish."

"That sounds like something Alex would cook up," Clare guessed. "I've met him just the one time, but based on what I've encountered thus far. . ."

"How'd you know, none other than. He had a bunch of the techs in on it, but it was his idea. Alex. . ." Neil left off with a chuckle and another shake of his head. "You made quite an impression on him, by the way," he told Clare. "He wants to know when I'm bringing 'the rocket goddess' back."

"Rocket goddess?" Elliott looked at Clare with sly amusement.

Clare gave him a look, but she was secretly pleased at the acceptance Alex's nickname implied. "That does not make it through Johnson's gates, unless you are prepared to suffer mightily for it. Put it out of your brain, right now." She was feeling too mellow to put much force into the warning, though.

Elliott avoided a direct response by standing and brushing a few imaginary crumbs from his lap. "Speaking of Johnson, I need to head home. Get some sleep, fortify myself for another fusillade of shit from Chavez." He groaned out loud. "They're undocking tomorrow, and I am so not looking forward to that."

"Landing on Tuesday, correct?" Neil gathered their empty plates in one hand and with the other pulled Clare to her feet.

"Weather permitting. If you want to observe from Control, let me know. No promises, but I might be able to talk to someone and get you a pass in. Just give me enough advance notice, don't wait until Tuesday morning. I'll be a little tough to reach, but just let Clare know and I'll give you my cell number as well."

"Really? You'd do that? For me?" The implications behind Elliott's offer weren't lost on Neil, Clare saw. An invitation to a friend, rather than a show-offy attempt to impress. Neil's unrestrainedly enthusiastic reaction was equally sincere. "I'd love that, if you can manage."

"I’ll do my best,” Elliott promised. “Now I’m going to make a quick pit stop and leave the two of you to your own devices. Whatever those might be,” he added, with just a hint of a leer in Clare's direction.

Neil rinsed the dishes in the sink and loaded them into the dishwasher, waving off Clare’s help. “I told you I’d do the washing up,” he reminded. "You can help tomorrow. Because we are going to the grocery store, and we are going to cook." He peered into the empty dishwasher. "This thing ever see any action?" he kidded.

Clare leaned on the countertop, watching as Neil stowed the remains of Elliott's cooking, which he'd insisted they keep, in the refrigerator. The music was still on - Collective Soul, now - and she felt pleasantly relaxed, almost languid. "Trying to domesticate me, are you?"

"Domesticate you? Myself, more like. But at least this week I'm dragging you along for the ride. You're going to be reintroduced to the concept of real food." Neil dried his hands and slid his arms around her waist. "Tired?" he asked, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"A little." She clasped her hands behind his neck and drew his face to hers for a slow, deep kiss.

"You know," Neil murmured, "I do love kissing you, could just kiss you for hours."

"Really? That can be arranged, you know." Clare stood on her toes so she was almost eye-to-eye with him. "I probably taste like Indian food right now, though.

"So do I, so we cancel each other out. You need another kiss." He followed through and swung her into a slow, swaying dance of sorts, decidedly off-tempo with the music.

Clare let her head rest against Neil's chest and tried to follow his lead, which proved a little tricky given that she was still a bit light-headed from the wine. Neil didn't seem to notice, though. "The drummer also waltzes?" she laughed, a play on words from part of his drum solo.

"He tries. He's not very good at it, but give him an A for effort." Neil sang along softly to the music, Sugar's "Helpless": "We've got to go to places, somewhere, I don't mind, it's special. . .."

Clare closed her eyes, savoring the music, the moment, Neil. How much had changed in twenty-four hours, she thought dimly. Neil voiced her thoughts, whispering, "bit of a change from last night, eh?" She didn't answer - no need to - just tightened her arms around him as music diminuendoed and their slow dance with it, leaving them motionless as the final notes faded out.