Title: Moonshadow (pulls us in)
Fandom: My Chemical Romance
Characters: Ray Toro/Mikey Way, Frank Iero, Gerard Way
Rating: Teen
Length: 3,395 words
Content notes: Contains swearwords, dangerous situations, vague and unspecified space threats
Author notes: I was just planning to write a few hundred words of space boyfriends, I swear. No idea where this came from. Set in the same verse as my 'Gravity' fill
Summary: Sometimes, in space, not everything is exactly as it seems.

“It’s a moon,” Mikey says, unnecessarily, and Frank doesn’t miss a beat before he punches him in the shoulder, hard enough that it makes Ray’s eyes water. Mikey scowls, shooting a glare at Frank as he reaches up to rub at what Ray can guess is now a pretty sore spot. “Quit it, dick.”

Frank grins at him, cutting-tool sharp and utterly unrepentant. “We know it’s a moon, fuckface; we’ve got eyes. The question is, what’s it doing there?”

Mikey squints at the overhead display, his head cocked thoughtfully to one side, but there’s the hint of a gleam in his eye that makes Ray suspect he’s not really taking this whole thing seriously. “Hanging,” he says, eventually.

God, Ray’s so gone on this guy it’s not even funny.

He bites his lip to smother his smile even as he steps forward to put himself in the intercept path between Frank and Mikey, as Frank scowls. He doesn’t look at the display screen though; he knows little enough about moons that he won’t have anything useful to add that Frank and Gerard between them won’t have already worked out. Also, for all that he appreciates Mikey’s dismissive humour, there’s something about the idea of the unexpected moon that makes the back of his neck prickle unpleasantly. Ray’s not a fan when space does not behave predictably. “Can’t we go around it?” he asks, placatingly, and Gerard hums distractedly, his attention still focused on the monitors in front of him.

“Frankie says not,” he says, and Frank sighs.

“Fuck sake, Gee,” he says. “What I said is that this is the only safe route through this part of space. We’re using the Yerilian black hole for cover, remember? If we skirt too far away from it or edge too close, we’re boned, and not in the fun way.”

Gerard waves a hand in vague acknowledgement, and Ray’s not even sure he’s listening - his forehead is furrowed, and he taps at the screen like he can’t quite believe what’s it telling him. Ray, on the other hand, is listening and he remembers; they’d talked about this, before they’d even taken their current cargo on board. Ray has no idea what they’re carrying, doesn’t want to know if he’s being honest about it, but their client had been adamant that it needed to be delivered from Korban to Thelia within four cycles, and that just wasn’t possible using the usual routes. Their only option had been to venture out into unmanaged space, away from the watchful eye of the Planetary Alliance, to where the star charts were less clear and the risks were a lot higher.

From the comfort of a bar on Korban, for the eye-wateringly high fee Gerard had been able to negotiate, it had seemed like a justifiable risk. Now, in the dead of space, with an unidentified moon blocking their path, well. Ray’s not so sure. He knows the stories; the ones whispered in the quiet of night in the barracks and over slow draughts in old bars with hollow-eyed old men. It’s all rumours and supposition, but every story says the same thing. The Planetary Alliance stay out of unmanaged space not because they want to, but because they have to. Because they can’t establish a foothold out here no matter how hard they try.

As the rumours go, out here be monsters.

The temperature on the bridge is always controlled, always set to an appropriate level for human comfort, but Ray shivers anyway, trepidation prickling down his spine like a creeping space frost, and he pointedly avoids looking at the moon hanging ominously on their display.

Mikey’s hand is a welcome pressure in his back pocket, and when Ray glances across at him, Mikey shoots him a quick smile, small and secretive, before he leans forward to peer at the console again. “Do we have a choice though?” he asks. “I mean, we can’t go back, and we can’t go through, so…”

Frank scrubs his hand through his hair, clear frustration visible in the jerk of his movement. “I know, I just. I wanted to try and skirt the moon itself, but the fucking thing’s a lot denser than it looks; the gravitational pull it’s putting out is off the charts for something that size. We’re gonna have to give it one hell of a wide berth, and that’s a lot of space to get noticed in.”

Something pings in Ray’s head at his words, a forgotten memory lurking somewhere in the very depths of his consciousness, and Ray’s blood runs suddenly, inexplicably cold. “Wait,” he says, “What?”

Frank cuts him a sideways glance. “We’ll need to give it a wide berth so that we don’t get sucked in for an unplanned moon landing,” he says, and Ray shakes his head in a sharp, choppy motion. There’s something niggling at the back of his head, a vague familiarity that he can’t pinpoint, but that’s filling him with dread regardless.

“No,” he says, “The other thing. What’s wrong with its gravitational pull?”

Something of what he’s feeling must bleed through into his voice, because Gerard looks up sharply from the monitors, and in his peripheral vision, Ray sees Mikey shift such that he can look at Ray more easily.

“Ray?” Gerard asks, just his name, but a clear question nonetheless, and Ray shakes his head.

“I can’t… I don’t know. There’s something about what Frank was saying, I can’t remember,” Ray says, and he reaches up without thinking to tug at his hair. It’s an old strategy he’s been using since forever to try and jog his memory; as far as he can tell, it never works, but it does help him keep focus and that, at least, generally makes him feel a little better

He’s not expecting Mikey’s fingers to wrap around his own, Mikey’s skin cool against his as he pulls Ray’s hand away from his head and tangles their fingers together instead. “Take your time,” Mikey says, before his eyes flick over to Frank. “Frankie, tell Ray again what you were saying about the gravitational pull.”

“It’s off the charts,” Frank says, bluntly, and dammit, Ray has heard that phrase before, somewhere. “By all rights, given everything we know about planetary density and structural integrity, that thing should be collapsing in on itself. Don’t ask me to explain why it’s not, because I haven’t got the first clue.”

Ray drags his bottom lip in between his teeth, ignoring the distracting pull of his crewmates attention and focusing instead on the pressure on his skin, and on the rhythmic sweep of Mikey’s thumb against his palm. It’s soothing, even as he starts to search through his memories for the context that he knows he has, somewhere. He knows those words; he just has to remember where they fit together.

Gravitational pull.

Off the charts.

Suddenly, the memory floats up, like disturbed murk at the bottom of a lake and smacks him in the face. The thing he’d forgotten, the thing it’s possible he was actually trying not to remember is a ship; more specifically, the Astoria, in all her terrifying glory, and Ray’s breath catches as, just like that, he understands precisely where that creeping sense of dread has been rising from.

If they’re in the same situation as the Astoria had been, they’re quite possibly fucked.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, before adding in a louder voice. “Guys, I think that moon might be bad news.”

“No shit,” Frank says, immediately and Gerard makes a vaguely frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“Ray,” he says, insistently, and Ray shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’ve got it; it’s the Astoria.”

Frank and Mikey are still looking at him blankly, but when Ray says Astoria, Gerard’s eyes narrow in sudden, sharp comprehension. He draws in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring.

“Frankie,” he says, cutting in before Ray has chance to add any more explanation. “I don’t care where we go, and I don’t care how you do it, but get us the fuck out of here.”

It’s probably testament, Ray thinks, to just how well they all work together that Frank’s already moving before Gerard has even finished speaking, slipping into the pilot’s seat with ease, and pulling up the navigational array with deft fingers. “I’m guessing you won’t be thrilled if I propose a slingshot?” he asks, and Ray’s already answering before the question has finished being formed.

“No,” he says, sharp and loud in the cramped space they’re in, and Frank arches his eyebrows disbelievingly without looking away from his console. Ray bites his lip. “Don’t, don’t take us any closer,” he adds, lamely. He sounds like he’s spacemad, but Mikey squeezes his hand in a gesture Ray thinks is meant to be reassuring. Frank shoots him a quick look and whatever he sees in Ray’s expression must be convincing, because he nods tightly, his fingers flying across the console as he programmes in whatever manoeuvre he’s picked as their best option.

“Not to dilute the urgency,” he says, without looking up, “but… explanation?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says, “Ditto.”

Gerard steps across to lean over Frank’s shoulder, his hand settling lightly on the back of Frank’s chair, even as he stares intently at the screen. “The Astoria was an Alliance ship that went missing in unmanaged space six, maybe seven quarters back.”

“What happened to it?” Mikey asks, and Gerard shakes his head.

“No-one knows,” he says, before he glances quickly at Ray. “Or, rather, no-one outside the Alliance knows. I was involved with some guys at the time who were really interested in it, some of them had had family on the crew, you know, and they wanted answers? But it was hushed up, and hard. There were rumours… some of the most vocal guys we knew would suddenly just stop coming around, and we wouldn’t hear from them, and then we’d get messages saying that they’d left planet suddenly for all sorts of weird reasons. It got a little crazy for a while.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think the Alliance officially acknowledges the Astoria’s existence even now.”

“Wait,” Frank says, dubiously. “Are you saying the asshole Alliance lost a ship and their solution is to deny they ever had it and do some black ops type cover up shit? That’s hinky, even for them.”

Gerard shakes his head. “They don’t deny it,” he corrects. “They just don’t acknowledge it, ever. It’s like a complete comms blackout; questions never get answered, there’s no official statement, and obviously their records aren’t public record for anything, so…” He trails off with a smile, but it’s grim and humourless. “And if you think that’s hinky, you haven’t been paying close enough attention. Every big organisation has its dirty underbelly.”

“Well, that’s just fucking aces,” Frank mutters, but Ray can hear the whine of the engines kicking up a notch, the reverberations that he knows like his own heartrate vibrating through the ship, and it helps to settle something he hadn’t realised was riled.

He’d really like them to get moving.

“What’s the connection?” Mikey asks, flicking a glance from Ray to Gerard and back again. “Clearly there’s some link between this missing ship and our heavy moon, but I’m not getting it.”

“I don’t know,” Gerard admits. “I’m guessing Ray knows more than I do.” They both look at him then; Frank doesn’t look up from his console, but Ray can see how alert he is in the straightness of his spine and the tilt of his head. It feels like a hell of a lot of pressure for the meagre information and the unspecified concern that Ray has to offer.

“I don’t know much,” he admits. “The Astoria – no-one spoke about it, after she disappeared; there was this, this… understanding that it was an off-limits topic, and, honestly, no-one wanted to bring it up. It felt like, I don’t know, bad luck, or something. But there was this one story that went around, for a while, Some low level grunt like me, who’d been in the wrong place, at the right time, and he’d heard some of the final transmission that the Planetary Alliance received from the Astoria. It was distorted, and most of the message had been lost in transmission, but there were references to something with an impossibly dense, unprecedented gravitational pull.” He glances at the back of Frank’s head, and swallows. “They said it was off the charts.”

There’s a moment’s silence, and Ray can almost see the three of them digest that information; realisation flooding across each of their expressions. Gerard’s clearly intrigued, and Ray foresees some long conversations in his future, if they manage to make it out of this, while Frank has a vaguely indignant look, like he could tip into either full-blown outrage, or bitter resignation, depending on how this plays out. Mikey, on the other hand, just looks contemplative.

“That’s unfortunate,” he says, thoughtfully, and Frank snorts.

“One way of putting it,” he agrees, with a sardonic twist to his mouth. His console chirps, and he sits up a little straighter in his seat. “Okay, course it plotted and we’re powered up so we’re as ready as we’re ever gonna be. Buckle up, fuckers, because this might get messy.”

“Do it,” Gerard orders, and he clearly braces himself against the back of Frank’s chair, even as Mikey uses his grip on Ray’s hand to drag him insistently over the co-pilot’s seat. He slips in next to Frank, finally letting go of Ray in the process, and Ray curls his fingers round the back of the chair in response, letting Mikey’s hair brush against his knuckles.

He’d tell himself it wasn’t deliberate, but Ray makes it a habit to try not to lie to himself, and in the privacy of his own head, he figures its probably okay to be a bit sappy.

Especially when he’s found himself in yet another potential life-or-death situation.

Frank hits a command on his console and there’s a sudden roar, as the engines power up to full life, and Ray feels the tilt and drag as the ship shifts from steady drift to targeted turn. The console in front of Mikey, the one still displaying the schematics for the moon, explodes into life as soon as they move; lights flashing, and notifications pinging, as a ream of text scrolls up the screen, too fast for Ray to read, even if he wasn’t standing at completely the wrong angle. Mikey cranes forward, his hand coming up to hover over the console like a marker, and from the side of his profile, Ray can see him mouthing something as he scans quickly through the information that the computer is spitting out at him.

“Um, guys,” he says, and Ray feels his stomach drop at the edge of trepidation that creeps in to colour the words. “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I don’t think this moon that Ray says is bad news is really a moon at all.”

His words hang in the air for a split second, and, as they sink in, Ray tightens his grip on the back of the chair so hard that his fingers start to ache.

They’re back to fucked.

“Frankie,” Gerard says, tightly, shattering the frozen moment like a laser blast in ice. “Go.”

Frank doesn’t wait for an engraved invitation; he’s clearly routing all available power to the engines, and Ray feels the tug as the ship jolts forward. The moon on the overhead display jerks sharply to the right as the thrusters kick in to spin them almost on the spot.

The last thing Ray sees before it slips out of sight is a patina of lights flickering across its surface, ominous in its inexplicability, and clearly not random. He shudders, adrenaline surging through him to send his pulse spiking, with a crazy hammering in his ears in a way that makes his chest feel oddly heavy and constrained.

“The hell?” Mikey says, wonderingly, and Ray doesn’t want to know, not right now. He uncurls his fingers from the chair and reaches out, dropping his hand onto Mikey’s shoulder instead so that he can feel the warmth that bleeds up through Mikey’s shirt. Mikey reaches up absently, still absorbed on his screen, and lets his hand rest heavily on top of Ray’s.

It helps, Ray’s not going to deny it, but it isn’t until Frank announces that they’re clear, relief heavy in his voice, that he‘s finally able to draw a full breath again.

“That was exciting,” Mikey says, his flat tone a direct contraction to his words, and Ray lets out a shaky laugh.

“I think the word you’re looking for is terrifying,” he corrects, and Mikey just shrugs, a careful lift of his shoulder under Ray’s palm. Frank laughs.

“Prospectively terrifying,” he says, easily, and Ray always envies him his ability to just bounce back from this shit. His own stomach is still churning. “Had the potential for terror. Terror adjacent but was averted from full-on, pants-wetting horror by some top-class piloting skills.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mikey says, with a roll of his eyes that Ray’s pretty sure is fond. He’s feeling pretty fond on Frank himself at the moment. “You’re the best, etcetera, etcetera. We get it.”

“And you better not forget it, Mikeyway” Frank says, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

“I’d say it’s intriguing,” Gerard says, musingly, and, yeah, Ray can see that. Gerard’s got that gleam in his eye, the one he always gets when he’s faced with something he can’t explain. Ray has what he thinks is a healthy mistrust of that gleam. In his experience it tends to bring them very few answers and a whole boatload of trouble.

“Veto on going back,” he says, instead, and Gerard manages to look mildly affronted, without actually losing the edge off his fascination. It’s no mean feat.

“Of course not,” he says, immediately. “But come on, Ray, we have a first-hand experience and a ton of data to back it up. That gives scope for some very pointed questions when we get back to Korban.”

Ray blinks, because, deadly moon or no deadly moon, there’s still a job to be done. “Aren’t we still going to Thelia?” he asks, even as Mikey chimes in with, “Thelia, Gee, for god’s sake.”

“Which we now have to find another way to get to in basically no time at all, or we accept that we welch on the deal.” Frank adds helpfully, and Ray winces. Gerard takes pride in the fact that they always hold up their end of the bargain. It’s a reputation that gets them half the contracts they fly.

Under any other circumstances, he thinks, if his mouth wasn’t still coated with the sour aftertaste of his own fear, the wave of crestfallen realisation that cuts across Gerard’s enthusiasm would be mildly hilarious. As it is, even now, he still kind of wishes he had a camera.

“Shit,” Gerard says, “Okay, Frankie, show me our route options. Ray, I want you to go and see how many fractions of extra power you can coax out of the engines in the next few hours, and then add them up into something useful for me. Mikey,” he pauses, and then smiles, a little crooked, “just look pretty.”

Mikey flips him off without looking up from his console. “I’ll work on the data, shithead. Two birds, one stone.”

Gerard nods, even as Ray says, “I could probably use Mikey’s help.” Mikey looks up, and his smile has a surprised edge to it, but Ray thinks he’s maybe a little pleased as well.

“Okay,” he says. “Gee, I’m helping Ray.”

“Keep it in your pants and get me some thrust,” Frank says, absently, and Ray feels his cheeks burn with heat at the suggestion. Gerard groans.

“Really, Frankie?” he says, reproachfully. “Mikey, s’fine. Ray, go do your thing.”

Frank doesn’t even look up as Ray squeezes past him, joke already forgotten as he loses himself in the star charts in front of him. That Mikey smacks him around the back of the head on his way out is, Ray thinks, entirely predictable.

Frank’s outraged shout as the door slides closed behind them is still pretty fucking hilarious.