Summary: The mission begins.

Reviewer Alexa - Thanks - so glad you liked the striptease! I debated taking it that far, but I guess just call it my nod to all the antics the cast got up to at Comic Cons and such over the years ha. And I'm even more thrilled to hear that you enjoyed launch from the women's perspectives. OUAT is filled with such strong women characters, and the loved ones who stayed on the ground during the real-life missions almost had it harder, I think - so it seemed like the prefect fit for this tale. :)

Reviewer agenttiki - Welcome and cheers! I'm immensely flattered that you found all 20 chapters binge-worthy, and I'm so appreciative that you took a moment to reach out with a review comment! Thank you for commenting on the character voices - ensembles are a nice challenge to ensure that each character retains their voice and one doesn't get strictly relegated to exposition - especially when they're all established characters that people love! Thank you again for your feedback!

By +005:21:05 on the mission clock, he nailed transposition, docking and extraction. Of course, he did. Capturing and commandeering ships was a pirate's specialty, after all.

Killian had trained for four years to execute the critical 2-hour procedure of connecting the command module to the lunar module for the journey to the moon. It was a process he could just about do in his sleep. And bloody good thing, too.

The exhilaration of launch and those first moments of true weightlessness had been unlike anything he'd ever known. So much better than any ride on the vomit comet by far and away. He found the sheer awe of the experience breathtaking, staring in wonderment at the expanse of stars out his window, at the aimless floating of his suit helmet and gloves as he shed his white flight suit.

David and Robin teased him mercilessly for the first ten minutes despite their own joy and satisfaction with the launch. But then, it was time to go to work. David and Killian switched seats, and Killian did what he did best.

With the LM secure, it was time to put Earth in the rearview mirror. He keyed the trajectory into the guidance computer, already beginning to feel an ache grow in the small of his back.

He'd been well educated that the realities of spaceflight were far harsher – and more disgusting – than any of the glamorous images portrayed in the newspaper. In fact, by modern standards, the living conditions were downright inhospitable, yet somehow he felt he'd be right at home on an eighteenth-century sailing ship. Albeit, one configured for the vacuum of space.

By +019:01:19, his back ached endlessly. David warned him no manner of onboard pain medication would provide relief, and of course, he was right. All Killian could do was curve his back into the fetal position and enjoy a few minutes of pain-free relief in between tasks. But he wasn't the only one – in fact, it was a noted symptom of astronauts on every lunar mission. The flight surgeons couldn't say exactly what caused it, but the theory they spouted mattered little. He just wanted to know how to cure the damn discomfort.

At +032:40:37, exhaustion became standard. He'd never found sleep so hard to come by – even on the nights back in bed on Earth when his mind wouldn't stop lingering on Gold's threats. Between the never abating stream of sunlight, ambient noises from pumps and compressors, non-essential communications from Houston, and a sleeping bag that didn't allow him to curl into a fetal position to ease the pain in his back, it was a miracle if he logged more than two hours of consecutive sleep at a time. Sure, there were sedatives on board, but rum gave him better hangovers than those drugs.

And truly, the less said about the human solid waste management system, the better. Whoever had the bloody brilliant idea to put the galley and waste management areas within a foot of each other needed to be fired. With sleep deprivation and touches of space sickness already lessening his appetite, he didn't need the general odors and mess from the waste management area to make food even less appetizing. At Robin's suggestion, he might just keep taking Lomotil until splashdown.

And that was all to say nothing of the real problem at hand.

He rubbed at the growing itch of stubble on his chin, tucking his knees into his chest as he aimlessly floated. The familiar thunk of the hot water pump echoed in the CSM and he glanced over at David connecting a food pouch for hydration.

So far, Killian hadn't been the most successful at switching rations with David. There was only so many times he could play absent-minded, pretending not to care about the food name labels before he attracted a reprimand. He knew he should just tell them- he knew that before the mission clock hit +000:00:00. And now - they were finally alone and not even Gold's people could install a secret listening device here.

Right?

But so far, the days had passed uneventfully and David showed no signs of physical or mental impairment. And surely, when whatever was in his food started to affect him – surely, the flight surgeon would start to notice some anomalies. The biomonitor harnesses that they each wore broadcasted a lot of varying information about their vitals – blood pressure, cardiac rhythms, respiration rates. Surely, some combination of those and the other signals would alert the surgeon before anything too untoward happened. Right?

At least, he bloody well hoped so. He didn't even want to consider that, perhaps, the flight surgeon also worked for Gold.

Gentle music floated through the module, stealing his attention as Robin unkeyed his mic, looking up from his notebook. "What's on the menu today?"

David smiled as he turned, sending a food pouch towards Robin. "Beef stroganoff with mushrooms."

Killian watched as the pouch labeled 'MILLS' floated by him. With David preparing this meal, it would be harder to affect a switch, but zero g was a funny thing.

"19, this is Houston. A little more information based on our analysis of your last burn: it looks like you got a good, solid burn. We show 94 psi chamber pressure and it looks like the propulsion system is definitely Go. Over."

Robin groaned through a mouthful of food, struggling to chew and swallow quickly, but David let go a food pouch to key his mic. "Good to hear it. "

Killian reached out for the errant pouch, disappointed to see his name splayed across it.

"Roger. We thought you'd feel that way about it."

"Here, Hook," David extended a hand, another food pouch floating by, "let me get that hydrated."

He pulled his mouth to a small smile, handing the pouch over. "Cheers, mate."

Robin hummed through a bite. "You know, this is actually, surprisingly good. I think they're getting better at compensating for our dampened taste-buds with all this oxygen enriched air."

"19, this is Houston. Do you copy?"

Killian keyed his mic, reaching for the floating pouch. "We're in the middle of beef stroganoff. That's probably why we're not answering you right away."

"Okay. Well, we don't want to interrupt."

Robin smiled. "My compliments to the chef. That beef stroganoff is outstanding."

"Roger. Understand that's the beef stroganoff. Over."

Killian tore into the food pouch, discretely taking note of the 'NOLAN' label. He bobbed his head along to the cheery tune, humming softly as he took a bite around a pleased smile. If there was indeed anything in David's food, it must be tasteless. Not that his sense of taste was great in the environment of the CSM as Robin said, but it still tasted like beef stroganoff to him. At least, this was one meal he could chalk up to a victory.

Music - now 'Angel of the Morning' - continued to fill the CSM and he couldn't help but think of Emma. She had indeed been quite the angel in the early morning light, her creamy skin glowing softly. If he could wake to that sight for the rest of his life, he would gladly pay any required penance. He swallowed another damning bite.

"Hey, Hook - you're eating my rations."

Killian looked down, feigning disbelief as glanced back up to David. "Sorry, mate. I thought this was mine...Surely, ours can't be that different - you go ahead and eat mine since I've already started on yours."

"Next time, just look alright?" David's face held a loosely chiding edge as opened the pouch and took a slurping bite. "Though I have to agree - it's not bad for food in a bag."

Killian nodded. "I've certainly had worse chow in the service…beware the RAF dehydrated roast beef."

Robin pulled a face. "Can't be as bad as navy eggs. Powdered, rubbery garbage. They made sponges sound more appetizing."

David chuckled softly. "Chicken soup took out half of my squad, once."

Killian quirked a brow. "Chicken undercooked?"

David shook his head. "Bad mushrooms. Come to find out, they hadn't been properly cleaned."

The other two men recoiled, grimacing.

"If I'd known then that they were going to use them anyway," David's mouth pinched with distant annoyance, "I sure as hell would have stopped them. We lost two days on that patrol with half the crew losing their stomachs."

"Sounds lovely," Robin turned towards the window, "if we see any space mushrooms on the way, I vote we stop. Try them out."

"19, Houston."

With a chuckle, David keyed his mic. "Go ahead."

"Roger. On that O2 transducer, our values agree pretty well with what you read onboard, but it still looks like the indicated rate is lower than what we would expect. We're still working on the problem, and we'll let you have a more complete diagnosis on it in a little while."

Killian hummed, singing along softly with the music as David keyed his mic. "Okay. It's a tight fix, then."

Robin pressed his mic. "We run a tight ship."

"Roger. Is that music I hear in the background?"

David looked to Killian with an amused grin. "Hook is singing."

"Okay. Our man with the band."

Killian chuckled through a mouthful, watching David take another bite. Music still played and he couldn't deny his satisfaction in the current moment.

For now - things were fine. He had time.