Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything had turned out beautifully! At least... that's how it felt immediately after hearing from Suki. Showing 'Out Of This World' at the Majestic?! So soon after the Moon crew's arrival into Redshore City? Buster could hardly believe it!

The show was practically built off craft glue and popsicle sticks, so he could only imagine the reaction he'd get from the owner of the Majestic if they knew the chaos behind 'Out Of This World's creation.

...Maybe it's for the best if the crew kept some things about the Crystal theater (and the making of the show) to themselves.

After all, they were gaining enough unwanted publicity after the subsequent arrest of Crystal after the show. God, Buster could remember every moment of that night so vividly. Too vividly.

Especially the parts he desperately, desperately wanted to forget. The feeling of dangling hundreds of feet off the ground, the only thing between himself and an untimely meeting with concrete being a thin button-up and a soon-to-be murder's firm grip.

The feeling of floating yet plummeting at speeds the mind can't even begin to fathom. The air getting knocked from his lungs. All of a sudden plunging down from incomparable heights in slow motion yet feeling like it all happened in a split second. The pain of his landing, the fear as he looked up and met Crystal's gaze halfway.

'If looks could kill...' He remembers thinking.

He's tried to leave the events behind him but, to his chagrin, his cast hasn't let up on their concerns. It wasn't like they weren't within bounds to be worried, for heaven's sake their director had been faced with death twice in less than 24 hours!

The problem was that their worry weighed Buster down like an anchor. Sat on him heavily like his body was encased with cement and he was being pulled down into pools of guilt and regret. He hated being a burden to them. So, he put on a smile. However, an actor can only stay in character for so long, and the cracks in Buster's facade were beginning to show.

Any time he was needed anywhere except for the ground level Buster would find himself stuck in a dazed dread. Trudging towards any elevators or stairs with utmost hesitancy. He lacked any forbearance for himself in these moments, mentally chastising himself for being afraid of the journey up.

It stunned him how, within a day, something he never dared to fear was now sending him into bouts of shock that were becoming harder and harder to shake. In the beginning, the act was easy to keep because of the frenzied organizing for the Majestic. But now, since there was a lull as everything was practically in order, Buster had time alone with his thoughts.

In flashes he'd remember everything, wringing his paws in circles in an effort to distract himself. In addition to this, Buster was practically overdosing on caffeine. He'd been avoiding sleep at all costs if it meant he wouldn't have another nightmare... Coffee had become an unhealthy escape. That seemed to be the first warning sign for the crew that Buster wasn't as well as he'd been insisting.

When it became rare to see the koala without a mug in hand, Ash was the first one to speak up.

"Everything alright, Moon?" Ash asked, her eyes hovering on the mug in Buster's shakey hand. They had ventured up to the balconies to get a true taste of the theater's size, but in the process Buster had started to go into shut-down mode without even realizing. He flinches, trying to blink away the frenzy in his eyes.

"As good as I'll ever be!" Buster turns to look out at the theater stiffly, his eyes darting down to the floor multiple times. His paw grips the handle of his mug so tightly it's a wonder the ceramic didn't shatter. "What a view! This theater is absolutely incredible."

Be it his shaking grip or the sweat beading on his brow, something sparked an unconvinced flame in Ash's expression. "Moon, I can tell when something's up." Ash reaches a paw out to his, her touch on his shoulder making him jolt. They share a flicker of panic in that moment, and Ash can't help but feel how she had when grabbing Clay's fence.

"Moon..." she says more gently, the shock wearing away. Buster holds up a paw to stop her, his eyes pleading with her.

"You just caught me off guard, it's fine, Ash." He holds out his arms in a way that only a showman could, the coffee in his mug threatening to slosh out. "I'm in perfect shape! Tip top, completely spiffy."

"Spiffy?"

Buster waves his paw theatrically, heading for the stairs. "Exactly!" He confirms with a point before hurrying down to the lobby. Ash let's out a breath, concern still sticking to her reluctant features.

Chapter Text

Ash knew this game all too well. She’d played it herself, after all. She knew how to peer through the cracks in someone’s mask and glimpse the pain underneath. It was how she’d connected with Clay. Spotting the act was the easy part. The hard part? Getting the show to end.

Easier said than done. Obviously. Ash understood what it meant to hide—to retreat so deep within yourself that no one could see you struggling. That was the burden of independence: never wanting help, never knowing how to ask for it. It was a maddening tug of war, one no one should have to fight alone.

And yet, here Buster was—fighting it alone.

Not that it hadn’t been his choice. Buster had always been the “go-it-alone” type, and Ash knew that. In fact, that was what first made her realize something was off.

Ash had been the first to notice the shift in his behavior, but it didn’t take long for the rest of the crew to see it too. They all had their own brushes with whatever Buster was feeling—just not to the same degree.

Ash’s heart raced whenever she thought about it too long: her mentor spiraling with no cushion to catch his fall. The thought chilled her. Everything they’d built could end in the blink of an eye.

Buster could have died.

She found herself venting to Clay—a man who had long since made an uneasy peace with grief. Ash thought he’d be the perfect person to reach out to Buster, though she knew she might be a little biased.

Whenever she brought it up, Clay’s response was always the same.

“Give him time. Don’t push. Not until he needs it.”

Clay didn’t think that time had come yet. The wounds were still too fresh.

Ash wasn’t sure those wounds would ever truly heal; not unless Buster faced his fears head-on. Because in the end, that was what it all came down to, wasn’t it?

This is where the second-biggest challenge came in: patience.

A quality Ash sorely lacked.

Each day, it grew harder to bite her tongue, to stay on task, to just let it be. She felt like she was doing Buster a disservice by pretending nothing was wrong—by acting as if the issue simply didn’t exist.
Clay, ever the voice of reason, would try to reassure her.

“He needs time to process. Just give him time.”

But how much time was enough?

When did patience become neglect?

When was it okay to confront him—to make sure he was really okay?

At what point did someone’s health outweigh their need for space?

That question, more than any other, kept Ash awake at night.

It had been days since Buster looked remotely alive. Without caffeine pumping through his veins, she was half convinced he’d collapse where he stood. The image lingered in her mind, unsettlingly familiar—like every other time Buster had pushed himself too far.

But this time, it wasn’t just the coffee that worried her. It was the distance.

He was drifting. Fading. Each day, he seemed a little less there. Always zoning out, always distracted. It wasn’t the usual Buster Moon daydreaming—this was different. Detached. Empty.

It was like his body was here, but his mind was somewhere else entirely…

She couldn’t bear to see Buster like this for much longer.