I think my ultimate fanart fantasy involves Jareth/Major Tom. This is me kissing any possible illusion of credibility bye-bye.
[I can’t draw but… Luka, you make me ship the weirdest things.]
There isn’t any sound in space. The tether between him and the shuttle just snaps, silently. It takes him a few seconds to realize what’s happened - long enough for his momentum to carry him away. There’s no way to grasp the other end of the line and tow himself back inside. Then the radio cuts out, as he drifts farther away; he’s out of range. There’s nothing to grab onto in space, either.
There’s nothing to do but float in the cold, blue light of the world, and wait for his air to run out. He’ll fall to earth someday, when his orbit decays, but not soon enough to do any good. Even if it did, he’d burn up in orbit.
He has an infant son at home. The odds are astronomical that he, or his children, or his grandchildren, will see Tom as a shooting star, falling to earth. The odds of going to space in the first place, of any of this, are astronomical though, so Tom closes his eyes and hopes for a moment.
There’s nothing to do but watch the Earth. It’s beautiful. Only a handful of people have ever seen it this way, and none like him, floating under their own power, without a ship to bring them home.
It takes two hours and forty-six minutes before he starts to feel dizzy, and a light on his wrist starts blinking warnings - ten percent oxygen left. Then five, four…
He closes his eyes against the cold, blue light of the world, and falls asleep.
He has a dream. There’s a desert with no sun; the light in the sky is the same color as the light filtering through his eyelids when he closes his eyes. A man… thing, in some movie costume, unlatches Tom’s helmet from his spacesuit, and pulls it off. There’s air here, even though it looks like some unearthly planet, something out of a movie. The astronauts and their wives used to watch those movies together, laughing about what space travel might be like.
The man catches Tom’s chin in his hand, tipping it upward to look him over. “Hello, Tom.”
He seems to make some decision, then, and rips Tom’s spacesuit off of him like tissue paper, grabbing the fastening where Tom’s helmet should attach, and ripping downward. It isn’t any colder here in his tanktop and sweatpants, although the sand feels strange beneath his sock-covered feet.
“Would you like to make a bet?” The man asks, smirking. “If you can make it to my castle by midnight, I’ll make it so none of this ever happened, and you’ll wake up in bed with your wife.”
“And if not— ?” Tom has to ask, even in a dream.
“Then you’ll have to stay here. For good.” The king laughs, coming close again and tapping the watch on Tom’s wrist. “You have twelve hours.”
Tom only realizes that the king had his face after he disappears.