Making headway on my Penelope week fic! May not be some of the thoughts I was discussing before, though those will likely end up being written in another form eventually.
This one will be post the events of Epic/The Odyssey, and dealing mostly with the lingering trauma Penelope has, as well as the ways Odysseus and Telemachus try to help her through it. ❤️
I probably won’t post much about it as I want to save the majority for when her week comes up, but here’s a little preview snippet for you all anyway:
Billy and Steve get into an argument about Billy’s behavior—he baited Jason Carver until Carver punched him in the face—and Billy has the shattering realization that he’s been zeroing in on Carver in particular because he reminds Billy of Neil—just like how so many of his destructive behaviors are all about Neil. Sensing he’s about to spiral and not wanting to lash out further at Steve, he tries to leave.
“I just—don’t want you getting hurt,” Harrington insisted.
“Noted. Roger that,” he said, bitingly, and Harrington glared, losing patience. Billy tried to press Pause. Didn’t know why he was being so—“Sorry.” He breathed in. Out. “I should go. M’all screwy—I don’t wanna be a dick. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t have to—” Harrington looked gutted, and Billy couldn’t stand that, rounded the counter before he knew it. Insinuated himself between long legs, wrapped himself around Harrington’s torso and got an affirming squeeze in return. “Don’t care if you’re being a dick,” Harrington mumbled.
“I care,” Billy said, and stalled out there. He’d been on such a good stretch for a while—hadn’t felt like this in… weeks? This riotous inner mess pulling him in different directions, thrumming in that panicky, aimless way that demanded some kind of release, that sometimes ended in explosions if he couldn’t redirect it. Numb it. Drown it.
It wasn’t altogether unprecedented, periods of relative peace. Of even-keeled almost-normalcy. For one thing, Neil always lay off a bit during basketball season—the one time of year when he deemed Billy marginally less of a fuckup—so there was less to rock the emotional boat, those months. And it helped to have a Neil-approved reason to be out of the house a lot. So yeah—nothing had really sent him spiraling.
But now it was back: that roiling mass just below the surface—a subconscious disturbance that was liable to boil over at a moment’s notice, and he didn’t want to accidentally burn anyone if it did, least of all Harrington. It was partly the fight with Carver, and his mixed-up feelings about it, partly the crummy resentment that came with uncovering the roots of yet another warped behavior and finding they sprouted directly from Neil. Like Billy was a dumb puppet laboring under the delusion that he was a real boy, when really every jerk of his rotten strings was dear old dad.
Huge, heaving sigh, so big Billy could feel the lungs expand and contract within his hold. Harrington tipped his head back, and Billy obligingly dipped down for a kiss, tried to convey through the gentle press of lips that they were okay—but he couldn’t quite repress a fine tremor.
“I care,” he said again, drawing back, trying to step away. Big warm hands framed his face, and he stilled, looked up to find Harrington evaluating him closely.
“By ‘screwy,’ do you mean like that day we did this?” His pinky brushed the hoop in Billy’s right earlobe. “Because I gave you my number for reason.” A small, stern smile. “Remember?”
Billy did. It was the fourth phone number he’d ever memorized—after his home phone, his grandparents’ place, and Cherry Lane. He’d mentally placed the Harrington landline in the empty category that had once belonged to Carlsbad: In Case of Emergency. He nodded in answer to both questions.
“So,” Harrington said, leading. His thumbs stroked Billy’s cheeks, under his eyes. “Don’t go. Tell me what you—need.”
Everything went tight: Billy’s throat, his lungs, every muscle. Tight and trembling. “I don’t know,” he whispered through gritted teeth. The tingle behind his nose heralded tears. “I can’t—”
It was all a jumble. Knew he’d half intended to go home and instigate something: deliberately wake the monster, walk into Neil’s backhand, maybe add some symmetry to the bruise already blooming. You know, seize some punishment now rather than wait who knows how long for the consequences of his actions. But there was a competing impulse to stay as far away from his puppet-master as possible—to give himself over to some other force, whether human or substance, because… was being in control even an option when so much of what Billy did was a reaction to… him? And so—wouldn’t it be better… to pick who or what was pulling his strings? To at least have that reprieve?
“Can’t—couldn’t you?” Billy asked, breathy and begging, resting more of his weight in Harrington’s hands. “Tell me? What I need? What to do?”
Somehow, Harrington didn’t look confused by that—just considering, cautious. Probably helped that he already knew Billy sometimes liked being ordered around during sex, but that had only ever been little commands here and there, a cheeky means of teasing more than anything. Not quite—as all-encompassing as this.
Harrington slowly pushed back on him until he was standing upright, let his hands fall to Billy’s jittery shoulders.
“You’ll tell me if you don’t like something,” Harrington said. It wasn’t a question, but Billy nodded anyway. “Okay.”
Already Billy was buzzing in anticipation—primed to drop to his knees, or strip and bend over. Whatever mind-wiping method was on offer, he’d take it.
Harrington was chewing on his lip, lost in thought. Then he took Billy’s hand, guided him back so he could stand up. Didn’t lace their fingers together like usual, but sort of—grabbed his palm. Held it between them.
“Come on,” he said. Then, in the tone of someone testing a theory: “Past your bedtime, baby.”
Oh. Billy’s eyes went glassy as everything froze. He thought they were gonna—fuck. Not—whatever this was.
“Okay?” Harrington checked.
Billy cleared his throat, blinked till his brain rebooted. “Yeah,” he managed.
Before leading him by the hand out of the kitchen, Harrington asked if he needed anything—Was he hungry? Thirsty? Billy stared, blank, still finding his footing.
“My head,” he said, at last. “Hurts.”
They went to the medicine cabinet. He downed some Advil with the water Harrington gave him in a little Dixie cup.
Harrington kept firm hold of his hand up the stairs, and every step was a toss-up on whether Billy was gonna laugh or cry. His insides had gone fuzzy—staticky and soft. Then he was in the hallway bathroom brushing his teeth because Harrington had told him to, because Harrington would be back soon to check. Unbidden, he’d been silently running through the ABC song—keep brushing till you get to Z, Billy Bear.
He spit, wiped his mouth on a damp washcloth, his burning eyes.
Harrington smiled when he returned, murmured, “Good job,” and herded him down the hall, toward the door at the end, while good job, good job ran on a loop in Billy’s ears. Beyond the door lay a dim cavernous space—the master bedroom. The light from the hallway and the roaring en suite illuminated a massive four poster bed, gleaming dark wood bureau and wardrobe, a chaise lounge by the window…
Not allowed, he thought, nonsensically. Not allowed to be here.
Steam billowed from the adjoining bathroom, the hard surfaces resounding with the thunderous deluge of multiple taps, and the sound shot him back to—god, when he was… eight? Had it been almost ten years since he’d had a bath?
Since someone had given him a bath? Since his mother had?
He stopped a few feet from the threshold, suddenly unsure whether he wanted to…
Harrington came around to his front, ran reassuring hands up and down slack arms.
“All right?” he asked.
Billy followed the arcs of steam curling as they touched the chilly dark. “Are we not gonna…?”
“I wanna take care of you,” said Harrington. On the upsweep, he continued onward, linked his fingers behind Billy’s neck. “Let me.”
“Like this?” Because why would he—want to?
“Like this,” he confirmed. His eyes were warm—dark and steady and sure.
Billy nodded, and Harrington drew him into the golden glow, closed the door behind them. The air was humid, sticky—and between one blink and the next, the lights had softened, only the fixture over the sinks left on.
There was a shower stall to his left, but it was silent and still—all the noise and vapor poured from the opposite corner, where a shining jacuzzi set into this white marble platform was filling up under the onslaught of a pair of ornate faucets.
Harrington helped him get undressed, even knelt to peel off his socks. Billy snuck a glance at the vanity, beheld himself standing there—his broad shoulders, the cut of his pecs, his dick hanging limp from a tawny thatch of pubes.
Lifted his foot, and his foot was bare. Put it down on cold tile.
The definition of his abs, the curve of his biceps, the purple ringing round a socket the way it had so many times before. Then the image split and split and split—the compounding eye view of a bug—and he remembered, in his mother’s voice, the cadence she’d had when reading aloud:
I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child… to forget is a form of suicide.
Lifted his foot, and his foot was bare. Put it down on cold tile.
What book had it been? She was at the kitchen table while he stirred the soup. Had paused, looked at him, read it again. Don’t forget that, she’d said. Don’t forget that, Bear.
When Harrington stood, Billy’s face was wet.
He’d forgotten it. And usually his memory was so good. Too good.
“Ready?” Harrington asked, holding out his hand.
Billy sniffed, took it in that childlike grasp from before.
Heeded words of warning as he stepped, awkward, into the water, as he lowered himself into the bubbling currents of the jets. The heat enveloped him, touched every part with liquid sun, and he let out a long unwinding breath. His ass touched the smooth bottom, and Harrington gestured him toward the built-in headrest, where a jet waited to pummel every knot out of his lower back. Billy groaned, heard a chuckle.
“Good, huh?” Harrington crouched by the lip, testing the water.
Billy wiped a hand down his face, rinsing the salt tracks from his cheeks. “Been holding out on me, Harrington.” Eyed him under heavy lids, drowsy in the lulling warmth. “Really not gonna join me?”
The responding smile was so soft that Billy fought not to look away—managed not to blink until Harrington turned his attention to the taps, shutting them off, plunging them into an abrupt, echoing quiet.
“No,” he said, pushing up off of the marble to stand. “Isn’t about that. Just relax.”
Billy sighed, closing his eyes. He heard the thump and creak of cabinet doors, the thunk of items deposited by his head, but he was too droopy all over to investigate—totally al dente. So remote that he sensed Harrington nearby as though through a fog. A palm rested on his brow, smoothed the hair off his forehead.
“Still awake, baby?”
Billy swallowed—wondered why baby was different than babe, why it stung but made him wanna lean into it all the same. He nodded.
“Can you sit up?” At Billy’s whine, he chuckled again. “Only for a bit. C’mon.” He wedged a hand under Billy’s shoulder, and with an aggrieved grunt Billy was levered upright. The water sloshed, settled back to a simmer.
Harrington had pushed his sleeves up, perched himself on the marble ledge next to an array of… fancy-pants body wash and hair products. Considering that Billy was but a noodle, cooked tender by the buffeting current, it was no wonder that, when Harrington arched an eyebrow, it took him a couple beats to put two and two together. But when he did…
His face flushed. Like he was—too big for his skin, heart pounding loud. Harrington waited placidly until Billy nodded, then cupped his nape, told him to lay back. Billy didn’t speak, too focused on his breathing; tilted until he dipped like a ladle, the hot water exquisite, lapping his temples, his forehead, the hinge of his jaw. Shivered when he sat up and streams ran down his skin, dark tendrils plastered to his neck. Harrington gave him a sudsy washcloth then patted the side of the tub by his hip, and Billy shifted so his back was against the smooth surface.
A whisper, warm in his ear: “This okay?”
Billy filled in the rest—that I’m behind you?—and breathed out a broken laugh. “Yeah.” His only associations here were Ma. Just her.
While he scrubbed at his pits, his crotch, strong soapy fingers massaged his scalp, circling firm to work up a lather, and holy fuck, he did not recall it feeling this good as a kid. Damn near divine. Like, so good his dick was taking an interest—until, that is, he noticed some familiar movements up there… distinctly sculpting.
“Are you giving me a mohawk?”
“Maybe.”
Billy turned to level a joking glare at his tormenter, and Harrington let out a giggle.
“Looks good on you,” he said, then leaned over to fill up a plastic cup with fresh water from the faucet. “Tip your head back, baby.”
Billy did, eyes slipping shut, and didn’t mind at all when it took a couple cascades of water—so hot, but not too hot—to wash it out. Pretended it was cleansing him of more than just soap suds.
Harrington offered conditioner, and Billy’s eager nod made him laugh.
When at last Harrington got up to put the supplies away, Billy unfolded, reacquainting himself with the best jet by the headrest, and thought he’d never felt so… pristine. Weightless. A weird buoyancy in the chest rather than floaty in the brain, as when Harrington mind-wiped him the usual way. Like… out, damned spot. And it was out.
Drifting as he was, it took him a moment to realize Harrington had sat on the tile floor, right where Billy had draped an arm… and how could he resist? Harrington hummed when sluggish fingers sank into his hair, craned for better access, and even this spacey, Billy knew what that meant—gathered a fist of brown locks and lightly squeezed. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pull.
“How’d you know?” Billy asked, quiet over the bubbling jets. “To do all this?”
Harrington’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Gloria,” he said. “Nanny number two. Had this whole—bedtime routine. Brush, bath, story. It was the best.”
After a pause, hoping he’d keep going, Billy prodded. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harrington snorted. “She would sing, tuck me in the right way… They let her go when I was—six, maybe? Seven? And nanny number three said I was old enough for showers, so…” He shrugged.
Billy combed his fingers through silky strands, a slow sweeping arc. “No more songs? Stories?”
“She made me brush my teeth, still.”
God, that tone. It was a Harrington specialty—this jaunty, blithe bitterness—and it stabbed Billy every time.
“Babe,” he said, tugging, and when that didn’t work: “Baby.”
“You’re baby,” Harrington said, finally looking over his shoulder. Billy tugged again, and Harrington sighed, shifted into a kneeling crouch, his arms crossed on the ledge. Billy curled forward, mirroring him.
“We can both be,” he said. “You think I don’t wanna take care you, too?”
Harrington’s mouth twitched, side to side, gaze glued to the seam between fiberglass and marble.
And that… that silence was deafening—so damning that something sprang loose, and Billy was murmuring hey, reaching to tip Harrington’s chin, coax his eyes up. They shone, glimmering in the half light. And Billy saw him, in there—the child inside.
“I—” Billy choked on a painful lump. Took a beat to gulp it down. “I do. Course I do.”
Harrington didn’t say anything—couldn’t. Billy watched nostrils flare, his throat seize, the sheen pool at his lashes. Remembered that night when Harrington told him he could cry if he needed to.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can… tell me.”
It wasn’t like Billy, the way Harrington caved in. He smiled, for one thing—this ghastly crooked baring of teeth—and a few tears spilled over rictus cheeks. Just a few before he ran dry. Gasped a punctured laugh.
“Christ, I used to…” Shook his head, unfocused—a million miles off. “I used to do the routine with my bear. After she left. I’d help him brush his teeth and pretend to give him a bath in the sink and I’d read to him but I couldn’t really read so I’d just make stuff up based on the pictures…”
Billy blinked away his own prickle of tears and quirked trembling lips. “That explains it, then—why you were so good at this. You had practice.”
Harrington chuckled wetly, propped his head on his hand. “Guess so.”
He was trying—Billy was trying so hard not to picture it… a little kid with a brown mop of hair, tucking his teddy into bed, play-acting what he wanted for himself but wasn’t getting anymore.
A phantom kiss on his forehead, a sense memory from way deep in the archives, and before he knew it, he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harrington’s brow—clumsy, catching half skin and half hair.
He sank back down in the water, chin pillowed on his wrist, and when their eyes locked, something had—shifted. Thought about how they weren’t each other’s everything but were… some things.
Things they hadn’t been able to name.
“I’ll be your baby,” he said. “And you’ll be mine?”
The slope of Harrington’s shoulder rose and fell, the heave of release—relief. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. He nodded.
Because Mothers’ Day... here is a snippet from the first part of the Shatterpoint Order AU (which i apparently need to tile the individual stories of? How rude.)
The Lawquanes worked quickly to get everything into place. They must have had experience moving through these processes. As she watched Suu go about her work it slowly dawned on Hera that Rex might have had an ulterior motive in selecting these particular contacts to assist them right now.
When things were nearly in order, she approached Suu in the galley. There were few enough mothers in the Alliance and not many of them were Twi'leks. And if she was right, she might actually know things that only a very narrow group did. "I don't mean to pry but... is Shaeeah your biological child?"
There was a certain family resemblance, but families tended to form strangely in the past few decades. Her fully human children were evidence enough of that.
"Mine, but not Cut's." Suu watched her face, waiting for the real question.
So this was what Rex was thinking, then. "I only ask because I'm pregnant." She hadn't expected to tell a stranger, but she had so many questions. Actually meeting someone who could answer them was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Suu gestured at the couch. "In that case you should sit down."
She often protested when given instructions like that. Somehow hearing it from a woman who had been through the same situation was very different though. She'd been on her feet for... a while. "My doctor hasn't been able to find much information about hybrid children." Just seeing Shaeeah had relaxed a knot in her back. She hadn't even realized how much she needed to see a living person with the same genetic background as her baby.
You mentioned a sequel-"in my head,we do everything right". When is it coming? Could you perhaps give us a snippet?
Yes. That is the next story in the Armistice Series after we can still be, who we said we were. I have no idea when it might be coming as I seem to be incapable of finishing we can still be. But it shouldn’t be terribly long after that one finally gets done. I’m realizing we can still be was actually two stories and probably should have been broken in half (ending right after chapter 10). But little did I know this fic would just keep growing and growing another 10 chapters. Ugh.
in my head, we do everything right will be shorter, currently looking like six chapters. (famous last words, Annerb! Though it does just cover the summer, so…) In an ideal universe I’ll at least start posting it before the end of the year.
Here, have a little snippet of the first chapter, if you’re interested. Obviously un-beta’d and subject to change.
“I’m sorry the ride is solong,” Mrs. Granger says. “I’m sure you’re used to much…faster methods.”
Her voice is strained, and Harryimagines that has something to do with the way Molly has been saying well intentioned but rather thoughtless comments ever since they left the Burrow anhour ago. They still have two hours to go, the car packed tight between sixpeople and their luggage.
“It’s actually kind ofnice,” Ginny says. “You get to see so much more scenery this way. I think wetend to forget how much of the world is out here sometimes. Wouldn’t you say,Mum?”
Molly glances back at her,clearly picking up on her daughter’s pointed tone. “Yes, dear. Of course. It’svery interesting!”
Mrs. Granger’s shouldersrelax, and Harry isn’t surprised that Ginny knew the exact right thing to say,both to make Mrs. Granger feel better, and to remind her mum to be morethoughtful.
Hermione turns around whereshe sits between Molly and Mrs. Granger in the wide front seat. She shootsGinny a grateful smile.
Ginny just grins inresponse, giving her a wink. With that, she turns her attention back to thebook in her lap, her fingers tucked between the fluttering pages. To The Lighthouse the cover says. Seemsappropriate considering their destination.
After another fewkilometers, Ginny stretches her back, her arm brushing against his. She isn’tstill long before she fidgets again, bending her neck and pulling at her seatbelt.
“All right?” Harry says asshe continues to squirm.
Shifting, Ginny kicks hershoe off, tucking her bare foot up under her knee. Which means that her bent legis now lying across the top of his.
“Sorry, Potter,” she saidwith a challenging glint in her eye. “You’ll just have to put up with it.”
He has absolutely no issuewith it, but still does his best to look vaguely annoyed when Ron gives him a sympathizinglook.
“I suppose that’s what youget, trying to be all stupidly gallant by taking the middle seat,” Ron says.
Ginny lets out a soft noisethat sounds suspiciously like a scoff. Which, considering Harry’s real motivesfor claiming this spot in the car, he can’t really blame her for.
Besides, Ginny’s the one whokept Molly from casting a subtle enlarging charm with a look meant to remindher that this is a Muggle vacation. The Grangers are always adapting to theirworld, she pointed out. It isn’t much to ask them to do things the Muggle wayfor a week.
So here he is, wedged inbetween Ron and Ginny, and not minding one bit.
“Did you go on many beachvacations as a child, Harry?” Mrs. Granger asks.
“No. Not really,” Harrysays, not bothering to mention that he pretty much never went on vacation ofany kind. Unless that one night on that horrid island when Vernon tried tooutrun his Hogwarts letters counts.
“Your aunt and uncle aren’ta fan of the seaside?” Mrs. Granger asks, aware enough of Harry’s situation to knowhe’s an orphan, but not enough to know how ridiculous that question is.
He tries to imagine it, theDursleys sitting on a beach. With all that that sand and people running about. “Um,they went to Majorca a few times. But I always stayed behind with Mrs. Figg.”
Ron snorts. “Better off ifyou ask me.”
“You never had to put upwith her cats,” Harry says.
They both laugh, and thatfeels better.
Ginny’s knee presses gentlydown on his leg, and it takes a lot of control not to reach out and touch thesoft skin so tantalizingly within reach.
Maybe taking the middleseat was a bad idea after all.
“We went sometimes as kids,”Ginny says. “The whole lot of us. Building castles and dragons out of sand,throwing each other in the water. Building bonfires right there on the beach.”
“Sounds fun,” he says.
Her nose wrinkles. “Sandgets everywhere. I burn and peel and generally look a fright.”
Harry tries to think ofsomething safe to say, but Ron gets there first.
“When do you not look afright?”
Harry barely registers Ginny’seyes narrowing dangerously before she practically lies on his lap as she leansacross to wallop her brother with her book.
“Hey!” Ron says, indignant.
Ginny isn’t particularlyput off, the paperback smacking him a few other choice places much to Ron’scontinued howling annoyance.
“Children!” Molly says.
Harry bites back a smile, hishand on Ginny’s arm as he doesn’t try particularly hard to stop her from heapingabuse on Ron. Still, he supposes he should at least look like he is. This is not just an excuse to touch her.
Nope. Not at all.
“You’re squishing poorHarry,” Molly yells.
Harry catches Hermione’seye in the rear view mirror. “Honestly,” she says, her lips twitching.
“Oh, look,” Mrs. Grangersays loudly over the squabbling siblings, “a cow!”
They all look up at thebizarre non sequitor, quietly watching the cow in question as they drive by.
It at least has theintended effect of distracting Ginny from smacking Ron. Climbing back offHarry’s lap, she settles into her reading, her knee still firmly lying on his.
The car rumbles along,sunlight dappling through the passing trees. After a while, Ron’s head dropsonto Harry’s shoulder, mouth agape as he sleeps. Ginny turns another page, thewind through the window lifting up a strand of her hair to tickle acrossHarry’s arm.
“I tried to give her K2 when we broke up,” Cassian said. “I knew I was going to come on this job and I thought it was too dangerous to take him, but she refused.”
“Had you been serious, then?” Bodhi asked. He’d resolved not to ask Cassian any personal questions, so it was interesting that he was volunteering.
“Almost a year,” Cassian said. “I don’t know how serious she was. I hadn’t meant to be that serious.”
Bodhi pulled his fingers gently through Cassian’s hair, which was soft and fine and very straight. “Did you break it off, or did she?”
“We both did,” Cassian said. “It wasn’t-- she was very angry, about a lot of things, all the time, and she thought I should be angry about things, she was angry on my behalf. I didn’t-- I’ve worked hard, in my life, not to be trapped by things like that, and she couldn’t understand it. And, I mean, maybe she was right. I don’t mean to be one of those assholes whose exes are always crazy. She wasn’t crazy. But I couldn’t live like she wanted me to.”
“Are you still friends?” Bodhi asked, genuinely curious. He’d never had a relationship be anything like serious, he wouldn’t know how to go about even describing one.
Cassian laughed softly, a bitter little sound. “I don’t have friends,” he said. He let that sit for a moment, and finally added, “It’s why I’m in this line of work. I can disappear on a job for six months, a year, maybe forever, and nobody will come looking inconveniently.”
“She wouldn’t care if you died,” Bodhi filled in, frowning, working his fingers down to massage Cassian’s scalp.
“People would care,” Cassian said, softly. “It’s not that nobody would care. But nobody would really be surprised.”
Bodhi considered the very real fact that if anything happened to him, there’d be no way for anyone to find his next of kin or notify anyone. He wondered what would happen if he were in a coma or something. There’d be nobody to tell them to shut off the machines.
Well, it wouldn’t be his problem, so it wasn’t really worth worrying about.
"You could have found this out earlier!" Doppio growled, angry. "You could have tried to find this woman to settle down with her instead of brooding like some jackass! Ma siete stupidi, cazzo?!"
And for Father’s Day, here’s another little snippet of Or the Order Will Come to You (aka Shatterpoint Order AU Part 1...). It will probably start posting this week, even!
This was fine.
Kanan was on a mission with Hera's father and pretending that the man wasn't going to be a grandfather in a few months.
It was fine.
"Hera is taking to her new role well."
The mission .They could talk about the mission and the war and not worry about anything else the new role had coincided with. "We wouldn't have been able to pull off anything of this scale a year ago.
"Numa and I are going to lay the charges," Sabine announced. "You two good to go after the data?"
Leaving him alone with Hera's father to continue not discussing what he must have noticed. Which continued to be fine.
