Odysseus's fleet sailed, as they had been for nine days, and as he had been doing for nine days, Odysseus stayed awake. Whenever he got close to nodding off, he started a conversation, or walked around the ship, or tightened his grip around the bag until it hurt. He would not fall asleep.
If he had to, he thought of the infant.
Penelope, Telemachus... I'm coming.
The wind was good. The sea was peaceful. Everything was going perfectly smoothly. Odysseus leaned against the railing, stared out over the water and drank in the sight of Ithaca on the horizon.
Home. He was finally going... home...
...As long as he didn't fall asleep.
He blinked once, twice, and abruptly straightened up. Shaking himself, he turned and saw Eurylochus watching him. He smiled. "We're almost there," he said. Eurylochus nodded, but didn't say anything. "C'mon, aren't you excited? You'll get to see Ctimene again."
Eurylochus smiled at that. "And you'll see Penelope."
"And Telemachus..." Odysseus looked out over the sea again. "He'll be eleven by now."
"Imagine that," said Eurylochus. "Eleven years old and an army of six hundred men he's never met all know his name."
Something in Eurylochus's tone made Odysseus raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you teasing me?"
"Not to mention the king of Mycenae, the king of Sparta, the king of Argos, the king of Pylos--"
"Okay, okay--"
"--hell, probably some of the Trojans--"
Odysseus burst out laughing, startling a few nearby crew members. Odysseus's laughter wasn't a sound they heard often these days. "The Trojans?"
"Sure."
"You are merciless."
Eurylochus shrugged, but his eyes gleamed. Odysseus grinned at him. Suddenly he found himself yawning, a wide yawn that made his jaw crack and his eyes tear up a little. "You should rest," said Eurylochus. "Just for a little while."
Odysseus shook his head. "I'm fine."
Eurylochus's brow creased in a way that was all too familiar. "Captain--"
"I said I'm fine, Eurylochus." A few expressions flashed across Eurylochus's face. Hurt, first; Odysseus could make even gentle words come out sharp as a knife. Frustration followed, mixed with genuine concern. But quickly resignation took over, and after a moment, Eurylochus conceded, though he made his skepticism of Odysseus's assertion evident in his voice:
"...Okay."
Of course Odysseus was lying. They both knew it. But he wasn't going to sleep, and certainly not when they were so close, and that was that.
The anger that had bubbled up when Eurylochus questioned him fell away just as quickly. Odysseus sighed and, offering a half-smile in lieu of an apology, said, "Achilles did this once, you know."
"When was that?"
"Did I not tell you? After Patroclus's funeral, he couldn't sleep for twelve days."
Eurylochus made a face. "That... doesn't sound good either."
"It wasn't."
Soon they were nearing the docks, and Odysseus was more awake than he'd been in at least a week. It took all the self-restraint he had to pick a messenger to alert the palace that the army had returned instead of preparing to take off running himself. (He could-- he was fast, and everyone in the palace would certainly recognize him. But a king does not do that, so Odysseus wouldn't.) He barely remembered anything between docking the ships and reaching the palace, though he must have waited for all of his men to disembark and then led those who didn't live in Ithaca and weren't yet returning home through the city, because then he saw Penelope standing there waiting for him, and a boy beside her he knew must be Telemachus. All of a sudden he was running and she was running too, and they were in each other's arms, and there was nothing but Penelope, Penelope, Penelope. Gods, he'd missed her so much. He was sure he'd never get enough of this-- but after several moments, he managed to pull himself away, because the boy was hanging back. Odysseus understood perfectly; he had been much too young last time they'd seen each other to remember Odysseus, and Odysseus wouldn't have recognized him himself if not for the resemblance between them. This didn't feel like a reunion to him. It was a first meeting, hopefully with a person he was eager to meet. Odysseus crouched slightly so their eyes were at the same level and said, "Telemachus?"
Instantly, Telemachus's eyes filled with tears, and he whispered, "Dad."
He flung himself at Odysseus, who picked him up and spun him, and he shrieked with joy, and then Odysseus sat down with a thump and held Telemachus close, and Penelope joined them on the ground, careless for the state of her dress, and wrapped her arms around both of them. By then they were all crying. Surrounded by his family for the first time in ten years, Odysseus felt an overwhelming sense of peace. He was home. At last, he was home.
Suddenly, Penelope lifted her head from his shoulder and said, "Odysseus?" She got no response, and more urgently, she said, "Odysseus. Are you okay?" Still nothing. "What's wrong? Odysseus, what's wrong?" Someone put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and saw Eurylochus standing there. "He-- he just went limp. What happened? What's going on?"
"It's okay. He's fine," said Eurylochus.
Penelope gave him as withering a stare as a woman with red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks down her face could. "He's unconscious," she said, equally witheringly.
Eurylochus raised his arms in surrender. "He will be fine. Nothing's wrong with him except exhaustion. He hasn't slept in nine days."
"Why?" asked a small voice, and almost absentmindedly, Penelope stroked Telemachus's hair soothingly. He curled closer to her.
"He was making sure no one would open that." Eurylochus pointed at the bag Odysseus had dropped when he'd picked up Telemachus, lying innocently on the ground. Stepping closer, he gently shook Odysseus's shoulder. "Captain! Wake up, you're scaring Penelope."
"Penelope..." murmured Odysseus.
Eurylochus shook his head, exasperated. "Yes, Penelope. She's here. Wake up."
Odysseus stirred, then opened his eyes and lifted his head. Eurylochus turned back to Penelope. "You'd better get him to bed."
Penelope nodded and wiped her eyes. "Telemachus, sweetie, can you go find Eurycleia? Tell her your father is back but he's going to need to sleep for a while, and tell her we have guests."
Telemachus obediently extricated himself from his parents' arms and went into the palace. Meanwhile, Odysseus, still half-asleep, blinked blearily at Penelope. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Penelope almost started crying all over again. It really was going to be okay. Instead, closing her eyes against the new tears threatening to fall, she leaned forward and touched her forehead to her husband's. "Let's go lie down, hm?" He nodded, and she smiled. She picked up the bag and helped Odysseus to his feet, letting him lean against her. He buried his face in her shoulder. She looked up at the soldiers who had followed him there, most of whom were watching the reunion with some interest. "Come in and make yourselves comfortable while I deal with my husband," she said.
It took her some effort to actually get Odysseus moving, but before too long, they were inside, and he was awake enough to get to their bedroom mostly of his own volition. (He didn't let go of her once on the way there, but she suspected a need for physical support wasn't the only factor in that-- and she certainly wasn't complaining.) When they were alone in the hallway, she asked him, "Do you remember the time you were sick, but you insisted on attending council anyway? You held it together through the whole meeting, but when it was over, I had to practically carry you back to bed because you could barely walk."
Odysseus thought about this for a moment. "No," he finally said.
Penelope laughed a little. "No, I guess you wouldn't," she said. It hadn't happened, after all.
Once they'd reached their bedroom and the door was closed behind them, she put down the bag and then helped him undress, and he stood there blinking for a few moments before he processed that he could lie down now. Then he all but collapsed onto their bed. She sat down beside him to tug a blanket out from under him and spread it over him instead. When she went to sweep his hair out of his face, he grabbed her hand before she could.
"I missed you so much," he murmured drowsily. "So much."
"I missed you too," she said. Every day, for ten years, she'd wondered whether he was on his way back, whether he was sick, injured, dead, whether he was thinking of her. She wouldn't have to wonder anymore. He was here.
Barely a minute later, he was asleep.
Reluctantly, she took her hand out of his.
If it were up to her, she would stay there until he woke up again just to satiate the part of her that still couldn't believe he'd finally come back to her. Her own Odysseus, alive and whole, in Ithaca-- in their home, in the bed he'd made for the two of them. (And he was her Odysseus; any impostor would have answered yes to her earlier question.) She'd been yearning for this for so long.
But she had guests to take care of. So, after taking a long last look at him, she found a safe place for the bag, kissed him, and went back to the main hall.
Eurycleia had taken care of things, she was glad to see. Eurylochus had evidently introduced himself to his nephew, and was for the moment keeping Telemachus occupied. A brief exchange with the slave women confirmed that everything that should be under way was, so she walked over to Eurylochus in time to catch the end of his sentence. "And what, exactly, are you telling my son that he isn't allowed to tell his grandfather?"
Eurylochus flinched, and his hand jerked towards his sword hilt before he forcibly relaxed his body. Of course. "I'm sorry," said Penelope. "I shouldn't have startled you."
After a moment, Eurylochus gave a quick shake of his head, dismissing it. "No harm done. How's Odysseus?" he asked.
"We made it to the bedroom before he passed out again."
Eurylochus sighed. "I kept telling him to sleep, but you know how stubborn he can be."
"I do. But you haven't answered my question."
"What-- oh." Eurylochus smiled. "Sometimes, while we were at Troy, Odysseus called himself 'the father of Telemachus' instead of 'the son of Laertes'."
Telemachus's eyes went wide. "...Really?" he said, almost a whisper, as if he barely dared to ask.
Penelope put her arm around him. "That sounds exactly like him. Haven't I always told you how much he adores you?"
"He's so excited to get to know you," Eurylochus agreed. "That's what he was most glad about, when the war ended-- not the spoils, or not having to fight for his life every day, or having a steady, reliable food source again. Getting to come home to you. Both of you."
Telemachus was looking away now, not at any of the other soldiers but down at the ground. Penelope leaned down and tilted his chin up, and he reluctantly met her eyes. "He adores you," she repeated. "He's so proud of you. He has been for ten years, and he's not going to stop now."
Understanding dawned in Eurylochus's eyes, and he nodded. "Do you want to know how it's going to go? Everything you can do already, he's going to be proud of you for, and everything you haven't learned to do yet, he's going to be glad he didn't miss it. You couldn't disappoint him if you tried."
Telemachus swallowed, then slowly smiled. Eurylochus smiled back.
Penelope ruffled Telemachus's hair. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Telemachus, but I have to steal Eurylochus from you for a little. I'm sure there's someone else we can introduce you to in the meantime." Turning to Eurylochus, she said, "I suppose Polites has gone home?" Eurylochus's face fell.
"Polites is dead," he said.
Oh. It looked like it was a fresh pain for Eurylochus, too; it must have been near the end of the war. Odysseus must have been crushed. "I'm sorry," Penelope said.
Eurylochus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he gently put a hand on Telemachus's shoulder and steered him towards another group of soldiers. "Here, why don't you come meet Leucus."
Leucus and his friends accepted Telemachus being pawned off onto them easily, and Eurylochus returned to Penelope after only a moment. When he did, she asked quietly, "Eurylochus, why was my husband awake for nine days guarding a bag?"
Eurylochus paused. "...We ran into a storm on our way home, a bad one. Bad enough we thought we might sink. But then, right in the middle of the storm, we found Aeolia, and the captain-- the king-- had us anchor our ships to it and went to speak to Aeolus. The weather calmed while he was on the island, and he had the bag when he came back. When we asked what it was, Aelous's servants said it was treasure-- a gift from a god. But the king said the storm was in the bag, and that it must not be opened. He forbade us from speaking of treasure in the bag. He didn't sleep from then until we arrived here."
Penelope's eyes narrowed. "Did any of the crew give him reason to think they would disobey him?"
"There... was certainly distrust among the crew after he stopped sleeping."
"And before?"
"Some of the men seemed... reluctant to drop the idea of treasure given by a god."
"I see. Thank you, Eurylochus."
Food was brought out not too long after that, and Penelope called for Phemius and asked the men what song they would like to hear. She was sure he played and sang beautifully, but she did not pay attention; the meal dragged on, and of course she could not leave when it was over but had to continue entertaining her guests. As early as she reasonably could, she announced that since they must be tired from their travels, sleeping arrangements had been made, which the slaves would show them to-- and at last she returned to her bedroom.
It wasn't until she saw Odysseus that she realized she had been half-expecting to open the door to an empty bed, as she had every day for the past ten years. But there he was, exactly where she had left him; he hadn't even rolled over in his sleep. She retrieved the bag, picked up a needle and thread, and sat down beside him to backstitch it shut.
When she was done, she hid it again and just looked at her husband. Exhaustion was in every line of his face, so striking that she wondered how she had failed to see it at first-- but she had barely seen him before she'd reached him and buried her face in his shoulder, and then her vision had been blurred with tears. Now, though, she could see him clearly. He was ten years older; so was she. The decade she had spent running a kingdom he had spent fighting a war, and it had been kind to neither of them.
As if his thoughts mirrored hers, a slight furrow appeared in his brow. She kissed it, and it smoothed. Similar small tensions appeared twice more as she sat with him, and she wondered what it was that kept him from fully relaxing even when he was so completely exhausted. But he didn't stir any further than that, and certainly never came close to waking, even as dusk's last light grew dimmer and dimmer. She hadn't expected that he would. But still, practiced in patience though she was-- it was a necessary skill, not just for awaiting a missing husband but for raising a child-- her heart sank a little when she was sure she wouldn't get to speak to him that night.
She shook her head to dislodge the thought. She had waited for him for ten years; she could wait another night. And tonight, she wouldn't have to go to bed alone.
Climbing into bed beside him got more of a reaction than anything else had so far-- not much, still, but he curled towards her.
Their bodies still remembered how to fit together.
For the first time in ten years, she fell asleep with her husband in her arms.
Rumi was tasked with making Mira’s stuffed animal, and, looking at the selection of animals, she was initially stumped. She settled on something simple: a dog that reminded her of a German Shepherd. Cute, she thought as she slipped a heart inside of it and filled it with stuffing.
She returned to picking out accessories. She tried to remember anything Mira liked, but she hadn’t shared much; Rumi settled on a pair of glasses, comedically-large cowboy boots for the paws, and a flower.
“A… cat?” Rumi tilted her head. The stuffie had on an outfit — shorts and a jacket — and Rumi vaguely recognized an attempt at recreating what she’d been wearing at the bar.
“It’s a tiger,” Zoey corrected. “Rawr.” Zoey imitated a tiger’s roar and “clawed” Rumi with its paw.
Rumi blinked. “Why a tiger?”
“Well, you know. Cause you act like you’ve got claws — but deep down, you’re just a little kitty-cat. All soft.” Zoey winked.
Mira gave Zoey hers — a turtle, which was becoming a theme, Rumi noticed — and they went to pay.
To top it all off, as they left, Zoey insisted they take a picture beneath the store name.
And so they huddled together, Rumi getting as close as she could without touching, as they attempted to fit within the frame of the selfie, taken with the assistance of Mira’s overly-long arms, alongside their new stuffies.
What was supposed to be a somewhat ordinary job consulting celebrity-crazed clients at the Lucas Clinic, has brought with it a strange but welcome addition in your life: a persistently ill man who has you questioning the difference between love and obsession shared by two equally intense souls.
Chaoters: Junction / Predisposition / Fever dream
A/N: Hi!!! Pure self indulgence right here, been thinking about a longer fic about my sweet baby angel Syd, and the introductory chapter is finally here!!
Tags: sickfic / slight blood / vomit / implied obsession and possessiveness / to be added…
”Did you know she has no vulva?”
You blink in confusion as a colleague raises his eyebrow at you. He answers his own question before you have time to react: ”I suppose it’s not your cup of tea anyways.”
He turns back to argue about the subject with someone else as you tune yourself out of the conversation, waiting for your turn at the dispensary. In reality he was right about you not being aware of Hannah Geist's literal ins and outs, since she has never been of interest to your clients.
Your preferred way of selling differed from the borderline seductive method most of your colleagues relied on, with you taking a route of shared excitement and validation for the copious women looking to be infected with a strain from their favourite actor, singer or serial killer. You had your own niche, your own pitch and were making good money out of it. Not bad for your first year working at the Lucas Clinic.
Returning the now empty black sample cases to Michelle, you hand your key card to her and hear familiar steps nearing behind you. The only colleague who has spared you from any vulva-related small talk, Syd settles behind you in the line.
To be completely honest, you wouldn’t consider the two of you as mere colleagues anymore. Your lunch breaks were shared in comfortable silence away from others, and you had somewhat organically formed a habit of waiting for each other after your last clients in order to commute home together. Something resembling a friendship perhaps?
Based on how you had perceived him so far, Syd was not the type to harbor friends. The way he almost sneered at your shared colleagues as they rambled on about various topics seemed like an active line of defense against forming any real friendships. He didn’t look at you the same way though. There was something softer in his glances, his face would relax and he would even let out a laugh when talking about an odd event or client from that day. A lot coming from a guy like him, but oh how you liked that.
It made you feel like you had a bond with him that was exclusive, like you were the only one who was able to soften those expressions, to pull that sweet laughter from him, no matter how selfish all that sounded if spoken out loud.
As you turn to look at him, you are not greeted by the usual Syd. Instead, you find a greatly disheveled version of him, shivering and hunched over in a way that he could double over and fall at any point. By now you were used to him looking slightly unwell, perhaps due to an autoimmune disease or just bad luck catching every possible cold out there, though you have never brought it up with him.
”Gotta say you’re not looking too well Syd” Michelle comments past you as she returns to the counter and takes the contents of his briefcase in turn. You chime in: ”She’s right, what’s going on?”
Syd shakes his head: ”It’s just a cold or someth—”
He fails to finish his sentence and coughs violently, gripping the counter and trying his best to keep himself from collapsing. He tries to regain his composure, but another coughing fit has him doubling over against the counter. A singular drop of blood falls from his nose, landing with a stark contrast against the pale steel surface. Syd glances at you with a look of shame, like he wants to hide and go lick his apparent wounds alone. That stirs something within you. An innate need to take care of him, to have him so open and vulnerable for you, that it makes you lose your breath. You quickly compose yourself and press on:
”Seriously Syd, are you sure you can make it home by yourself—” You extend your hand towards him. ”Can I take you? Don’t want your legs giving out halfway.”
He jolts away, giving you the same look as your colleagues receive on the daily. There is a pause, silence hanging heavy between you until Michelle returns to the counter:
”If I were you, I’d say yes to that. No idea what's wrong with you but I’d rather not have you contaminate the clinic with more of your blood.”
Poor Syd looks like an animal trapped in the corner by you two. He huffs out of frustration and murmurs almost inaudibly:
”Fuck, fine.”
Taking him home had turned out to be the right decision: You practically carry Syd up the steps into the apartment complex and take the key from his shaking hands in order to open his apartment door. There's barely enough time to throw your coats off before Syd retches violently and scrambles into the bathroom. Following him there, you find him down on his knees heaving, hands gripping the toilet seat. Another expulsion of his half digested lunch and bile draws a broken cry from him, compelling you to settle next to him on the floor.
”Did you eat something bad maybe?”
He opens his mouth to answer but is immediately interrupted by more contents of his stomach spewing out. He snivels and lets his head drop, and you gently brush a strand of hair behind his ear. You’re surely imagining things, but he seems to lean into your touch which makes your heart flutter almost violently.
You stay there for a while, waiting for the next wave that luckily never comes. He eventually sits back and looks at you, face wet with tears and bloody snot, burst blood vessels forming spots that join the countless freckles around his eyes. He tries to say something but can’t seem to make up any words, but his expression reveals exactly what is going through his head: He has let you into his space, let you see him at his barest state of human function, and he can’t take that back from you.
You mouth a quiet ”it’s alright” and offer him a tissue:
”I’ll wait for you outside.”
You try to make yourself useful, grabbing water from the kitchen and an extra blanket to bring into the bedroom. Upon re-entering, you find him already curled up in his bed, looking straight ahead at the opposing wall, seemingly out of it from exhaustion. Wet strands of hair frame his face, making him look like a kitten that was just fished out of a water bucket. You stifle a smile, making a mental note to lock that image away somewhere in your brain.
Setting the water by his bed, you contemplate your next move. Should you stay? He seems barely conscious but not coughing or heaving anymore, just fragile, like you could blow him away with a single breath. A small drop of bloody mucus rolls from his nose, and your body works on its own accord, taking your thumb to his face and wiping the blood away. You let your hand rest on his cheek for a blissful moment before his eyes widen and he whispers:
”Swab”
”Huh?”
”I need to—”
He clumsily grabs a nasal swab kit from his bedside drawer, ripping it open and grabbing the stick with shaking hands. He looks up and tries to aim for his nostril but his trembling hands make it impossible.
”Jesus Syd, stop. Don’t want you poking an eye out.” You gently grab his wrist and he seems to finally notice your presence.
”Help me” he pleads, a sudden sense of urgency in his voice. You look at him in confusion as he pushes the stick in your hand, looking back at you with wild eyes: ”Please.”
He tilts his head back, waiting, trying to stop his shivering but failing to keep his head quite still enough. You decide to ask questions later and lean over him, gently grabbing his chin and trying your best to stabilize him, while pushing the swab in. He looks up at the ceiling with a blank stare and you wonder if he’s still there with you. You gently twist the swab until he lets out a weak cough, and pull it carefully out:
”There you go.”
He stays still for a moment, seemingly gathering his strength before sitting up, placing the sample in its container and dumping it in the cooler next to his bed before collapsing back against his pillows.
The cooler next to his bed? You start putting the pieces together and make a careful inquiry:
”Are you smuggling shit out of work?”
Syd doesn’t respond. His eyes seem to lose focus, and you watch as they slowly roll back as he drifts off, leaving you alone and confused on his bedside.
As his breathing evens out, you sneak your way out of his bedroom. Surely him exposing his side business to you in that state was not a conscious decision. You needed to talk to him as soon as he was alright. The anticipation gnawed on you like a chew-toy as you grabbed your things and made your way home.
The cold morning air bites your cheeks and nose as you stand outside, about a block away from the clinic, eyes scanning the streets for Syd. A repetition from yesterday, waiting for him to come back to work so you could make sure things were alright between you two. A concern for Syd’s wellbeing had begun to twist and worm around your brain, and time had felt like you were in a limbo, unable to do anything but drown out the thoughts into work and worry yourself sick back at your apartment.
You let out a sigh of relief as you see him turn a corner. You approach each other slowly, unsurely, neither of you knowing the other one’s reaction. Quiet tension settles between you, filling your lungs and almost choking you until it finally snaps with literal force, as you find yourself against a wall, freckled hands on your collar, pushing you against the cold stone.
”You ratted me out yet huh?” Syd hisses at you.
”Are you insane? Why would I ever do that?” You spit back, your hands grabbing his wrists with equal force.
”Why would you not?”
”Because I care about you, did you really think I held your hair up while you puked your guts out so I could snitch on you?”
His look of anger turns into confusion and he lets go of your collar as you continue: ”I’m not the fucking enemy alright?”
He looks at you like the software in his brain just crashed. His expression changes from confused to relieved, to doubtful and finally softening as you take his hands into yours:
”Let me help you. I bet you get better payments from more severe strains. I can take care of you, handle some of your customers so you can rest more, it makes sense doesn’t it?”
Drawing slow circles on the back of his hands with your thumbs, you continue under your breath:
”Give me a small cut of the profits and I’ll be happy.”
In reality, you couldn’t give a damn about the money. What you suggested came from a more selfish, borderline possessive place. He could be yours to care for, yours to let him lean on to, yours to love. The thought twisted within your torso, snaking its way around your heart and down your intestines to a place deep in your abdomen where such thoughts should never end up. He thinks, and to your relief, nods slowly:
setting pessimism aside to daydream about my ideal bucktommy makeup scenario and i just... keep oscillating between buck extending an olive branch and tommy reaching out first. there's merit in both. yes i'd love for buck to discard passivity and fight for this salvageable relationship — for buck to look tommy straight in the eyes and tell him that his sharp edges and his vulnerable insides don't make him any less deserving of love. that he's not blinded by the excitement of novelty or misguided admiration — even without the full picture, buck has seen enough pieces of the puzzle that makes up tommy's whole to know that he loves the entirety of him, unspoken faults and past sins included. that buck can't guarantee forever but he sure as hell can try to build the sturdy foundation of a shared life based on the hope for more. that sometimes you just luck out on the first draw and there's nothing wrong with good fortune.
but it would also be extremely healing if tommy knocked on buck's door to chase after his own second chance. to say "i want you more than i'm scared of hurting" when buck asks him what's changed in 4 months — because tommy would rather live with scars than be haunted by regrets and what-ifs. because buck is worth the risk of never recovering from having loved him
