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Chapter Text

03:17 AM

The cot creaked dangerously as Odysseus rolled over, one arm draped firmly over Agamemnon’s waist, nose pressed against the nape of his neck. The smell of sweat, cheap military soap, and a trace of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Agamemnon tensed.

“I swear to every god we don’t believe in,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “if you get me written up for this—”

“You won’t,” Odysseus mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep, “I used your lieutenant’s ID tag to get past the perimeter. He owes me a favor.”

“You what— ”

“Shhh,” he hummed, tightening his hold as Agamemnon shifted like a furnace, all annoyed and tense and too warm for the blanket now kicked down by Odysseus’ feet. “You weren’t using it anyway.”

“You’re a menace,” Agamemnon muttered. “A smug, scheming— and now sweaty— menace. This cot barely holds me .”

“That's why I like it,” Odysseus said, grinning into his shoulder blade. “Can’t escape. It’s like a snare trap, but cozy.”

Agamemnon scoffed, cheeks faintly red in the moonlight leaking through the canvas tent. “Just go back to your barracks before someone sees and starts talking.”

“No one’s awake. Except maybe Achilles. But he’s always awake. I’ll bribe him with protein bars.”

“You’re serious .”

“You're not kicking me out,” Odysseus pointed out.

A beat. Then

“Shut up.”

Odysseus smiled and pressed a lazy kiss to the back of Agamemnon’s neck.

“I will stab you with my pen knife.”

“No you won’t,” he said into his skin, already half asleep again. “You like this.”

“…I tolerate this.”

“You like me .”

Agamemnon grumbled and turned his face into the pillow.

Odysseus, victorious and already dozing, tightened his arm one last time before sleep dragged him under.

Agamemnon didn’t move.

But in the dark, his fingers shifted just enough to rest on the back of Odysseus’ hand. Quiet. Hesitant.

And there they stayed.

The wind picked up outside, whistling through the canvas seams of the tent, but the warmth beneath the thin scratchy blanket was enough to ignore it. Agamemnon lay stiff for a few long minutes, as if waiting for some divine sign that he should shove Odysseus off and reclaim his personal space like a proper commanding officer.

It never came. Just Odysseus’ slow, steady breathing, warm against his back.

Agamemnon sighed through his nose and muttered, " Idiótis ," barely above a whisper, like naming the problem would make it disappear.

It didn’t.

Instead, Odysseus shifted again, this time sleep-limp and half-smiling, and mumbled something that sounded like "mmm’monon..." into Agamemnon’s neck.

“…You’re not even trying to pretend you didn’t plan this,” Agamemnon said to the dark.

No answer.

Odysseus was gone—dead to the world, probably dreaming up ten different ways to get out of tomorrow’s morning drills.

Agamemnon stared at the inside of his pillow, expression caught between exasperation and reluctant softness. Eventually, he allowed himself a small huff of breath that might’ve been a laugh in another universe. He reached up and flipped the edge of the blanket back over them both with one hand, then settled in again.

“I hate you,” he muttered, fingers still laced lightly with Odysseus’, like the contact didn’t matter.

“I really—gods damn it— hate you .”

Odysseus didn’t hear it. Or maybe he did. Maybe that smug twitch of his mouth was just reflex.

Either way, Agamemnon didn’t let go.

05:42 AM

Sunrise bled into the sky outside. Someone outside barked orders. A boot slammed against the dirt not far off.

Agamemnon blinked awake, realizing two things immediately:

1. His neck hurt from the terrible cot.
   
   
2. Odysseus was still there, wrapped around him like a very smug octopus.
   
   

“…Ody. Get up.”

“Five more minutes,” came the sleepy reply, muffled.

“We have drills.”

“So? Fake a fever. Say you’re sick. Say I’m sick.”

“You are sick. In the head.”

But Agamemnon didn’t move. He stayed where he was for another breath, then another.

“…Ten minutes,” he muttered, shutting his eyes again.

Odysseus didn’t respond this time.

But the smile against Agamemnon’s neck was unmistakable.

The moments ticked by in soft silence, broken only by the occasional distant yell of a sergeant and the rhythmic metallic clank of boots on gravel.

Odysseus gave a long, theatrical sigh into Agamemnon’s skin, like the mere idea of rising from this cot was more tragic than any war.

" Ughhh. Drills again. Always drills. I didn’t enlist for this.”

Agamemnon cracked one eye open. “You did , actually.”

“I enlisted for the free boots and the government lying to my face. Not whatever fresh brand of sadism your sergeant has planned at six in the morning.”

“You want me to complain to Command for you?”

Odysseus snorted. “Nah, you’ll just write ‘Odysseus is being a lazy bastard again’ in that little notebook of yours.”

“I do not keep a notebook for that.”

“Right. It's color-coded by offense.”

Agamemnon sighed and tried to roll away, but Odysseus just reattached himself with all the stubbornness of a heat-seeking leech.

“Gods, you’re clingy ,” Agamemnon growled, cheeks slightly flushed again.

“You’re warm,” Odysseus said without shame. “And if I’m going to be forced into hellish calisthenics for the third time this week, I deserve thirty more seconds of comfort.”

“It’s not hellish. You’re just dramatic.”

“Agamemnon, last week your squad leader made me do burpees until I saw visions. I met Apollo halfway through rep thirty.”

Agamemnon pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re being over—”

“And he was judging me, Aggie. Just stood there. Glowing. Not even helpful.”

“Thirty seconds,” Agamemnon said flatly, hiding a smile in his pillow.

“Thirty minutes.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Agamemnon blinked. “Wait—”

Too late. Odysseus was already settling in like he’d just signed a ceasefire. One leg hooked over Agamemnon’s, hands laced lazily over his chest now, like this was his room , his cot , his life , and Agamemnon was just some reluctant hot-water bottle he brought along.

Agamemnon didn’t shove him off.

He closed his eyes again and muttered, “...You’re lucky I’m too tired to kill you.”

Odysseus grinned.

“See? You do love me.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I already did. Literally. Over the perimeter fence.”

Agamemnon groaned.

“Fifteen minutes, then you’re doing extra burpees.”

Odysseus, undeterred, exhaled contentedly and let his weight melt into Agamemnon again.

“Worth it.”

Chapter Text

00:47 AM

“ Meeeeenelaussssssssss— !”

Odysseus’ voice rang out like a siren, drawing the immediate groan of every poor soul still within earshot.

Menelaus, already rubbing his temples with one hand and clutching a water bottle in the other, didn’t even look up when he felt something slam against his shins and slide downward with dramatic flair.

A heavy weight latched onto his legs.

“ Ody. ”

Odysseus, drunk off his ass and somehow still holding half a bottle of whatever cheap, unlabelled alcohol the boys had scrounged from the supply tent, looked up at him with wide, glazed-over eyes.

“You’re sooo good , you know that? You’re like—like the moon if the moon could cook and hold grudges.”

“I—what?” Menelaus blinked.

“I missed you, ” Odysseus declared, clutching Menelaus’ knees like they were his lifeline. “You never hug me anymore. You’re always with Aggie. You’re neglecting me, I’m starving for friendship. ”

Menelaus sighed. Deep. Soul-weary. The kind of sigh that came from being friends with Odysseus since before basic training.

“Get off. You’re heavy.”

“Nooo,” Odysseus wailed, dramatically flopping onto his back and dragging Menelaus’ legs with him until the man had to steady himself against the vending machine. “If I die here, it’s your fault. Your fault. ”

“You’re not dying,” Menelaus muttered, crouching down to pry Odysseus off. “You’re drunk. And you probably mixed three kinds of alcohol again.”

“I was experimenting! ”

“Like hell you were. You poured ouzo into an energy drink.”

“ Science, ” Odysseus whispered reverently.

Menelaus sighed again and cupped his idiot friend's flushed face in one hand, brushing back the sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. “You’re burning up. Gods, you’re gonna be sick.”

Odysseus blinked up at him, suddenly soft, like a golden retriever who just got called a good boy.

“You do love me.”

“…Don’t push it.”

Menelaus sat down beside him with a grunt, uncapped the water bottle, and pressed it to Odysseus’ lips.

“Drink.”

Odysseus sipped like a child being force-fed broccoli.

“I miss Penelope,” he slurred after a moment, eyes glassy. “She would’ve let me climb her like a tree.”

“Because she’s insane. And possibly stronger than you.”

“Probably.”

Menelaus shook his head and gently eased Odysseus into his lap, propping him up so he didn’t choke on his own breath.

“Come on, dumbass,” he murmured, a hand rubbing small circles on Odysseus’ back. “Let’s get you back before Agamemnon wakes up and throws you out a window.”

“You’re my best friend,” Odysseus mumbled, already dozing off.

“Yeah, yeah,” Menelaus muttered, hoisting him up with all the patience of a saint. “Tell me again when you’re sober and not clinging to my legs like a lost koala.”

Odysseus didn’t answer.

He was snoring softly into Menelaus’ shoulder, dead weight, stupidly warm, and utterly impossible to stay mad at.

Menelaus stared down at the snoring mess in his lap.

Odysseus had gone completely limp—one arm draped dramatically over Menelaus’ knee, the other curled against his own face like he was settling in for a long, luxurious nap on the floor of a military rec tent. Still breathing, still heavy, still Odysseus.

“Gods give me strength,” Menelaus muttered, shifting to a crouch and slipping an arm under Odysseus’ back.

The man groaned at the movement, burying his face in Menelaus’ chest like a cat avoiding daylight.

“Nooo… stay. Warm. Floor good…”

“You’re going to vomit on the floor in about ten minutes.”

“Floor’s accepting of me,” Odysseus mumbled, and then added, just for good measure: “Unlike Agamemnon. ”

Menelaus exhaled the kind of sigh that could age a man five years. Then, grunting, he shifted fully and got Odysseus up—bridal style, because piggybacking was asking to be choked, and fireman-carry meant he’d definitely throw up down Menelaus’ back.

Odysseus, to his credit, barely resisted. He just curled closer, ridiculously cozy despite the reek of alcohol and regret.

“You’re so strong, ” he whispered into Menelaus’ collar. “Why does Helen get you and I get war crimes ?”

Menelaus paused in the doorway, one eyebrow twitching. “Don’t bring my wife into this.”

“I love her too. But differently.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

As Menelaus stepped out into the cool night air, the breeze immediately hit the two of them. Odysseus shivered once—then tucked his face deeper into Menelaus’ neck and promptly fell back asleep.

Menelaus adjusted his grip, walking toward the bunks with the resigned patience of a man used to this. Used to him.

“Dumbass,” he muttered again, almost fond.

A few nearby soldiers watched as he passed, one of them raising an eyebrow.

“Bad date?” someone called.

Menelaus didn’t stop walking. “He eloped with a bottle of ouzo. I’m just cleaning up the honeymoon.”

Chuckles followed behind him, but Menelaus tuned them out.

Inside the bunkhouse, dim and lined with rows of beds and snoring soldiers, he finally reached Odysseus’ bunk and awkwardly shifted the weight. He knelt, tugged back the blanket, and carefully lowered Odysseus down.

The man murmured something incoherent, then blinked blearily up at him.

“You’re my favorite,” he slurred.

Menelaus tucked the blanket over him. “You’re lucky I’m soft.”

Odysseus grinned sleepily, eyes already fluttering shut again.

“Don’t tell Aggie.”

Menelaus chuckled under his breath and gave his shoulder a light pat.

“Sleep. Hydrate when you wake up. And maybe try not to seduce my knees next time.”

No response.

Just soft snoring and the faintest smile on Odysseus’ face.

Menelaus shook his head, grabbed the empty water bottle, and turned to leave.

Tomorrow would come with hangovers, drills, and denials.

But for now?

He let himself smile, just a little.

Chapter Text

18:32 PM

Odysseus slumped dramatically across the mess table like a man in mourning, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, one fork dangling listlessly from his fingers. His tray sat in front of him, mostly untouched.

Eurylochus sat across from him, chewing with the grim efficiency of a man who’d long since accepted that food was fuel, not joy.

“I want gyros,” Odysseus moaned into the table.

“Cool,” Eurylochus said, not looking up.

“Like—real ones. Fat ones. With lamb and tzatziki dripping down my arms. Bread soft as clouds. Onions. Piping hot. From the stall in Ithaca with the old guy missing a tooth.”

“Sounds nostalgic,” Eurylochus replied blandly, stabbing a bean with military precision.

“Eurrrylochus.”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask anything yet!”

“You were about to. I could feel it. It was gonna be something like, ‘Hey, soldier, how fast can you get to the coast and back if I pretend this is a diplomatic errand?’”

Odysseus blinked. “...Okay but that was a good plan.”

Eurylochus shoved another bite in his mouth and chewed deliberately. Loudly.

“I’m starving,” Odysseus whined. “Starving for real food. For flavor. For freedom.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You’re alive. Eat your beans.”

Odysseus dramatically rolled his head to the side, eyeing Eurylochus like a man betrayed.

“I’m your superior officer. You know that, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Chew. Swallow. Unbothered.

“I could order you.”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the only one in this camp who knows how to fix the generator and keep Aggie from actually snapping and setting something on fire.”

Odysseus squinted.

“…You think you’re safe.”

“I know I’m safe.”

Odysseus flopped back dramatically in his seat, arms splayed, fork clattering to the tray.

“I should’ve left you in that cave.”

“I was the one who dragged you out of the cave, you ungrateful bastard.”

“Details.”

Eurylochus took one last bite, set his fork down, and stood.

“Dinner’s over. So is this conversation.”

Odysseus grabbed his wrist like a Victorian widow. “Please. I need grease. I need lamb. I need hope.”

Eurylochus looked down at him with the flat expression of someone who had fought wars, buried friends, and seen Odysseus try to make a grilled cheese with a clothes iron.

“I am going to pretend this never happened.”

“You’re heartless.”

“I’m realistic.”

And with that, Eurylochus walked off, hands in his pockets, leaving Odysseus draped across the mess table like a Renaissance painting of despair.

“…I’m gonna tell Penelope you said no,” Odysseus called after him.

Eurylochus didn’t stop walking. “She’ll probably agree with me.”

Odysseus groaned and face-planted into his tray.

Odysseus didn’t lift his head from the tray, but his voice carried—slurred through frustration and food-stained dignity.

“I’ll tell Ctimene.”

Eurylochus stopped.

Dead in his tracks.

The whole air of the mess hall seemed to shift. Somewhere, a soldier paused mid-chew.

Slowly—slowly—Eurylochus turned, his jaw ticking.

“You wouldn’t.”

Odysseus lifted his head just enough to reveal a lazy, greasy smile. Beans clung to his cheek like war wounds. “Oh, I would.”

“You wouldn’t drag your own sister into your tantrum.”

“I would,” Odysseus said serenely, “because she loves me.”

“She tolerates you. Barely.”

“I’m her brother. You’re just the man she legally owns.”

“Wife.”

“Owned.”

Eurylochus marched back over with the weary rage of a man whose life had been cursed by marriage and friendship in equal measure. He leaned over the table, palms flat, eyes narrowed.

“You want gyros that badly?”

“I deserve gyros,” Odysseus replied.

“You deserve a boot to the face.”

“She would say I deserve gyros. She would bring me gyros. She’d glare at the vendor until they threw in extra sauce.”

Eurylochus stared at him in silence.

Odysseus gave a slow, smug nod.

“...She’d also ask why you didn’t bring them to me,” he added innocently.

A muscle in Eurylochus’ cheek twitched. “You play dirty.”

“I learned from the best. Ctimene.”

Another pause.

Eurylochus exhaled deeply through his nose, like he was preparing for battle.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Odysseus blinked. “Fine what?”

“If I can get out of night watch early, I’ll ask Polites if he’s got a hookup for something decent in town.”

Odysseus gasped, hand fluttering to his chest like a regency lady. “You care.”

“I just don’t want her texting me in all caps at midnight again.”

Odysseus grinned, victorious. “Tell her I said hi.”

Eurylochus walked off, muttering under his breath, “Tell her yourself, she’s already typing…”

Odysseus leaned back, positively radiant with triumph.

“Gods, I love marriage,” he murmured.

Someone at the next table whispered, “That’s not your marriage.”

Odysseus didn’t even look over.

“Details.”

The beans offered no comfort.

Chapter Text

14:47 PM

Polites was hunched over a notebook, boots kicked off, hoodie slung over his regulation greens. The little desk lamp cast a halo over his head. It would’ve looked peaceful—studious, even—if not for the unmistakable sense of “here comes trouble” when Odysseus slid in and shut the door behind him.

“Polites,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial.

“No,” Polites said immediately, not looking up.

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“I know your tone,” Polites replied, underlining something in neat block letters. “It’s your ‘I’m about to ask for a felony’ tone.”

“Not a felony,” Odysseus said. “A herb. A plant. A gift from Gaia herself.”

Polites finally looked up, eyes already exhausted. “You’re not asking me for weed again.”

Odysseus grinned. “Not asking. I’m pleading.”

“No.”

“Just a little—like, medical reasons.”

“What’s the condition?”

“Morale.”

Polites set his pen down with exaggerated calm. “You know I’m the camp medic, right? You’re looking me in the eye and telling me you want prescription weed for ‘vibes.’”

Odysseus nodded solemnly. “I suffer.”

Polites leaned back in his chair and gave him a long, flat look.

“Odysseus. We are in the military. You want me to just... manifest marijuana out of nowhere? And then what, hide it in your sock drawer like we’re back in college?”

“I don’t wear socks,” Odysseus said proudly.

“That’s not the win you think it is.”

Odysseus leaned forward, planting both hands on the desk. “Come on, Poli. You’re the most resourceful guy I know. You stitched up Achilles with duct tape and ibuprofen. You built a portable defibrillator out of Aggie’s electric razor and a car battery.”

“I’ve seen things,” Polites muttered.

“And now I just want to feel things,” Odysseus replied solemnly.

“No.”

“I’m your best friend.”

“No.”

“I let you copy my papers in officer school.”

“I also watched you jump off the roof in a toga screaming, ‘FOR SCIENCE.’ I think we’re even.”

Odysseus squinted. “That was a culturally enriching experience for everyone present.”

Polites rubbed his temples. “If I had any weed—which I don’t—you’d end up stoned out of your mind ranting about sentient beans and trying to arm-wrestle the moon.”

“The moon started it.”

Polites got up, gently but firmly turned Odysseus around by the shoulders, and walked him to the door.

“This conversation never happened.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You’re already in debt to me for stealing my Adderall.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“You wrote your name on the bottle.”

Odysseus paused at the doorframe, turning back with his most innocent grin. “Poli.”

“No.”

“Poliiiii.”

“Out.”

The door closed in his face.

Odysseus stood in the dim hallway for a beat.

“…He’s gonna cave,” he muttered.

From inside: “NO I WON’T.”

Odysseus smirked, hands in his pockets, and strolled off toward his bunk like a man with a plan.

A backup plan.

Polites said no. That was fine. Odysseus had layers. Like an onion. Or a trap. Or a very determined raccoon.

23:16 PM

Odysseus crouched in the shadows near the edge of the supply tent, eyes narrowed, hoodie pulled up like he was auditioning for a low-budget spy film. In his hands: a homemade map of the camp (on the back of someone’s discharge paperwork) and a flashlight with dying batteries.

“Polites may have morals,” he whispered to himself, “but Menelaus has poor judgment and a roommate with a suspicious stash of ‘oregano.’”

He pulled out a pair of black socks he'd cut eyeholes into and tugged them over his head like a mask. One eyehole was way too small, and the other stretched to his cheekbone, but he pressed on with the courage of a man who had absolutely nothing to lose.

Mission: Procure the Weed Substitute

Plan: Chaos

Phase One: Infiltrate the Officers' Quarters

He belly-crawled through the grass. Two soldiers on watch passed by. He froze mid-crawl, face mashed into the dirt, whispering, “I am the earth. I am the wind. I am but a pile of regret.”

They walked right past him, arguing about who left the microwave on.

Odysseus grinned and rolled into a low sprint, hurdling a bench and somersaulting behind a crate for no reason other than flair.

Phase Two: Acquire Entry

Menelaus’ tent was mostly quiet. Lights off. All the better. Odysseus crept to the side, crouched by the flap, and pulled out a fork he’d bent into a lockpick. It didn’t do anything—tents didn’t even have locks—but he poked at the zipper anyway, whispering “open, sesame” until the flap obediently came loose.

He peeked inside.

“...Menelaus?” he whispered. “Are you asleep? Blink once for yes.”

Nothing.

Perfect.

He crept inside, tiptoeing over boots and laundry and one truly tragic pile of protein bars. Then, finally—

The Target.

A small plastic bag inside a sock drawer, barely hidden beneath a copy of Modern Combat Engineering Weekly.

He snatched it, held it to the light—

“…Parsley?”

He turned the bag over.

A label, in Menelaus’ tidy handwriting:

“DO NOT TOUCH, NOT WEED, STOP ASKING.”

Odysseus stared at it. Betrayed. He clutched the bag like Hamlet holding poor Yorick.

“NOOOO!” he whispered, dramatically falling to his knees on a pair of dirty boxers.

Just then, a flashlight beam hit the tent wall.

“Who's in there?” came a voice from outside.

Odysseus froze.

Phase Three: Improvise

He dove under the cot just as the flap whipped open and a young guard peeked in.

There was silence.

Then:

“…Sir?”

Odysseus slowly rolled out from under the bed, covered in dust, a sock still over his head, holding the parsley like a precious jewel.

“…It’s not what it looks like.”

The guard blinked. “It looks like you broke in to steal herbs.”

Odysseus nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

Ten minutes later, he was escorted back to his own tent by the guard and a very, very tired Menelaus in his pajamas and a bathrobe.

“Parsley,” Menelaus muttered, rubbing his temples. “You broke in for parsley.”

“I thought it was weed.”

“I labeled it four times.”

Odysseus was unrepentant. “You can’t label love, Menelaus.”

“You’re banned from my tent for a week.”

Odysseus grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Menelaus looked at the guard.

“Put him in a cot and don’t let him move.”

Odysseus stretched out his arms dramatically. “I regret nothing.”

“You should.”

But the parsley stayed in his hand the whole walk back, clutched to his chest like a war trophy.

And somewhere, far away, Polites sighed in his bunk, muttering, “I knew he had a backup plan.”

Chapter Text

01:34 AM

The camp was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the tents. Most soldiers were asleep or pretending to be. Odysseus, however, was not. He hadn’t slept in… well, probably too long.

Odysseus sat hunched over a cluttered table, his hands shaking slightly as he frantically adjusted battle plans. Maps were spread everywhere, coffee cups piling up like a monument to bad decisions. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was muttering to himself, drawing and redrawing lines as if the fate of the world depended on his every stroke.

“Just one more change, just one more adjustment,” Odysseus murmured. “This’ll work, this has to work...”

The flap of the tent rustled, and a voice cut through the murmur of his thoughts.

“Odysseus?”

He didn’t look up, too focused on the war map in front of him. “Mm-hmm,” he muttered, clearly not processing who was speaking.

“Oi, Odysseus.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“ODYSSEUS!”

Odysseus jumped, his eyes snapping up to see Achilles standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of annoyance and something a little too close to concern for Odysseus’ liking. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed in that typical bratty way he had when he was really annoyed.

“Achilles,” Odysseus sighed, rubbing his eyes. “What?”

“You’ve been in here for hours,” Achilles said, irritation dripping from his words. “What are you doing?”

Odysseus waved him off. “I’m working. Battle plans. It’s gotta be perfect, okay? We can’t afford to mess this up.”

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna mess yourself up if you keep going like this,” Achilles said, his tone turning a little sharper. He stepped closer, eyeing Odysseus with the kind of look that suggested he wasn’t here for a discussion.

“I’m fine,” Odysseus muttered, not even really looking at him. “I just need to make a few more adjustments.”

“Yeah, well, nope.” Achilles snapped, walking over and grabbing Odysseus by the arm. “You’re done.”

Before Odysseus could protest, Achilles hoisted him off his seat with ease and, without missing a beat, threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Achilles!” Odysseus sputtered, his face turning red. “What the hell?! Put me down!”

Achilles just grunted, adjusting his grip as he started to carry Odysseus toward the cot. “You’re not fine, you idiot. You’re about to pass out.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Odysseus huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not a child. I can handle this.”

“Really?” Achilles shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You look great right now. Like, real sharp. Real unhinged and ready for battle. Definitely don’t look like you need a nap.”

“Achilles—”

“Shut it,” Achilles snapped, now speeding up toward the cot. “I’m not asking you again.”

Odysseus struggled, though he was pretty sure he had no chance in hell of getting out of Achilles' grip. “You can’t just— I was— I’m fine! I’m doing important work!”

“Yeah, well, the work can wait,” Achilles retorted, dropping him onto the cot with a sharp thud. “Sleep now, work later. That’s how it works when you’re not an insufferable idiot who thinks they’re invincible.”

Odysseus shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. He flopped back onto the cot, arms flung out, staring up at the ceiling.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Odysseus muttered, though his voice lacked any real fire.

Achilles crossed his arms, leaning against the tent post and looking down at him with an amused, almost smug smirk. “You’ll thank me later. When you’re not dead on your feet. So sleep, or I’ll start throwing your coffee cups into the fire one by one.”

Odysseus groaned. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you keep asking for my help,” Achilles said flippantly. “Now close your eyes before I knock you out myself.”

Odysseus sighed in exasperation, but as sleep tugged at him, he didn’t resist much. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to punch you in the face.”

Achilles just grinned, leaning down to grab one of the maps Odysseus had abandoned. “I’m aware,” he said smugly, sitting down nearby, still watching him closely.

“Just... let me sleep, okay?” Odysseus mumbled, already half-out of it.

“Sure, sure,” Achilles said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “You’re welcome.”

Odysseus didn’t even have the energy to argue anymore. As the sleep finally overtook him, his last thought was that maybe Achilles wasn’t completely awful when he wasn’t acting like a brat.

Just maybe.

02:10 AM

Achilles stood near the tent entrance, his arms crossed, watching Odysseus for a long time. The man was sprawled out on the cot, completely unconscious, his face relaxed in a way Achilles had never seen before. He didn’t know why he was staring, but there was something oddly captivating about watching Odysseus sleep.

For once, there was no mask of confidence, no sharp wit or bravado in those eyes—just the quiet, unguarded vulnerability that came when a man let go of the weight of the world, even if only for a moment.

It was... strange. Odysseus was never this still. He was always moving, always thinking, always a step ahead, pulling everyone around him into his whirlwind. But here, in the soft light of the lantern, Achilles saw a side of him that was rare, a side that was almost... human.

"Never seen you like this before," Achilles muttered under his breath. "You're... not as insufferable when you're not pretending to be awake." A smirk tugged at his lips, but there was no real malice in it.

He took a few slow steps toward the cot, his gaze still glued to Odysseus’ face. There was something about how peaceful he looked, how completely removed from the battlefield, from the constant plotting, that made Achilles feel… oddly protective. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

“Look at you,” Achilles murmured quietly. “What kind of mess are you when you're not trying to play the part of the hero?”

Odysseus didn’t stir. Achilles, his curiosity piqued, leaned in closer, staring down at his sleeping friend like he was some rare creature that had managed to escape a cage. He’d seen Odysseus fight countless times, seen him lead, seen him manipulate and strategize, but this? This was different. This was... just Odysseus. No schemes. No sharp edges. Just exhaustion and a complete absence of pretense.

Achilles couldn't help himself. Slowly, his hand reached out toward the nearest object—a thin stick that had been left on the ground near the tent’s edge. He grabbed it without thinking, still lost in the fascination of seeing Odysseus so... vulnerable.

He prodded Odysseus' face with the stick, poking the side of his cheek gently at first. No reaction. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement.

“Sleep like a damn stone,” Achilles muttered, tapping the stick against Odysseus' lip. The stick slid lightly along his cheek, moving just enough to disturb his peaceful expression, but Odysseus didn’t wake.

“Is this how you look when you’re not being a total pain in the ass?” Achilles asked, his voice low, half to himself. “Huh. Kinda... adorable.”

He looked like a child for once.

Encouraged by the lack of response, Achilles’ grin widened as he poked the stick harder, pressing it against Odysseus' jawline. He was genuinely curious—how deep did this sleep go? Was there anything that could wake him up?

“Guess not, huh?” Achilles mused, poking him again. This time, he slid the stick under Odysseus' nose, making him shift ever so slightly, but still no sign of waking up.

“You’re really something, aren’t you?” Achilles whispered, sitting down next to the cot. He leaned in closer, staring intently at Odysseus’ face. His hand hesitated for a second, before he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Odysseus' forehead, fingers lingering for just a moment.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Achilles murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “You're... different. It's weird."

He leaned back, running a hand through his own hair as he stared at his sleeping friend, still captivated by how Odysseus seemed to drop all the usual layers of defense when he wasn’t awake. Achilles had always thought Odysseus was a puzzle, but now... Now he was something else entirely. He was just a man, soft and unguarded.

Suddenly, without thinking, Achilles reached out again, using the stick to tap Odysseus lightly between the ribs, just enough to get a small twitch of movement from him. Odysseus shifted, but still didn’t wake up, and Achilles couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Still nothing,” he said with a quiet, almost surprised laugh, leaning closer again. "You're completely out of it, huh?"

There was a strange sense of satisfaction in watching him sleep—like Achilles was witnessing a secret part of Odysseus that nobody else got to see. A part that wasn’t leading armies or coming up with ridiculous plans.

Finally, Achilles sat back on his heels, his expression softening. “You’re such an idiot, Odysseus. But… you’re kind of our idiot.”

He let the stick fall to the side, leaning against the tent pole and continuing to watch Odysseus sleep. For the first time, he wasn’t just annoyed or trying to outwit him. He was just... fascinated. Completely, utterly fascinated by the man who always seemed to be so much bigger than life. Now, it was just Odysseus—sleeping, vulnerable, and completely unaware.

Unaware.

Pfft..

Chapter Text

6:30 AM

The morning light was still a tentative thing, barely scraping over the horizon and spilling weakly into the tent. The camp was stirring lazily, soldiers dragging themselves out of their bunks, yawning, and grumbling. But inside Odysseus’ tent, there was only the soft sound of breath and the low hum of early morning fatigue.

Odysseus sat cross-legged on his cot, his back against the wall. He could already feel the weight of the day pressing down on him, but it wasn’t that which had his attention.

No, it was Polites, who had somehow managed to fall asleep on top of him.

The medic had been up all night—again. Again. This was the third consecutive night that Odysseus had found Polites hunched over a table, scribbling notes about bandages, or stitching up soldiers in the field as if exhaustion wasn’t a thing. And now, the poor guy was curled up in his lap, practically dead to the world, his head pressed into Odysseus’ shoulder like a limp ragdoll.

“Polites...” Odysseus muttered under his breath, grumbling internally. His hand, without thinking, rested lightly on the medic’s back. “You’ve got to be kidding me... Again?”

He could feel the weight of Polites’ body as it slumped against him. The man’s arm draped lazily across Odysseus' chest, his other hand dangling limply off the edge of the cot. He looked almost too peaceful. Too still.

Odysseus sighed, irritated but not exactly annoyed—more like resigned to the inevitable. He shifted slightly, trying not to wake Polites, but the medic didn’t budge. Not even a twitch.

“Seriously. Can’t you sleep like a normal person? Like a non-medical robot?” Odysseus grumbled. He adjusted his grip on Polites, pulling him a bit closer despite his frustration. “It’s like you think sleep is optional. No wonder your hands are shaking. You’re practically a walking zombie.”

Despite the complaints running through his head, Odysseus couldn’t help but feel a flicker of fondness for the man who had spent hours treating injured soldiers, sacrificing his own rest for the team. Even if Polites was one of the worst at taking care of himself.

Still...

"How do you even sleep like this?" Odysseus muttered, holding Polites in his arms like a giant, overly-worn teddy bear. "No wonder you keep tripping over your own feet. You’re about as coordinated as a drunk goat.”

Polites, of course, did not respond. His breathing was slow and steady, a complete contrast to the chaos of Odysseus’ internal monologue.

Odysseus rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall of the tent, muttering to himself. "I could go for a nap too, y'know. It's not like I’ve been running on fumes the last few days, either.” He shifted again, pulling Polites just a little bit closer, even as his mind groaned. “But no, I’m stuck here holding you like some—what?—sleeping beauty. If you were anyone else, I’d kick you off the cot. But of course, you're Polites."

There was no point in complaining any further. He could feel the weight of Polites' body pressing against him, warm and relaxed. And despite the inner grumbling, despite the exhaustion that had settled in Odysseus’ own bones, he couldn’t bring himself to push Polites away. He just held him, grumbling under his breath about how absurd it was, how ridiculous it was, but secretly relieved that Polites was getting at least a little rest, even if it wasn’t exactly the most graceful form of sleep.

“Don’t make this a habit,” Odysseus muttered quietly, though his fingers curled more tightly around Polites' shoulder.

And still, Polites didn’t stir.

"Yeah, yeah," Odysseus continued, shaking his head with a small, affectionate smile. "You’ve earned this, I guess. Just don’t fall asleep in the middle of a battle, alright? I’m not carrying you out of there like a damsel in distress."

For a moment, Odysseus let himself settle in, taking a breath and leaning back further against the wall.

It was just him and Polites—messy, absurd, and oddly perfect in its own way. Even if it did mean holding a half-dead medic who couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep for the life of him.

Odysseus had never been one to sleep in late, especially not when there was a battle plan to oversee or soldiers to supervise. But here, with Polites resting against him—no, slumped against him—he found it hard to stay awake. The steady rhythm of Polites' breathing, the warm weight of his body in Odysseus’ arms, the soft scent of antiseptic and sweat that clung to him, all seemed to pull Odysseus down into the quiet lull of sleep.

It started small—just a moment of blinking too long, a slight slackening of his muscles as the warmth settled in. Odysseus caught himself, his lips parting in a small, frustrated sigh. He wasn’t supposed to be this tired. But everything felt too comfortable. Too soft. Too...

Easy.

He couldn’t help it. The low hum of exhaustion in his body was louder than his thoughts. His arms, still holding Polites tightly—too tightly, maybe—relaxed into the moment. It wasn’t like he had anything pressing to do, anyway. He could feel his own eyelids growing heavier with every minute that passed, the weight of the day’s duties already slipping from his mind.

"Just... a minute," he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly, making sure Polites didn’t fall off his lap. The medic was practically a human blanket, and Odysseus didn’t mind it—didn’t mind that he couldn’t really move without disturbing the quiet cocoon they had created. He grumbled lightly, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment, Odysseus thought he might just keep himself awake, playing the usual game of pretending he had too many things to do to rest. But the softness of Polites' head against his shoulder was too soothing, too much like something he hadn’t realized he needed.

His hand still curled protectively around Polites' shoulder. It wasn’t an attempt to hold him hostage—though, if he were honest with himself, he wouldn’t have minded that either—it was more of a reflex, a silent promise to keep him there, keep him safe for just a while longer.

And then, the world blurred. The noise from outside—the soldiers gearing up for the day, the distant murmur of drills—became muffled in his ears. Odysseus let his head drop back against the wall of the tent. His breathing slowed, syncing with Polites' steady rhythm.

Before he could even fully process it, Odysseus was asleep, his arms still around Polites, holding him close without a second thought.

"Goodnight, dumbass.."

Chapter Text

1:42 AM

Teucer didn’t flinch as the gun cracked. Another clean shot. Another silent body slumping in the distance.

He exhaled slowly, readjusted the scope. His back was braced against a crumbling wall, elbows steady on his knees, rifle nestled in perfectly, heartbeat steady like a metronome.

And then—

Thump.

"...What are you doing."

Odysseus, with the poise of a man who had clearly lost the thread of giving a shit, sat down directly on Teucer’s lap like it was a perfectly normal place to be.

“Sniping support,” Odysseus said, straight-faced. “Moral boost. Warmth. Companionship. You pick.”

Teucer didn’t move. Not even a twitch. His eye stayed on the scope.

“You’re literally in my line of fire.”

“Am I though?” Odysseus leaned back a little, resting the back of his head against Teucer’s shoulder. “Or am I enhancing your aim with my tactical thighs?”

A beat of silence. Another shot cracked out into the night. Teucer adjusted.

“You’re heavy,” he said flatly.

Odysseus tilted his head like he was considering that. “Strong lap.”

“You’re distracting.”

“You’re pretty when you’re focused.”

Teucer did blink at that one. Just once. A twitch of his brow. Another target down.

“You realize I’m actively shooting people, right?”

“Mhm.” Odysseus’ arm was now casually looped around Teucer’s neck like they were just two buddies chilling at a bar, not crouched in enemy territory with literal lives depending on Teucer’s aim.

Another shot. Another confirmed hit. Teucer’s voice didn’t change at all when he said, “I will drop you off this rooftop.”

Odysseus grinned lazily. “No you won’t. I’m warm. I smell nice. I’ve had, like, two and a half hours of sleep this week. This is a gift to you, sniper boy.”

Teucer sighed through his nose. Adjusted again. The weight on his lap wasn’t helping his posture, but somehow, the world stayed in perfect view. Maybe Odysseus was weirdly warm.

“You’re going to get us both killed.”

“Wrong,” Odysseus whispered, now fully relaxed and practically slouched against Teucer like a weighted blanket. “I’m a comfort gremlin. I’m helping.”

There was a long pause. Teucer took one more shot, expression unreadable.

“I should shoot you instead.”

“Bet.”

Teucer shifted slightly, resetting the bolt with a clean snap. Another target down, smooth as glass. Another breath out.

Odysseus, still comfortably anchored in his lap like some smug, overgrown housecat, rested his chin on his fist, eyes distant. Thinking. Plotting. Scheming. As usual.

“Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he started, voice at that particularly dangerous whisper-volume that signaled absolute nonsense incoming. “There are, like, seven different types of peeps, right?”

“…Peeps.”

“The marshmallow ones,” Odysseus clarified, turning his head like he was imparting the wisdom of the gods. “You know. Little sugar birds. Culinary war crimes. Childhood teeth-destroyers. Peeps.”

Teucer didn’t move. “You’re ranking them right now.”

“Absolutely.”

A beat.

“I hate that I knew that.”

Odysseus raised one finger. “So first off, classic yellow chick peeps? Baseline. Entry-level chaos. I respect them. They're like the original Pokémon. Safe. Too soft. Two out of five.”

Another shot. Teucer didn’t respond.

“The pink bunnies though? They’re deranged. Visually aggressive. The sugar coating hits harder. Those things taste like the color neon anxiety. Solid four out of five.”

“Why are you doing this while I’m sniping.”

“Because this is important, Teucer. This is culture.”

Odysseus shifted slightly, resettling in Teucer’s lap. Teucer’s entire body tensed like he might shove him off and commit a war crime right then and there, but Odysseus just wiggled in deeper and continued.

“Green ones? Useless. Weak. They taste like regret and dye number five. Zero out of five, no notes. Blue? Ah, now blue ones—dangerously artificial. Taste like mystery. Like a discontinued Slurpee flavor you can’t name but remember crying to once. Three outta five for nostalgia.”

Teucer fired again. Didn’t miss.

“I swear, if I die because you made me miss a headshot talking about mutated sugar poultry—”

“Lavender peeps,” Odysseus interrupted, deadly serious now, “are liars. They promise floral. You expect something gentle. And then BAM! Pure sugar punch to the throat. You think you’re biting into vibes and you get betrayal. Two point five.”

Teucer’s finger tightened on the trigger. Just a little.

“...I could move you.”

“You won’t.”

“I should.”

“I’ll scream.”

Silence.

Teucer sighed, lined up another shot. “I should be court-martialed for this.”

Odysseus smiled fondly, watching stars blink slowly in the sky beyond the barrel of Teucer’s gun.

“You love it here,” he murmured. “Don’t lie.”

The rifle cracked again. Direct hit.

“…You forgot the rainbow peeps,” Teucer muttered.

Odysseus gasped. “You do care.”

He leaned back with a delighted grin. “Rainbow peeps are chaotic neutral. Taste like sugar and indecision. Four point five.”

Teucer didn’t smile. But he also didn’t tell him to shut up. And Odysseus took that as a win.

Chapter Text

15:26 PM

Odysseus had no visible wounds. No gunshots. No fractures. No dramatic, noble blood loss.

Just vibes. Bad ones.

“Are you dying,” Apollo asked flatly, not looking up from the clipboard in his hand.

“Yes,” Odysseus groaned from where he was draped across the general’s lap like a large, slightly dirty toga. “Terminal case of soul-ache. It's tragic, really.”

Apollo adjusted his reading glasses and made exactly zero effort to dislodge him.

“You have an entire cot five feet away.”

“That cot doesn’t have you on it,” Odysseus muttered, cheek smooshed dramatically against Apollo’s thigh. “Also, the pillow smells like antiseptic and failure. I'm fragile. Let me rot in peace.”

“You smell like a war crime and you tracked mud through my bay again.”

“‘Mud’ is a generous assumption,” Odysseus said vaguely, not elaborating.

Apollo sighed, a long-suffering noise that came from the depths of someone who had lived through plagues, famine, and now this overgrown golden retriever of a war strategist in his lap.

“Are you hurt.”

“Emotionally? Yes.”

“Medically.”

“...No. Just... don’t make me go back out there. Everyone’s asking me things. Things like, ‘Sir, what’s the strategy,’ and, ‘Sir, should we move the tanks,’ and, ‘Sir, you can’t barter MREs for cigarettes from the enemy camp.’”

Apollo looked down at him slowly.

“You what—”

Odysseus flopped an arm across his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t make me sedate you.”

“I’d be into that.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Too late.”

Apollo scribbled something furiously on the clipboard, possibly inventing a new diagnosis for “terminally annoying bastard with no sense of boundaries.”

Still, he didn’t move. He let Odysseus stay there, head rising and falling with each of his slow, precise breaths, like a very annoying, living paperweight.

“…You’re tense,” Odysseus muttered after a moment, squinting up at him. “You been sleeping?”

Apollo stared at him. “I command a medical unit during wartime, Odysseus.”

“So that’s a no.”

Another sigh.

Odysseus shifted slightly, curling in tighter. “Fine. I’ll nap for both of us.”

“Truly, your sacrifice is inspiring.”

“I know.”

Apollo resumed writing. Odysseus exhaled and went still, cheek still mashed against his lap like he belonged there. The soft buzz of machines filled the space between them, oddly peaceful.

“…Don’t drool on my uniform,” Apollo added.

“No promises.”

But he was already asleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

2:03 AM

In the dead of night, when even the gods are quiet, three men are crammed onto a twin-sized military cot like gremlins in a dryer.

There were many ways Odysseus had imagined dying.

Crushed by a collapsing building.

Sniped from 600 yards.

Emotionally annihilated by Athena’s judgmental silence.

But suffocating between two massive slabs of war muscle and sarcasm had not been on the list.

“Axie, you're crushing my spine,” Odysseus wheezed, face mashed into Ajax the Greater’s bicep. “And AJ, your knee is in my kidney.”

“Don’t care,” muttered AJ, already half-asleep and somehow wrapped around Odysseus’ back like a weighted blanket with teeth. “You came into our bed. You live with the consequences.”

“You literally dragged me in when I passed out on the floor,” Odysseus hissed.

“You shouldn’t have looked so cuddleable,” grunted Axie, still not letting go of Odysseus’ torso with his massive arms. “That’s on you.”

“I am a man. I am a commander. I have dignity.”

“You’re wearing pineapple-print boxers,” AJ pointed out from behind him. “And you drooled on my shirt.”

Odysseus groaned, writhing like a half-trapped ferret. “This is a hate crime.”

“No,” said Axie, nuzzling his cheek into the top of Odysseus’ head. “This is love.”

“I hate it here.”

“No you don’t,” AJ mumbled, shoving his cold feet between Odysseus’ calves like the menace he was. “You’re purring.”

“I DO NOT PURR.”

Silence. Then:

“Yeah you do,” Axie said.

“You totally do,” AJ added.

“I—” Odysseus froze, realizing his own body had, in fact, betrayed him. A soft hum had been vibrating in his throat. “...That’s the cot. It’s old. Shut up.”

The two Ajaxes made no attempt to suppress their evil little gremlin snickers. Axie’s rumbled like thunder. AJ’s was more like a cat plotting murder. Both were deeply offensive.

“Why do I even hang out with you clowns,” Odysseus grumbled, defeated, as Axie pulled him in tighter and AJ curled up more possessively behind him.

“Because no one else is dumb enough to put up with you,” AJ yawned.

“And you love us,” Axie said, smug.

“I want you both court-martialed.”

“Love you too,” they said in unison.

Odysseus opened his mouth to protest again.

Then sighed.

And let himself go limp in the middle of the world’s worst cuddle sandwich.

“…Fine. But I get the middle again tomorrow.”

“You’re so soft,” AJ murmured from behind, voice syrup-thick with sleep and mischief. “Like a disgruntled house cat that learned how to shoot a rifle.”

“Shut up,” Odysseus muttered into Axie’s collarbone, which was the only available non-bone-crushing surface within head-leaning range. “I’m dangerous. I’m a war hero. I’m not soft.”

Axie snorted. “You literally made us tea last night and cried at that video of a puppy meeting a baby goat.”

“It was emotionally layered.”

“It had ukulele music,” AJ added.

“IT HAD CONTEXT!”

“Yeah, and you sniffled and said, ‘they just wanted to understand each other across species,’” Axie mimicked in a dramatic voice.

Odysseus kicked a leg uselessly, which did absolutely nothing because he was sandwiched between one tank and a gremlin. “I hate this. I hate you. Let me go.”

Axie just locked his arms tighter around him. AJ nuzzled into the back of his neck with terrifying affection.

“We’re your emotional support Ajaxes,” AJ said smugly. “You’d wither without us.”

“I was withering with you.”

“You were being dramatic,” Axie yawned. “And cranky.”

“You were squinting at a broken pen like it personally betrayed your family,” AJ chimed in.

Odysseus flailed half-heartedly, his face now completely buried in Axie’s shoulder. “This is illegal. I didn’t consent to therapy cuddles.”

“You did, though,” Axie mumbled, patting his back condescendingly. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

AJ laced his arms more snugly around Odysseus’ waist. “We’re healing your inner child. Shut up and go to sleep.”

“I am the inner child,” Odysseus grumbled. “And he wants to set things on fire.”

“That’s why we’re holding you down.”

Silence.

Then a little, evil chuckle from AJ. “Gods. We should start a betting pool.”

Axie perked up sleepily. “About what?”

“How long until he starts pretending to hate cuddles just so he doesn’t have to admit he needs them.”

Odysseus groaned loudly. “I hope the enemy finds me tomorrow.”

“They will,” Axie said smugly, already half-asleep again. “And you’ll survive. Because you have the power of hugs on your side.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Say ‘I love my Ajaxes.’”

“I’LL BITE YOU.”

“Do it and I’ll buy you gummy bears tomorrow,” AJ whispered.

Odysseus paused.

Then, with the most reluctant, low, gremlin grumble in the known world:

“…I love my Ajaxes.”

“Damn right you do,” they said, victorious, and drifted off—wrapped around him like two very smug weighted blankets.

Odysseus did not sleep.

…Not for another four minutes.

Chapter Text

23:42 PM

Somewhere between domesticity and war crimes, two soldiers have achieved peak gremlin peace.

The barracks lights were off. The room hummed with the white noise of a distant generator. Somewhere in the hallway, someone was yelling about socks again.

But in the far corner, slouched on a ratty old couch that should’ve been condemned in the 90s, Odysseus and Eurylochus were horizontal. Legs tangled. Two phones glowing dimly. Two brains completely off.

Odysseus was half on top of him, cheek squished against Eurylochus’ chest like a mildly disgruntled cat, thumbs flicking through memes with terrifying speed. His phone was at 9%. He refused to plug it in.

Eurylochus had one arm draped loosely around him, other hand scrolling his own feed with the same dead-eyed tranquility of a man who'd witnessed both battlefield trauma and Reddit comment sections.

“This guy thinks he can rewire a tank engine with kitchen tongs and a dream,” Odysseus murmured, holding his phone up to show the video. “I respect the ambition.”

“He’s going to die,” Eurylochus replied flatly.

“I still respect it.”

A pause.

Eurylochus shifted, adjusting the weight of his very clingy superior officer who had casually melted into him like a heated blanket with issues.

“You’re heavy,” he said, not moving.

“You’re emotionally repressed,” Odysseus replied, not moving either.

“Yeah. And?” Eurylochus clicked into another thread. “You’re the one treating me like a human beanbag chair.”

“You’re comfortable. And you smell like lemon detergent.”

“That’s my wife’s detergent,” he grumbled.

“And I reap the benefits,” Odysseus muttered smugly, squirming deeper into his spot like a feral ferret burrowing into warmth and safety.

Eurylochus didn’t respond, but he did shift slightly to support Odysseus’ back more.

“Look,” Odysseus murmured after a few moments of scrolling silence. “Guy on Twitter says he saw a ghost eating instant noodles in his bathroom.”

“Was it you?”

“No. I only haunt kitchen spaces.”

Eurylochus grunted.

“...You think I could haunt the mess hall?” Odysseus asked thoughtfully. “Just float around stealing people’s fries.”

“You already do that and you’re alive.”

Odysseus smirked, smug and warm and unbothered. He poked at Eurylochus’ side. “You’d miss me if I died.”

Eurylochus snorted. “Only because the couch would be colder and significantly less annoying.”

“Liar,” Odysseus hummed, nuzzling further into his chest. “You’d cry like a little baby.”

“I’d sleep better.”

“You’d sob. You’d throw yourself into the sea. You’d write poetry.”

“I’d throw a party.”

“I hope your socks never dry again.”

A beat.

Eurylochus chuckled softly. “You’re the worst.”

Odysseus didn’t reply.

He just yawned, tucked his phone under Eurylochus’ leg, and let his eyes fall shut. One hand still loosely draped over Eurylochus’ stomach like a cat claiming a very emotionally unavailable tree.

Eurylochus stared at the top of his head, sighed through his nose, and let his phone drop to his chest.

And then—because there was nothing else to do—he let his hand settle on Odysseus’ shoulder and kept scrolling one-handed.

Neither of them said anything else.

They didn’t have to.

Eurylochus lasted exactly eight more posts.

Something about a guy duct-taping his phone to a ceiling fan to simulate a drone shot. Another post with an owl wearing a tiny knit sweater. A political meme he didn’t understand. One last post of a cursed minion cake.

Then he sighed. Loud. Long. The kind of sigh that said, Gods, he’s really asleep on me, huh? The kind of sigh that said, This is my life now.

He tilted his head, looking down at the mess of dark curls mashed into his shirt. Odysseus was completely out. Mouth parted slightly. One leg thrown over Eurylochus’ like it belonged there. Phone long forgotten beneath them. He looked… peaceful.

Which was suspicious in itself.

Eurylochus slowly set his phone on the side table without looking, trying not to jostle the dead weight on top of him. He managed it. Barely.

Then, with a gruff little huff—like he was annoyed even as he did it—he wrapped both arms around Odysseus. One around the back. One cradling his waist.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, barely audible.

He adjusted slightly, pulling Odysseus closer against him, pressing his nose into that ridiculous mop of hair.

“You better not drool on me.”

Odysseus made a soft, sleepy noise.

“Don’t ‘mmm’ at me. You’re dreaming. You better be dreaming of logistics.”

Another quiet exhale.

Eurylochus stared at the ceiling, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. Somewhere outside, a muffled curse echoed from another tent. Someone dropped a metal tray. The base, never truly silent, kept its strange rhythm.

But inside the little cocoon of couch and warmth and clingy war criminal, it was… peaceful.

He held him tighter.

Let his chin rest on Odysseus’ head.

And after a few long minutes, he closed his eyes too.

There were a thousand things to do tomorrow. A thousand fires to put out. A thousand reasons why this was stupid.

But for now, Odysseus was asleep in his arms. Warm. Heavy. Breathing steady.

And for once, Eurylochus didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

14:38 PM

Never leave an unsupervised war criminal near unlabeled medication. Especially if he’s bored.

Odysseus sat cross-legged on the floor like a gremlin monk in the sacred temple of bad ideas. In his lap was a suspiciously large orange pill bottle—no label, just a fading smiley face sticker and a sharpie scrawl that said “Achilles’ DO NOT TOUCH.” Inside: chaos. Half a pharmacy. Multicolored capsules and mystery tablets clattered loosely every time he tilted it.

Which he was doing. Repeatedly. Like a maraca.

“Hmmmm,” he mused aloud, holding one pale pink pill up to the light. “Could be a mood stabilizer. Could be caffeine. Could be horse tranquilizer.”

And then, as casually as someone testing the temperature of soup—he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it dry.

“YOLO,” he muttered.

“You’re a menace,” said a voice.

Odysseus looked up like a kid caught licking the bottom of a blender.

Patroclus stood in the doorway of the med tent, arms crossed, eyebrows already in the oh my gods, what now position. He glanced at the bottle. Then at Odysseus. Then back at the bottle. Then sighed, long and deep, like he was regretting every life choice that led to this point.

“Are you eating Achilles’ pills?” he asked.

Odysseus blinked. “Define ‘eating.’”

“...Consuming orally.”

“Okay, yes.”

Patroclus walked over slowly, like he was approaching a raccoon with a grenade. “Do you even know what those are?”

“I was gonna figure it out based on what happens to me.”

“You are not a science experiment, Odysseus.”

“Listen, you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

Patroclus reached down, snatched the bottle, and held it out of reach like he was dealing with a toddler. “These aren’t yours. They’re Achilles’ unholy cocktail of supplements, mood meds, and probably illegal stimulants from that one black market ‘protein guy’ in the south barracks.”

“Explains the blue glittery one.”

“That’s a magnesium tablet with glitter he added himself for ✨aesthetic✨.”

Odysseus looked betrayed.

Patroclus narrowed his eyes. “How many did you take?”

“Just one.”

Pause.

“...And a half.”

“Gods, which one?”

“The one that smelled the nicest.”

Patroclus sat down heavily on a folding chair and rubbed his face. “I’m calling Apollo.”

“Nooo don’t call Apollo, he’ll make me poop in a cup and then do that disappointed sigh he does.”

“You deserve the disappointed sigh. You might start glowing.”

Odysseus shrugged. “Maybe I’m meant to.”

Patroclus stared at him. “Are you—are you seriously okay with the possibility of spontaneously combusting just to satisfy your feral little gremlin curiosity?”

“Yes.”

Beat.

Patroclus stared harder. Then sighed again. “Gods. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Odysseus perked up immediately. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re gonna be high as hell in thirty minutes, and I want to get you locked in a supply closet before then.”

“You’re the best, Pat.”

“You’re the worst, Odysseus.”

“I’d die for you.”

“You will, if you keep popping glitter pills like they’re Skittles.”

Odysseus giggled.

Oh no.

It had started.

15:12 PM

Odysseus, glitter-eyed. Patroclus, spiritually divorced from his own soul.

It started with the humming.

Not a normal hum, no. This was a Gregorian monk chant version of Britney Spears, slow and dramatic, echoing through the med tent like a one-man haunted karaoke session. Patroclus sat on a cot with his face in his hands while Odysseus stood on a table, arms spread wide like a deranged prophet of serotonin.

“I can feel my blood!” Odysseus declared, swaying slightly.

“That’s called circulation,” Patroclus muttered.

“No, but I can feel it. Like. It’s having opinions.”

“Great,” Patroclus said, rubbing his temples. “You’re hallucinating your own blood now.”

Odysseus jumped off the table with the grace of a wounded ferret and rolled onto the floor, limbs splayed like he was posing for a Renaissance painting.

“I’m so powerful,” he whispered to the ceiling.

“You took a magnesium tablet, half a melatonin, and possibly one of Achilles’ ‘emergency motivation’ pills that he made by mixing B12 and unregulated taurine packets in a bottle of vodka,” Patroclus said.

“I have never been stronger.”

“You’ve never been dumber.”

Odysseus rolled onto his side and looked at Patroclus with wide, sparkling eyes—likely because of whatever glittery stimulant was slowly rewriting his DNA. “Do you think this is what the gods feel like? Light. Ageless. Buzzing.”

“You are not a god, you are a war criminal with a death wish and a glitter tongue.”

“Wait, wait—is it glittering?!” Odysseus sat up and stuck out his tongue like a golden retriever on molly.

Patroclus stared. “...Yes.”

Odysseus gasped in delight.

Patroclus leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, whispering prayers to any divine entity that might be available for immediate smiting.

Somewhere outside, someone dropped a gun.

Odysseus laughed and mimicked the sound of the fall with his mouth.

“Why am I here,” Patroclus asked the heavens. “What did I do in a past life. Was I the horse in the Trojan Horse. Was I inside the horse. Is that why I’m cursed.”

Odysseus crawled to his knees like a feral cryptid and planted both hands on Patroclus’ thighs.

“Pat.”

“No.”

“Pat.”

“Odysseus, I swear to every god above—”

“I think I’m vibrating. Like. On a quantum level. I think I’m—what’s it called when you exist in multiple places at once?”

“Schizophrenia,” Patroclus snapped.

“COOL.”

Patroclus grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.

When he emerged, eyes glassy and jaw tense, Odysseus was licking his hand and whispering “I’m a lizard” with full sincerity.

Patroclus looked into the abyss.

The abyss winked back in glitter.

He reached for his phone.

He opened the contact list.

Tapped Apollo.

Paused.

Stared at Odysseus, now curled in the fetal position under a blanket and humming Mamma Mia into a stethoscope.

Put the phone down.

“...I’m gonna get wine,” he whispered to himself.

Odysseus peeked out from under the blanket.

“Get juice boxes too?”

Patroclus screamed again.

Chapter Text

10:47 AM

Two grown men. One war. Zero maturity.

“Why are you even here,” Poseidon snapped, slamming a folder down on the table.

Odysseus, already half-sprawled in the swivel chair like he owned the place (he did not), tilted his head. “Because I was invited.”

“You were not.”

“I was spiritually invited.”

Poseidon’s eye twitched.

Across the room, two younger officers pretended very hard to be fascinated by a blank whiteboard. One of them slowly lifted his coffee to his lips without taking a sip, eyes wide.

Poseidon, General of Naval Operations, stood like a tsunami in human form: arms crossed, muscle in his jaw twitching. Odysseus, in contrast, lounged with one leg thrown over the armrest, tossing a highlighter up and down like a baseball.

“You’re not even naval infantry,” Poseidon said. “Why are you in my meeting.”

“Well, Posey,” Odysseus said sweetly, “I was on a boat once. Didn’t enjoy it. But I learned. That counts.”

“Stop calling me Posey.”

“It’s cute. Like a flower. Like your temper.”

Poseidon’s hand flexed like he was calculating how many years of jail time dismembering a subordinate would cost him.

Odysseus grinned and clicked the highlighter aggressively.

Click. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclick—

Poseidon snatched the highlighter out of the air.

Odysseus gasped, deeply wounded. “That was mine.”

“That belonged to the table.”

“I named him. His name was Stabby.”

Poseidon breathed in through his nose.

“Can’t believe you outrank people,” he muttered.

Odysseus leaned forward, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Can’t believe you get seasick on your own ships, but here we are.”

“That was once.”

“It was three times. Once in port.”

“I will throw you in the sea.”

“You can’t. You’d have to be near it.”

Poseidon opened his mouth, then shut it. Turned. Paced. Turned back.

“Get out.”

“No.”

“Get. Out.”

“Nooo,” Odysseus sang, spinning in the chair. “I wanna see the plans. I might have good input.”

“You’ll just say something stupid like ‘have you tried flanking from the sun.’”

“I have tried flanking from the sun. It worked.”

“Because the enemy was blind.”

“Exactly.”

Poseidon turned to the whiteboard and started drawing circles aggressively.

Odysseus stood up behind him and pointed. “That one looks like a butt.”

Poseidon stabbed the marker through the paper map and walked away.

Odysseus called after him. “Posey! You forgot your marker sword!”

Poseidon’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I AM PUTTING IN FOR A TRANSFER.”

Odysseus flopped back into the chair, victorious.

The two junior officers slowly turned to him.

“...Do you like making him lose his mind?” one asked.

Odysseus grinned.

“Very much.”

Chapter Text

06:04 AM

Odysseus has seen a lot. War. Blood. Achilles’ skincare routine. Nothing prepared him for this.

He wasn’t even supposed to be out here.

That’s the thing.

He just wanted a sunrise walk, maybe a dramatic moment with his playlist going and a protein bar he was pretending was a cigar. He’d gotten about fifteen steps off the path when he saw it.

And now—now he was frozen, mid-step, mid-chew, mid-life decision.

Because standing not ten feet in front of him, between the trees and the morning fog, was a full-grown wolf.

A real one.

Big. Broad. Fur like night and smoke. Yellow eyes staring straight into his soul.

And Odysseus—Odysseus of the clever tongue, the battlefield improvisations, the man who once convinced three armed men to surrender because he “looked unhinged”—was going to die.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

The wolf didn’t move.

Odysseus very slowly put the protein bar behind his back like a peace offering he had just revoked. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay. You’re just… a very large dog. That could kill me.”

The wolf blinked.

Odysseus smiled, hands raised. “Hi, buddy. Hey. Wow. You’re huge. You been working out? You’re looking shredded.”

Still no movement. No growling, either. Which was somehow worse.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s not make this weird. Let’s keep it casual.”

He took a slow, cautious step forward.

The wolf tilted its head.

“Oh my god, he’s sentient,” Odysseus muttered under his breath. “I am being judged.”

He took another step, heart hammering, body rigid like a middle schooler giving a book report in front of the class.

“Y’know,” he said, voice cracking, “you’re really majestic. Regal. Probably the leader of your pack. A real alpha male. Love that for you.”

He tripped over a root.

Didn’t fall. But definitely yelped.

The wolf blinked again, unimpressed.

Odysseus, gathering every molecule of fake cool he possessed, straightened up like he meant to do that.

“Smooth. We’re smooth. This is going great. I’m bonding with a creature of the wild. Bear Grylls would be so proud.”

He squatted slightly, hand extended now like he was going to pat the wolf and absolutely die in the process. “You’re not gonna eat me, right? You’re probably not even hungry. You look well-fed. Thick. Luxurious. You’re thriving. I respect that.”

The wolf yawned.

Odysseus nearly collapsed.

It turned, eventually, and padded slowly into the trees—silent, fluid, terrifyingly serene.

Odysseus stood there for a full minute, stock still.

Then, in a whisper-shriek:

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.”

And then louder:

“IS NO ONE GONNA TALK ABOUT THIS?!”

He turned around and sprinted back to base like his ass was on fire, muttering, “No one is going to believe me. I just bonded with a literal forest god. I should get a medal. Or at least a shirt.”

A pause.

“…Or a leash. Maybe he follows me home.”

He looked behind him.

Nothing but trees.

“Shit. I think I’m fucked.”

06:14 AM

Ten minutes after his almost-death-by-wolf, Odysseus learns he is not, in fact, out of the woods.

He was speed-walking. Casually.

With intensity.

The kind of walk you do when you’re pretending you’re not running from something primal and furry and at least 80% leg muscle.

“No big deal,” Odysseus muttered under his breath. “Just me. Just a man. Just a humble, protein-bar-carrying, war-worn soldier trying to get some damn cardio.”

He tugged his hoodie over his head like it could protect him from existential dread and fangs.

And then—

A chill ran up his spine.

He slowed.

The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. His instincts—those same ones that had kept him alive through combat, bar fights, and getting stuck between Athena and a whiteboard—screeched.

Something was watching him.

He turned his head. Slowly. Carefully.

There, just past the tree line. Shadows and low fog.

And a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

Right at eye level.

Staring.

Unblinking.

Odysseus smiled like a man who absolutely wanted to scream but knew it wouldn’t help. “Hey. Heyyy. Still here. Cool. Cool-cool-cool-cool.”

He turned forward and kept walking. Now with 20% more speed and 90% more internal screaming.

“Okay. He’s just curious. Wolves are curious. That’s nature. He’s probably, like, checking my vibes. Maybe I smell like fear. Do wolves like fear? Do they hunt fear?”

He whipped out his phone. No signal.

“No signal,” he whispered to himself. “Why would there be. Why would the military base have proper cell towers when I’m being stalked by a goddamn feral cryptid.”

He glanced back again.

The eyes were still there.

And now they were closer.

The wolf wasn’t moving. He was just… appearing in new places.

Like a horror movie NPC with a personal vendetta.

“Okay,” Odysseus said aloud, palms sweaty, voice rising, “if this is about the protein bar, you can have it. Take it. Take the whole pack, I don’t even like peanut butter.”

He threw the bar onto the trail behind him like an offering to the spirit of the woods.

The wolf did not move.

Odysseus broke into a jog. Not quite a run. He still had some pride.

But every time he looked back—

Those eyes.

Yellow. Luminous. Unblinking.

Getting closer.

“Okay,” Odysseus panted, “okay, I’m being recruited by nature. This is how I die. Not in war. Not in bed. But gently devoured by a sentient mythological forest beast that’s probably here to judge my sins.”

He swerved off the trail and toward the barracks.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t want to look back.

But just before he opened the side door to the building, heart thudding—

He looked anyway.

Nothing.

No eyes.

No wolf.

Just wind in the trees.

A shiver skittered down his back.

Odysseus stepped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it with wide eyes.

“…I am never going outside again,” he whispered. “I live here now. The hallway is my kingdom. The vending machine is my god.”

And from somewhere deep in the trees, yellow eyes blinked once.

Then disappeared.

13:47 PM

A few days later, Odysseus realizes the wolf remembers everything. Especially snacks.

This was supposed to be a five-minute thing.

Grab the spare rations crate from the half-supply dump, maybe sneak a soda, and get back before Athena noticed he was wearing Crocs instead of combat boots again. Easy. Simple.

Un-haunted.

He didn’t even take the wooded trail this time. He took the long way. Wide open, all angles visible. Clear skies. Safe terrain. And he was humming. Humming, like a man at peace.

Which is exactly why the universe decided to punish him.

The air went still first.

No birds. No insects. Not even wind.

Odysseus slowed his steps, a chill blooming under his collar.

“…Nope,” he muttered. “Nope-nope-nope-nope—”

A low sound, almost a huff, echoed from behind the utility shed. And then—

The wolf stepped out.

Same beast. Same black-silver coat. Same piercing, intelligent yellow eyes that clearly held several grudges.

Odysseus froze.

“Oh come on,” he hissed.

The wolf stared at him.

He stared back.

A beat of silence.

Then, moving so slowly it was almost exaggerated, Odysseus reached into the side pocket of his uniform and pulled out a protein bar.

Peanut butter flavor.

Because of course it was.

“Okay, buddy,” he whispered. “We’ve done this dance before. You want food? I have food. Let’s not make this weird again.”

He didn’t even open it. Just yeeted the bar across the field like a quarterback in a panic.

It hit a rock. Bounced. Landed in a patch of grass several yards away.

The wolf didn’t move.

Its ears twitched.

It stared at him.

Then, calmly, it took one step forward.

“Shit.”

Odysseus threw another bar, this one chocolate almond. "Look, variety! Gourmet!"

The wolf blinked slowly.

Another step forward.

“Why aren’t bribes working?!” he yelped.

Odysseus backed up, slowly. Hands up. “Listen, I’m not a threat. I’m just a guy with snacks and emotional baggage. You don’t want this. You want, like, a majestic forest duel or a deer or something. Not me. I’m stringy!”

The wolf didn’t care. Or maybe he did. But not in the way Odysseus wanted.

It stepped closer.

Odysseus pressed his back to the side of the shed.

Nowhere to run.

No bars left.

No gods answering.

He gulped.

“You’re not gonna, like, eat me, right? You’re just… intense. You’re a vibes wolf.”

The wolf sat.

Right in front of him.

Like he’d just decided this man belongs to me now.

Odysseus stared. Mouth open. Heart racing.

“…Are you adopting me?” he asked weakly.

The wolf yawned.

And that’s when Odysseus realized with terrible clarity:

This thing wasn’t chasing him for food.

It was chasing him because it liked him.

And now it was claiming him.

“Oh, no,” he breathed. “I have a wolf stalker.”

He slowly slid down the wall of the shed, sitting. The wolf just mirrored him, still and silent, watching.

“…I’m gonna have to name you, aren’t I.”

They sat there for a while. Man and wolf.

One significantly more relaxed than the other.

Odysseus had long since stopped trying to make sense of anything. His brain had short-circuited around the third peanut butter bar, and now he was just riding the emotional equivalent of static.

The wolf — massive, broad-shouldered, fur like rippling smoke — continued to stare. Unblinking. Waiting.

“I should be panicking more,” Odysseus muttered, eyeing the creature’s massive paws and razor teeth. “Like, statistically. This should be where I piss myself.”

The wolf tilted his head.

Odysseus blinked. “Are you… listening to me?”

Another slow, deliberate head tilt. A huff through the nose.

“…Okay. Sure. You’re one of those wolves.”

He rubbed a hand down his face and let out a long, broken sigh.

“Well. If I’m gonna die out here, at least I’ll have company.”

Silence.

More staring.

Odysseus stared back. And then, against every rule of logic, instinct, and military protocol, he slowly extended a hand.

“Alright, then. If you’re gonna haunt me forever, you should at least have a name.”

The wolf didn’t move.

“I’m thinking…” Odysseus hesitated. “Argos.”

At that, something in the wolf shifted.

Barely perceptible.

His ears pricked up. Head lifted slightly. Almost... approving?

Odysseus squinted. “Oh my gods. You like that?”

Argos blinked.

Odysseus exhaled, the tension bleeding from his shoulders just enough for the insanity to settle in. And, like a man who had truly given up on ever understanding the laws of nature, he inched his hand forward and touched soft, thick fur.

Argos let him.

Very carefully, Odysseus began to scratch behind his ears.

“This is the dumbest moment of my entire life,” he whispered.

Argos leaned into it.

“Actually, no. No, there was that time with the chili dogs and the senator’s nephew. But this is top five.”

The scratching continued. Slow. Reverent. Awed.

The wolf’s eyes drooped slightly, still glowing faintly gold in the shade, but… content.

Odysseus let out a shaky, stunned laugh. “You’re such a freak. You’re like if death had a pet.”

Argos licked his hand once. Just once.

Odysseus didn’t breathe for a full five seconds.

“…Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I guess I belong to a demon wolf now.”

And Argos—who absolutely understood—closed his eyes and curled up beside him.

Odysseus sat there, cross-legged, buried in fur, utterly defeated.

“…Polites is never gonna believe this.”

Chapter Text

08:12 AM

In which Odysseus finds himself directly in the path of nepo-baby fury, armed only with charm, delusion, and a cup of gas station coffee.

“I can explain,” Odysseus said.

Artemis did not blink.

“You’d better,” she replied, voice flat as a sniper’s pulse.

The blinds were closed. The fluorescent lights were off. The room was filled with neat rows of paperwork, scent-masking sprays, rawhide chew reports, and the sharp metallic tang of do not screw with me energy.

Odysseus took a slow sip from his aggressively dented thermos. “So. Funny story—”

“I got a call,” Artemis cut in, leaning forward with the grace of a predator about to lunge, “from one of my scouts. You know what she said?”

Odysseus grinned weakly. “That I looked dashing in the woods?”

“She said you were petting a feral, untagged, Class-A predator like it was a goddamn golden retriever.”

Odysseus held up one finger. “Technically, I wasn’t petting. I was—”

“—Scratching his ears,” she snarled. “You named it.”

“…Argos.”

“You named a military hazard.”

“He’s not a hazard, he’s just misunderstood,” Odysseus said, raising his hands in mock innocence. “And handsome. Like a misunderstood, fluffy mercenary.”

Artemis slammed a folder on the desk. “HE. IS. A. WILD. WOLF.”

Odysseus flinched. Then winced. Then took another sip of coffee and mumbled, “…I know. He told me with his eyes.”

Artemis's jaw dropped a little. "HE TOLD YOU—"

“Emotionally!” he corrected quickly. “Like. With his soul. It was a soul-connection moment.”

“You were off-base, unarmed, and broke protocol for a VIBES-BASED ANIMAL BOND?!”

Odysseus blinked. “When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible.”

“That’s because it was insane,” Artemis snapped. “Do you know what happens when soldiers try to ‘bond’ with non-military canines without proper clearance?!”

He nodded solemnly. “They get bit?”

“They get hospitalized. You are not special.”

“Counterpoint—he likes me.”

Artemis threw a pen at his head.

Odysseus ducked. “You missed, and I think that proves Argos is protecting me already.”

“You are not keeping him.”

“I didn’t keep him. He kept me.”

There was a silence. A long one.

Artemis stood.

She paced slowly behind the desk, spine rigid, like she was trying to physically contain the volcano of rage threatening to explode out her spine. Finally, she muttered, “Where is he now?”

“…Technically?” Odysseus said, voice wary.

Artemis narrowed her eyes.

“Technically,” he said again, “he’s following me. Like. On base. Right now. Probably at the barracks.”

The world stopped moving.

Artemis’s pupils shrank. “You brought a wild wolf onto my base.”

“I didn’t bring him—he just comes. Y’know. When I do.”

Another pause. Artemis stared at him. Odysseus gave her a half-hearted shrug.

“You’re lucky I’m not transferring you to Cerberus Unit,” she muttered.

Odysseus gasped. “You have a Cerberus Unit?!”

She did not answer. She just rubbed her temples and muttered, “I need ten cc’s of patience and a tranq gun.”

From the hallway, a soft huff echoed through the door.

Artemis’s gaze snapped to it. “Is that—”

“Yeah,” Odysseus sighed, standing and dusting himself off. “He doesn’t like closed doors.”

The growl started.

“Don’t make eye contact,” Odysseus advised gently, already opening the door.

And there was Argos.

Tail low. Yellow eyes glowing. Sitting directly outside the office like an overgrown shadow beast waiting to see if Dad was in trouble.

He let out a low, annoyed sound the second the door opened.

“See?” Odysseus said cheerfully, gesturing grandly. “Perfectly trained.”

“You’re going to die,” Artemis muttered, as Argos brushed past her like he owned the military now.

Odysseus grinned. “But I’ll die petting a very good boy.”

Argos sauntered into the room like he paid rent. Like the fluorescent lights were beneath him. Like everyone else in the room was a secondary NPC.

And Odysseus?

Odysseus was his chosen.

He padded up with slow, deliberate steps — broad shoulders swaying, claws ticking softly against the linoleum. Then, without hesitation, he brushed his thick, smoke-gray fur firmly along Odysseus’ thigh, like a cat. A cat the size of a war god’s horse.

Odysseus grinned, almost smug. “He’s just saying hi—”

Grrrhhh.

The low growl that followed rumbled straight from the chest, all gravel and ice, directed squarely at Artemis across the desk.

She didn’t flinch.

Her eye twitched.

“Oh no,” Odysseus said quickly, reaching down to scratch behind Argos’ ears in damage control mode. “Buddy. Pal. That’s General Artemis. She’s cool, remember? She keeps the other dogs from mauling us.”

Argos did not stop growling.

In fact, he leaned more into Odysseus' leg, like he was staking a claim, like yes, this one’s mine, back off, fluorescent demon woman.

“I will tranquilize him,” Artemis said flatly.

“You’ll have to get through me,” Odysseus declared dramatically, wrapping his arms around Argos’ thick neck and immediately regretting it when the wolf adjusted slightly and almost knocked him off his feet.

Artemis stared. “You are hugging a predator.”

“You say predator, I say emotional support war-dog.”

“You are ENABLING a feral.”

“He’s only semi-feral,” Odysseus corrected, looking absolutely delighted. “Look at his face. He’s smiling.”

Argos was not smiling.

He was baring teeth. Slowly. Still staring down Artemis with glowing yellow eyes that said: I’ve killed elk with more authority than you.

Artemis looked up toward the ceiling, muttering prayers to her long-suffering ancestors. “He can’t stay here.”

“He doesn’t like crates.”

“I don’t care.”

Argos took one slow, stomping step forward.

“Odysseus,” Artemis snapped, one hand reaching toward her tranquilizer drawer.

Odysseus instinctively blocked Argos with both arms. “If you even think about drugging him, he’ll remember. He’s got the grudge capacity of a pissed-off cat.”

Artemis narrowed her eyes.

Argos huffed again. A puff of air straight from the Underworld.

After a long, seething moment, Artemis turned and jabbed a finger at Odysseus. “You. You are responsible for him. If he mauls anyone, you’re doing the paperwork.”

Odysseus lit up like a kid who just got away with murder. “Done. Easy. I’ve filled out worse forms trying to get extra socks.”

Artemis stepped aside, very slowly. “Get. Out.”

“Already on it.”

Odysseus clicked his tongue once, and Argos turned, strutting out like a damn parade float.

As the door closed behind them, Artemis sank into her chair, stared at her folder, and muttered,

“…I’m going to have to promote the wolf. Gods help us all.”

Chapter Text

06:42 AM

The general of war tactics has ONE fear, and it has four legs and way too many teeth.

Athena rounded the corner with a clipboard in one hand and a scalding cup of black coffee in the other, already mid-rant. “You cannot keep leaving your socks in the briefing room, Odysseus, this is a military installation, not—”

She stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-step. Mid-breath.

Argos was standing in the hallway like he’d been summoned by a blood ritual. Yellow eyes. Thick fur. A calm, slow blink.

Odysseus was crouched beside him, patting his head lovingly, like this was normal, like they were in a rom-com, like the laws of sanity didn’t apply to this hallway.

“Heyyy,” Odysseus said, grinning up at her. “Look who followed me here this morning.”

Athena blinked once.

Twice.

Then screamed.

It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t noble. It was a full-body, mortal terror shriek, coffee flying from her hand and clipboard clattering dramatically to the floor.

“WOLF—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, hey, hey, he’s chill! He’s—”

Athena lunged forward, grabbed Odysseus by the wrist, and bolted.

Like a woman possessed. Like the building was on fire and the wolf was the arsonist.

Odysseus yelped as she dragged him behind her at an inhuman speed, boots skidding against the tile. “ATHENA—! He’s not even chasing us—!”

“HE DOESN’T NEED TO CHASE IF HE’S POSSESSED BY THE PRIMORDIAL CHAOS,” she barked, kicking open a door and shoving them both inside a supply closet.

Odysseus landed with a thump next to a mop.

“…Are you okay?”

“Do I LOOK okay?”

“I mean…” he looked her up and down. “You’ve been more composed.”

Athena slapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare try to logic me out of this, I saw its eyes, Odysseus. That was no ordinary canine. That was a death omen with legs.”

Outside the door, there was a faint huff.

Then a scratch.

Athena's entire spine went rigid.

Odysseus perked up, muffled, “That’s him! He’s sniffing for me!”

“WE’RE NOT HOME.”

“Athena—”

“Shh! Don’t engage!”

Odysseus whispered like a traitor, “I think he misses me.”

She stared at him, wild-eyed, like he’d just confessed to kissing a hydra on the mouth. “You need to get a grip.”

Outside, Argos gave a soft, chuffing whine and sat patiently by the door.

Inside, Athena whispered furiously, “We’re going to die.”

Odysseus whispered back, “You bolted from a creature that lets me scratch his belly.”

“HE HAS A BELLY?!”

“Yes, Athena. Most living mammals do—”

She clapped her hand over his mouth again.

And in the darkness of the closet, while the Wolf of Yellow Eyes guarded the hallway like a loyal demon, Odysseus started laughing so hard it shook the mop.

The air in the closet was tense. Musty. Filled with war general energy and the faint scent of disinfectant.

Odysseus, still half-sitting on an overturned bucket, leaned toward her with that practiced, casual grin—the kind that usually meant I’m about to say something very stupid, and I’m fully aware of it.

“Okay,” he whispered, wiping his eyes from laughter. “Breathe with me. In—”

“I am breathing,” Athena hissed, pressed against the shelves like she was trying to phase through the wall. “I’m just also preparing for death.”

“You are not going to die,” he said gently, reaching to rest a hand on her arm. “He’s just… fluffy. And misunderstood.”

“He’s a wild beast.”

“He’s loyal.”

“He’s a biohazard!”

“He lets me braid his neck fur.”

Athena let out a strangled sound that landed somewhere between a scoff and a sob. “You’re under some kind of spell.”

Odysseus held his palms up in surrender. “Okay. Okay, look. I’m just gonna crack the door open a tiny bit. Let him sniff and move on. He’s not gonna eat anyone—he had a protein bar this morning.”

He leaned forward.

Fingers brushed the door handle.

Bad move.

Because in one lightning-fast motion, Athena's hand snapped around his wrist like a steel trap.

Odysseus froze mid-reach. “...Whoa.”

Her eyes blazed like twin suns, voice a low, lethal whisper:

“If you open that door, and I even smell wolf breath, I will kill you before he does.”

Odysseus slowly looked down at her grip. “This feels extreme.”

She leaned in close, nose almost touching his, breath tight.

“I have survived battles, sieges, explosions, and two of Ares’ briefings. But I draw the line at werewolf-ass cryptids being smuggled onto my base.”

Outside, there was a soft huff.

A tail thumped against the floor. Once.

Odysseus dared a tiny, hopeful smile. “That was a friendly sound.”

Athena’s grip tightened.

He winced. “Okay! Okay! I will not open the door. I value my blood inside my body.”

A tense silence settled again.

Athena didn’t release his wrist. Her knuckles were white.

Odysseus tilted his head. “Are you genuinely scared of dogs?”

She didn’t answer.

Odysseus grinned like the bastard he was. “Athena…”

“Don’t.”

“Did a chihuahua hurt you as a child?”

“I will use this mop handle to rupture your kidneys.”

Outside the door, Argos sat patiently. Unmoving. Watching.

Inside, Odysseus leaned back against the shelves, still captured in Athena’s death grip, and murmured with a sigh,

“Best day of my life, honestly.”

Silence reigned.

Athena hadn’t blinked in minutes. Odysseus had carefully adjusted himself to lean against the shelves in a position that would hurt slightly less if she actually followed through with the mop-to-kidney threat.

And outside, Argos sat, loyal and majestic, like some shaggy myth.

Then—

Sccchhck.

A large, grey-furred paw slid under the door, claws tapping gently against the tile floor like an eldritch invitation.

Odysseus blinked. “...Huh.”

Athena screamed.

Not a tactical shout. Not a war-hardened yell.

No.

A shriek.

A full-throated, high-pitched, someone’s-mother-just-saw-a-rat-in-the-kitchen scream.

“HE’S GETTING IN!!”

She lunged.

Grabbed the mop.

Raised it like Zeus himself had granted her holy vengeance.

“NOT TODAY, FENRIR!”

And began wildly smacking the floor near the paw, bristles slapping tile with reckless force.

“ATHENA—!”

Odysseus dove forward, trying to shield the furry limb.

“STOP! That’s his hand!”

“He’s invading! This is warfare! I am defending our territory!”

“You’re assaulting a creature trying to say hello—ARGOS, BACK OFF—”

The paw retracted with a startled scrabble, followed by a deep offended huff on the other side of the door.

Athena stood panting, mop held like a spear, eyes wild.

Odysseus was on his knees in front of the door like a protective parent. “You scared him.”

“He should be scared! This is a military zone, not a wildlife sanctuary!”

“You hit his paw. He was probably just trying to hold mine.”

Athena turned slowly toward him, murder in her eyes. “I will break your fingers.”

There was a long, heavy pause.

Argos gave a low, disappointed whine from behind the door.

Odysseus looked between the door and the furious general.

And, because he was Odysseus, said the absolute worst possible thing:

“…You’re just jealous.”

Athena narrowed her eyes. “Of what, exactly?”

Odysseus smiled innocently. “That I finally found someone with a better sense of loyalty than you.”

The mop came down.

There was a thwack.

A yelp.

And from the hallway, Argos perked up again, tail thumping.

War had officially been declared.

Chapter Text

03:09 AM

The air was chaos—

Gunfire. Dirt. Shouts crackling over comms. The metallic tang of smoke and heat lingering in every breath. Odysseus sprinted over low rubble, bullets pinging too close to his head, and muttered to himself the entire way.

“Where is he. Where is he—”

He rounded the busted wall of a crumbling outpost and stopped so fast his boots skidded on the dust.

There, in the middle of the floor, surrounded by scattered brass casings and two very dead enemies, was Diomedes.

Snoring.

Flat on his back.

Helmet askew.

Rifle half-slumped across his chest like a cozy blanket.

Odysseus stared.

“What the actual hell.”

He crouched down, gave him a quick once-over—no blood, no injuries, not even a scratch—then smacked the side of his helmet.

“Diomedes!”

Diomedes grunted faintly and shifted, grumbling like an old man. “M’gonna kill ‘em later…”

“Later?! You fell asleep in a damn war!”

“Woke up at four. Was tired.” He yawned.

Gunfire burst nearby. Concrete shattered above them.

“Oh my gods,” Odysseus hissed, checking their cover. “You’re lucky I don’t leave your ass here.”

Diomedes was already half-asleep again.

Odysseus swore under his breath, slung his rifle back, and started manhandling the absolute dead weight that was Diomedes’ body upright.

“You are the densest human alive—up you go, you sleepy bastard—”

He hauled him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, knees popping in protest.

“You're like if apathy gained mass. You're made of grudge and sleep.”

Diomedes groaned, face pressed against Odysseus’ back. “You’re warm. Shut up.”

“Don’t cuddle me while I’m dodging bullets!”

Gunfire crackled again, too close this time.

Odysseus took off, weaving through broken walls, ducking behind crates. His comm crackled to life:

“Laertiades, status?”

“Carrying a grown-ass man who decided nap time was more important than not dying!”

A pause.

“...Copy that.”

Behind him, Diomedes muttered sleepily, “Tell them I said hi.”

“NO.”

And still, somehow, even through the screams, the chaos, the frantic sprint to safety, Odysseus could hear soft, sleepy breathing against his back—

The absolute audacity.

Odysseus was fuming.

His muscles screamed in protest, his vision blurred slightly from exhaustion, and the constant cacophony of gunfire and distant explosions was doing absolutely nothing for his patience.

Still, he powered through, Diomedes’ dead weight hanging limply over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes that refused to be helpful.

Every so often, he’d have to duck behind a wrecked vehicle or a pile of rubble, narrowly avoiding bullets and the occasional mortar strike. Each time, he’d adjust the grip on Diomedes to keep him steady—because, apparently, that’s his life now.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted a cluster of trees up ahead. A little cover. Just enough for a break. He could hide behind one of them, get Diomedes in some kind of position where he couldn’t get shot—maybe knock some sense into him while he was at it.

“Okay, you,” Odysseus grunted, dragging Diomedes toward the nearest thick tree trunk. “We’re going behind that tree, and I am giving you the worst talk of your life—”

Diomedes mumbled something incoherent into his shoulder, slumping even further. Odysseus twisted his body to avoid getting knocked off balance. Gods, this man was a tank made entirely of indifference.

He finally made it behind the tree, dropped Diomedes with a rough thud, and straightened up, chest heaving with frustration. He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Are you serious right now?" Odysseus hissed through clenched teeth. "We’re literally in the middle of a war, and you fall asleep in the middle of it? This is not a joke, Diomedes! People are dying, and here you are napping like we’re in some cozy little field of flowers!"

Diomedes yawned again and slowly blinked his eyes open, clearly still dazed, as if they hadn’t just been under heavy fire. He stared up at Odysseus like he had just woken from a peaceful afternoon nap.

"Do we... do we gotta do this now? I mean, I’m really tired," Diomedes drawled, giving a lazy stretch. "War’s all loud and stuff."

Odysseus’ nostrils flared. “Loud?” he repeated, voice dangerously low. “You think this is just a little noise to you? This is life or death, Diomedes!”

He paced around Diomedes, hands clenched into fists, trying to keep his frustration from spilling over. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you, huh? Carry you around every time you decide your nap schedule’s more important than staying alive?”

Diomedes slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I’m good, just... needed some shut-eye. No need to get all... angry, Laertiades.”

Odysseus’ eye twitched, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “No. I will get angry, because this—” he jabbed his finger at Diomedes, “—is the most asinine thing you’ve ever done. Not even the enemy can take you down, but I’m pretty sure I’m one bad decision away from actually strangling you myself.”

Diomedes blinked at him, squinting, as if he were processing his words through a haze of sleep. Then he tilted his head and gave a lazy, mischievous grin. "You can try, but you'd miss. You always miss."

“I’m so tired of hearing about how I miss,” Odysseus muttered. “You’re insufferable.”

For a moment, they stared at each other in tense silence, the distant echoes of battle ringing in the background.

Then, finally, Diomedes spoke, his voice still sluggish but a little more aware. “...Sorry, alright? Didn’t mean to put you through the whole ‘carrying me around’ thing, but you did say you owed me one after the last mission. I guess I thought you’d be up for it.”

Odysseus clenched his jaw. His chest was still tight with tension, but he managed a resigned sigh.

“Fine. You can take your nap,” he muttered, turning away. “But next time—next time—you’re carrying me. And I’ll hold you to that.”

Diomedes chuckled quietly, still half out of it, but now managing a tiny bit of actual energy. “Deal.”

Odysseus paused, glancing over his shoulder. “And if you ever fall asleep mid-battle again—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’ll stay awake next time. Promise.”

Odysseus just grunted, then slumped against the tree, pulling his rifle back into position. “Keep your promise. You’ll be lucky if I don’t leave you next time.”

Diomedes let out a sleepy laugh. “You're always fun when you're mad.”

Odysseus just groaned and looked back at the distant, violent flashes of gunfire.

It was going to be a long damn night.

Chapter Text

01:48 AM

The battlefield was quiet in the way only fresh horror could silence it.

No gunfire. No shouting. Just smoke curling up in the dark and the occasional echo of something burning, slow and cruel.

Odysseus’ knees hit the dirt, gravel biting into his skin as he dropped beside the crumpled form in front of him.

“Polites,” he hissed, already yanking open the first-aid kit strapped to his side, “hey, hey, I need you to stay awake for me.”

Polites coughed, sharp and wet, and cracked one eye open with a grimace. His uniform was slick with blood—his own, Odysseus could tell from the way it bloomed across his stomach like a wicked flower.

“’M not dying,” he muttered, voice weak. “You always act like it’s the end of the world.”

“It is the end of the world if you die,” Odysseus snapped, tearing through gauze and slapping it against the wound without ceremony. “So shut up and let me save your stupid, loyal life.”

Polites wheezed a laugh. “Such a sweet talker…”

“Shut up,” Odysseus muttered again, pressing down hard enough to make Polites flinch. “I told you not to take point today. You’ve been running on fumes.”

“You needed the spotter,” Polites murmured.

“I needed you alive.”

The words came out too fast, too hot. Odysseus’ hands paused just for a second as they hovered over the wound. His brow furrowed deeper, eyes flicking up to meet Polites’ dazed ones. “Don’t you ever pull this martyr shit again, you hear me? That’s my job.”

Polites didn’t answer—his eyes started to roll slightly, breath hitching.

“No no no—hey.”

Odysseus cupped the side of his friend’s face with a bloody hand, shaking him gently. “Don’t do that. Eyes on me. Come on, you’ve seen me cry before, but it was your job to make fun of me for it, remember?”

Polites blinked, just enough to stay tethered. His mouth twitched. “You… you are crying.”

Odysseus cursed and pressed the bandage in harder. His hands trembled as he wrapped it, knotting it too tight, too fast—but it was all he had. That and his voice.
“You hold on,” he breathed, pulling Polites in closer until the medic’s head rested against his shoulder. “I swear, if you die on me I’ll drag your ghost back and make you do inventory duty for eternity.”

“...Rude.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not losing you. I don’t care if I have to carry you out of this hellhole on my back, I will. And you’ll thank me for it.”

Polites let out another weak laugh—barely a breath, barely alive.

Odysseus wrapped both arms around him tightly, like he could anchor him to the earth through sheer force.

And above them, somewhere beyond the haze of firelight and smoke, the sky trembled with distant thunder.

The bandages were makeshift. Too much blood, too little time.

But Polites was still breathing, and that was enough.

Odysseus let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. Maybe he had.

“Alright, alright, I got you,” he muttered, sliding one arm under Polites’ knees and the other behind his shoulders. His body screamed in protest—Polites wasn’t small, and Odysseus had already been running half the night—but he lifted him anyway.

Polites groaned, forehead resting limply against Odysseus’ collarbone.

“Gods, you’re dramatic,” he mumbled.

“Shut up,” Odysseus snapped, shifting his grip. “Bleed less if you wanna talk shit.”

He stumbled forward, boots crunching over gravel and bullet casings, eyes scanning the smoke-thick air for cover. That ridge—there, past the broken wall and scattered debris. A sunken ditch by the edge of the field, half-concealed by blackened grass.

He made it there with lungs burning and knees wobbling, and crouched low to slide them both into it. They landed hard, and Polites winced, but Odysseus immediately yanked the medpack open again.

“You’re not dying. You’re not dying,” he muttered, over and over, as he peeled back bloodied bandages and replaced them with cleaner ones. The bleeding had slowed—barely, but it had—and that was enough for now.

Polites blinked up at him, his voice a sleepy rasp.

“You’ve got dirt in your hair.”

“Shut up.”

“Looks like someone rolled in a grave.”

“Shut up, Polites.” But the sound cracked halfway through, and Odysseus leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Polites’ temple.

They sat there for a long second in silence, save for the far-off crackle of flames and the dull, distant thump of retreating gunfire.

Polites exhaled shakily, still half-limp in his arms. “...You're gonna get blood all over your shirt.”

“Don’t care.”

“Ugly shirt anyway.”

“I will kill you myself,” Odysseus whispered, arms tightening protectively around him. “Once you’re out of this ditch and fully conscious again. I will end your life in the mess hall with a soup spoon.”

Polites gave the smallest of smirks, eyes slipping shut again—not unconscious, just resting. Safe. Still here.

And Odysseus finally, finally let himself breathe.

Chapter Text

06:47 AM

The mess hall was unusually calm. Just the dull hum of overhead fluorescents, the soft clink of cutlery, the low murmur of soldiers pretending not to be tired.

Odysseus stood at the drink station like he was about to perform surgery.

Coffee—black, tar-thick.

Tea—some vague greenish thing.

He poured them together in his chipped metal mug without blinking.

Polites was mid-sip of his own coffee when he looked up—and stopped.

“…No.”

Odysseus didn’t respond. Just stirred the concoction with a plastic knife and then, god help them all, brought it to his lips.

Across the room, Eurylochus’ hand froze halfway to his tray.

Teucer stopped scrolling on his phone.

Menelaus audibly gasped.

Athena’s eye twitched.

Agamemnon looked like someone had just defiled the concept of order itself.

Odysseus took a long, purposeful sip.

Paused.

Smacked his lips thoughtfully.

“…It’s not bad.”

“WHAT.” Athena slammed her tray down like it had insulted her lineage. “You mixed what?”

“Tea. And coffee.” He looked around at the horrified silence. “What? It’s efficiency.”

“That’s not efficiency,” Polites choked. “That’s a war crime.”

“It’s both,” Teucer muttered, still staring like he'd witnessed a murder.

Menelaus actually looked hurt. “You could have just... had one and then the other.”

Agamemnon leaned forward slowly, voice low and dangerous. “Why do you exist.”

Eurylochus just turned his back, muttering, “I’m pretending I don’t know him. If anyone asks, I’ve never seen that man before in my life.”

Odysseus took another calm sip. “Honestly? It’s kind of fruity.”

“STOP TALKING,” Polites and Athena barked in unison.

He grinned. “Want a sip?”

Teucer looked physically ill.

Athena made the sign of the cross, the evil eye, and some ancient Mycenaean ward all at once.

Menelaus actually got up and left.

Only Agamemnon stayed seated, staring with such intensity that even Odysseus raised an eyebrow.

“…What?”

“If you ever reproduce,” he muttered, “I’m throwing the child into the sea.”

Odysseus shrugged, took another heroic swig, and wandered off.

Behind him, silence stretched—until Eurylochus quietly said:

“I think I need to lie down.”

Odysseus disappeared down the hallway with his cursed drink, whistling like a man who hadn’t just ripped open the veil between sanity and chaos.

The mess hall sat in stunned, chilling silence.

Then Polites, pale and wide-eyed, whispered,

“He’s already unhinged without coffee…”

Teucer blinked. “Wait—wait. He never drinks coffee. Or tea. He always says, and I quote, ‘My brain is already turbo-charged. I don’t need help.’”

Athena slowly turned her head toward the hallway, eyes distant. “He once stayed up for forty-two hours straight and reorganized the entire armory alphabetically by moral threat level.”

Eurylochus rubbed his temples like he had a headache the size of Greece. “Last week he rewired the comms system with a fork. Sober. What the hell is he going to do caffeinated?”

“I think,” Menelaus said gravely, voice trembling, “he’s… evolving.”

Agamemnon stood, staring into the distance like a war flashback had just hit him.

“If he starts drawing up schematics,” he muttered, “burn them. Burn everything.”

A loud, echoing clatter came from down the hall.

Everyone flinched.

Polites stood up. “No. No, I’m not doing this. I’m getting the wolf. Let Argos deal with him.”

Teucer shook his head. “The wolf’s scared of him.”

“Shit. That’s right.”

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering ancient Greek under her breath.

And just when the air had started to calm—

A second clang.

Louder. Followed by a soft cackle.

“Oh no,” Menelaus whispered. “He’s in the vents again.”

They all moved as one—abandoning trays, dignity, and protocol—sprinting toward the hall with the energy of people about to face a god who’d just discovered espresso.

And somewhere, echoing faintly:

“Guys!! GUYS I CAN SEE THE ROOF FROM HERE!”

They were too late.

He had ascended.

Chapter Text

Greek Military Base, Day 1 Without Odysseus’ Meds

It started subtle.

A chair mysteriously relocated to the ceiling.

The radio frequency shifted to a pirate broadcast of Odysseus beatboxing and narrating fictional battles between forks and spoons.

A single pigeon, wearing a duct-taped miniature helmet, was spotted circling the courtyard. No one knew where it came from. Or why it had a name tag.

“Guys,” Polites muttered, watching it from the barracks window. “Its name is ‘General Beak.’”

Agamemnon stormed into the main operations room. “Who authorized a sandbag wall in the middle of the mess hall?”

Teucer looked up from behind said sandbag wall. “He said it was a defensive checkpoint. For the pudding rebellion.”

Agamemnon turned slowly to see a chalkboard with “DEFCON PUDDING” scrawled on it.

He turned back to Teucer. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Teucer deadpanned. “Because he threatened to replace all my bullets with jellybeans and actually started doing it.”

Day 2 Without Meds

Eurylochus stepped into the showers and immediately walked back out.

“Why are there four raccoons in there?” Menelaus asked.

He lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”

Day 3 Without Meds

Patroclus tried to enforce some order. He tried.

He made a chart.

Laminated it.

Color-coded schedules.

By 11 a.m., Odysseus had turned the laminated chart into a hat and was giving a speech in the courtyard about “how structure is a prison designed by time goblins.”

“You have to respect the goblins, Patroclus,” he said solemnly. “They demand tribute.”

Day 4 Without Meds

The base radio blared static—then Odysseus’ voice.

“Welcome to Ody-FM, where the only rule is chaos. Our next segment: ‘Can I Microwave That?’”

Panicked yelling followed.

Then the smell of burning socks.

Then silence.

Athena marched down the corridor, battle plan clutched in her hand, face twitching. “Where is he.”

No one answered.

But somewhere above, faint banging in the ceiling vents echoed.

She screamed into her fist.

Day 5 Without Meds

AJ tried to dig a tunnel out.

Axie joined him halfway through.

“We’re gonna reach freedom or hell,” Axie said, wiping dirt from his face. “Either way, we’ll be away from him.”

Day 6 Without Meds

Argos, the wolf, took one look at Odysseus—who was wearing sunglasses, a cape made of caution tape, and rollerblades—and walked away.

Not ran.

Not growled.

Just calmly, slowly, turned and left the building like it had finally given up on mankind.

Day 7 Without Meds

The supply truck pulled in.

A young, fresh-faced courier stepped out with a clipboard. “Package for—”

He was tackled.

By Athena, Polites, Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Eurylochus all at once.

They ripped the bottle of pills out of the crate like it was the Holy Grail.

Polites ran, full sprint, toward Odysseus’ bunk. “TAKE IT. TAKE YOUR MEDS, ODYSSEUS.”

Odysseus, upside down and currently painting the floor with melted crayon wax, blinked slowly.

“…Did you know if you microwave a fork it’ll—”

“TAKE THE DAMN PILLS.”

He took them.

Within ten minutes, he was curled up on a couch, wrapped in a weighted blanket, reading a book like a normal person.

The base sat in stunned, trembling silence.

Menelaus lit another cigarette.

Eurylochus sat down on the floor and muttered a prayer.

Teucer whispered, “Never again.”

And somewhere, deep in the showers, the raccoons rejoiced.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

15:03 PM

It started with a sandwich.

Not just any sandwich. A god-tier, cafeteria-fluke, perfectly balanced ham and cheese on sourdough. He was unwrapping it, humming some obscene jingle about mayonnaise, when—

CLANG.

He walked directly—unflinchingly—into a steel support pole. Face-first.

There was a meaty thud, the unmistakable wobble of metal, and then silence.

Very long, very haunted silence.

Odysseus swayed once. Twice.

Then blinked.

“…Ah,” he said, voice calm. Measured. “I appear to have miscalculated my path.”

Everyone who had seen it—including Polites, Eurylochus, and a few unlucky privates—froze.

Menelaus, mid-sip of juice, slowly lowered his cup. “Did he just… articulate a complete sentence?”

AJ narrowed his eyes. “He said ‘miscalculated.’ He never says ‘miscalculated.’ He says ‘my vibe was off’ or ‘the floor shifted.’”

Odysseus looked up. Adjusted his shirt. Smoothed his hair.

“I think I’ll go sit under that tree and reflect,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Perhaps journal a little. Clear my mind.”

Athena, from a nearby bench, dropped her clipboard.

Eurylochus slowly turned to Polites. “I don’t like this. This is weird. Put him back.”

“He ran into a pole,” Polites whispered, eyes wide. “And he’s making eye contact.”

Ten minutes later, Odysseus sat cross-legged in the grass, quietly sketching something in a notebook.

Achilles walked past, narrowed his eyes, and doubled back.

“Did you take something?” he asked.

“No,” Odysseus said mildly. “I’m simply grounded. Centered. Focused.”

“No.” Achilles backed away. “Nope. No no no no no.”

By evening, Agamemnon had banned him from any more “inner peace” activities.

Axie tried to shake him back to normal.

Eurylochus threw a bag of cheese puffs at his head.

He didn’t flinch.

He just caught it. With one hand.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “But I’m not hungry right now.”

That night, the group chat renamed him:

“Clone-dysseus 👁️👁️”

And the real Odysseus?

Still sipping tea. Still calm. Still terrifying.

They all agreed:

They wanted the chaotic bastard back. Immediately.

They couldn’t take it anymore.

Polites, Eurylochus, Menelaus, Athena, Axie, AJ, and even Achilles gathered in the common room. Huddled together like survivors in a horror movie. The lights buzzed overhead. Someone had set out tea.

“Okay,” Polites said, rubbing his temples. “I’m just gonna say it. I’m scared.”

“He folded his laundry,” Achilles hissed. “Folded. And color-coordinated it. Like some kind of—monster.”

“He asked me how I was feeling today,” said Menelaus, staring at the wall. “He put a hand on my shoulder. Called me ‘champ.’ I didn’t even know he knew the word.”

“He offered me herbal tea,” Athena muttered. “Then asked if I was taking breaks. Me.”

“Didn’t call me a single slur,” added AJ.

“Or shove himself into my lap,” Axie muttered. “He just said ‘good afternoon’ and walked past. What the hell is that.”

They all turned to Eurylochus, who was staring blankly at the wall.

“…He called me by my actual name,” he whispered.

So they formed a team.

They found Odysseus sitting peacefully in the courtyard. A soft breeze rustled his hair. He was sketching. Not blueprints for war. Not a list of "fun and questionably legal pranks." No. A flower.

A daisy, specifically.

Athena stepped forward like she was approaching a wild animal. “Odysseus?”

He looked up and smiled. “Ah—General. Good evening.”

Polites stepped forward. “Hey, buddy. You… okay?”

“Of course,” Odysseus said with a gentle blink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Achilles crouched down, suspicious. “You hit your head, like. Hard.”

“Yes,” Odysseus said evenly. “It was a rather humbling reminder to remain aware of my surroundings. But in some ways, it was a blessing in disguise. I feel… quiet. Stable. Present.”

Everyone recoiled slightly.

“You’re scaring us,” Menelaus blurted.

“I’m—what?”

“You haven’t screamed all day,” Athena said. “You haven’t harassed a superior, stolen someone’s phone, or challenged anyone to a barefoot race over gravel.”

“You haven’t tried to seduce the vending machine,” AJ pointed out.

“Or climbed a tree and declared war on the pigeons,” Axie added.

“I’m not… supposed to do any of those things,” Odysseus said slowly, as if realizing it for the first time.

The group collectively leaned back, horrified.

Eurylochus crossed his arms. “Nah. I want my gremlin back. Give me the impulsive mess who tried to make a smoothie out of beef jerky and NyQuil.”

“I miss when he kept twelve knives in his pants,” Polites mumbled. “Even though he didn’t need twelve knives.”

Athena stepped forward, put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him dead in the eye.

“You are Odysseus,” she said. “The chaos in this godforsaken camp. The storm in the eye of a hurricane. You taught a raccoon how to salute.”

“I… did I?”

“Yes. And now you’re folding socks. Snap out of it, soldier.”

Odysseus frowned slightly.

“I don’t… feel wrong. I just feel… okay. Is that so bad?”

Everyone looked at each other. Then at him.

Then AJ picked up a half-eaten protein bar and chucked it at his head.

THWAP.

“…Ow,” Odysseus muttered, blinking.

A long pause.

“…Wait. Why is there glitter on my pants?”

The group gasped.

Polites burst into tears. “HE’S BACK!!”

Odysseus blinked again. “Why do I taste chalk—oh gods. Did I drink tea?”

Menelaus hugged him and sobbed into his shoulder.

Eurylochus slapped his back. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, you emotionally sound bastard.”

Achilles grinned and punched his arm.

Odysseus, dazed but smiling faintly, looked around the circle of chaos that surrounded him.

“…Gods. I love you weirdos.”

They all clung to him like war-hardened barnacles.

And not one of them mentioned the daisy sketch again.

Chapter Text

Nobody could find him.

The battle had ended. Smoke still hung in the sky like the ghost of war, drifting over the charred earth and broken trees. The wounded were dragged in. The dead were counted.

And Odysseus was nowhere.

They searched the ditches, the ruined buildings, the ravines.

They called his name.

Nothing.

No footprints.

No blood trail.

No body.

Just his jacket—

—torn at the sleeve, lying in the mud.

Day One

The sun barely rose through the post-battle haze. Smoke still curled lazily along the treetops, like it didn’t know the fight was over.

The base was in clean-up mode. Tents flapped. Radios crackled. People bled.

And Odysseus was nowhere.

“He probably wandered off. You know how he is.”

Polites had said it. Out loud. With a shaky laugh that didn’t touch his eyes.

But that was ten hours ago.

Now he was pacing. Boots stomping across the infirmary floor. His hands kept touching things—clipboards, drawers, cabinets—as if Odysseus might have somehow squeezed himself inside one.

He wasn’t supposed to not come back.

He was supposed to radio in. Crack a joke. Show up at the edge of camp with a limp and a stupid grin and somehow more food than he left with.

But the comms had gone silent.

And Polites had checked.

Every body bag.

Every stretcher.

Every torn-up corpse with even a passing resemblance.

No Odysseus.

No voice.

No laugh.

No cocky, infuriating smirk.

Just silence.

“I think—he might be underground,” one soldier muttered.

“I think he ditched us,” another offered.

“Maybe he’s just screwing with us,” someone dared to say.

Polites snapped a thermometer in his fist.

He barked at a nurse. Then apologized. Then barked again.

He stood over a burn victim for ten minutes, not realizing he wasn’t even someone he knew.

He read a patient chart five times before realizing it was blank.

And then—

then he walked into Odysseus’ tent.

It was untouched.

The bed still rumpled from yesterday morning.

Phone charger still dangling from the cot.

Half a protein bar on the desk.

His jacket was folded on the chair.

Polites reached for it with a trembling hand, pulled it to his chest—

—and dropped into the chair like a marionette with cut strings.

The jacket smelled like soap and forest and sweat and something sharp.

He hated how much he recognized it.

He hated that it felt like saying goodbye.

He didn’t cry.

Polites didn’t cry.

But when Eurylochus stuck his head in and quietly said,

“Still no sign,”

Polites didn’t move.

He just clutched the jacket tighter.

And whispered,

“Come on, you fucking idiot… Don’t do this.”

Polites kept pacing. His boots echoed through the infirmary like a war drum. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He kept trying to check medical logs, casualty rosters, even supply returns—anything that might tell him he missed something.

He hadn’t.

The realization made him throw a tray across the room.

Day Two

Eurylochus didn’t sleep.

Didn’t shower.

Didn’t change out of his uniform.

He moved like a ghost, silent and slow, through the early hours of morning—passing people who didn’t dare say his name.

His boots led him to Odysseus’ tent again, like muscle memory.

He didn’t even hesitate.

He ducked inside and sat on the edge of the cot.

Still made.

Still untouched.

He picked up the pillow. Heavy with the weight of Odysseus’ scent.

Still faintly warm.

Still smelled like bitter shampoo and the weird mint soap he’d hoarded from a supply crate three months ago.

Eurylochus pulled it into his lap like a fucking teddy bear.

Like a child.

And sat there, whispering his name.

“Odysseus…”

Softly. Again. Again. Again.

Like the syllables alone could put the universe in reverse.

Like maybe this time he’d walk in. Smug and grinning and bloodied, with some half-dead excuse and a wolf trailing behind him.

He hit play on the voicemail again.

The one where Odysseus was yelling. Garbled static. Wind in the mic.

“Someone bring me that weird sour yogurt drink—you know the one, you bastards, it’s pink and it tastes like chalk—”

Click.

Replay.

He listened to it seventeen times.

By the eighteenth, the tremble in his thumb made it skip.

He hadn’t eaten.

There was a tray of food left outside the tent flap. Someone had tried.

It sat untouched, the bread hardening with time.

Polites passed by once. Peeked in. Didn’t speak.

He just stared at Eurylochus holding the pillow with the voicemail still running, eyes unfocused and mouth pressed into a straight, deadly line.

Then turned away.

Teucer came later.

He didn’t say anything, either.

Just crouched near the tent entrance and lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

He didn’t even smoke.

The day dragged.

The sun was too bright.

The shadows were too long.

People whispered.

They were avoiding saying his name now.

Avoiding looking at his bunk. His locker. His bloody mug in the mess.

Agamemnon barked orders and nobody answered.

Athena didn’t come out of her office.

Diomedes was gone. Nobody knew where.

Eurylochus stayed.

And when the sky went gray again, and the camp lights buzzed on, he finally, finally moved.

He stood up, still holding the pillow like something sacred, and muttered,

“…He’s not dead.”

No one was there to answer.

But the silence?

It was screaming.

It rained.

Of course it rained. Not a soft, mournful drizzle either—no, it poured. Angry, heavy rain that slapped against tents and soaked through uniforms in minutes, like the sky was as pissed off as the rest of them.

No drills were called. No orders barked.

Not one superior dared.

Because Athena hadn’t spoken a single word since last night.

She just stood at the edge of the camp under the tarp of the command tent, arms crossed tight over her chest, hair soaked, mouth set in that terrifying straight line she only ever wore when things were really wrong.

Her eyes were locked on the tree line.

Like if she stared hard enough, she could will him back.

Polites had spent the whole night sitting by the base radio. Not transmitting, not requesting, not reporting. Just listening.

Crackling static.

Bursts of coded nonsense from miles away.

Some foreign chatter.

A bird.

He didn’t even blink when Eurylochus finally came in with two mugs of coffee, sloshing with each heavy step. Just nodded like his bones weighed too much.

“You slept?” Eurylochus asked.

Polites shook his head. “Did you?”

“No.”

They didn’t say anything else.

Just sat there.

Waiting.

Menelaus had tried to be productive. Honest to gods, he tried.

He did inventory of the armory.

Then the rations.

Then the medical kits.

And then he found a half-crushed protein bar shoved into a crate—Odysseus’ brand. The one he always left crumbs of in the corners of the strategy room, the one he bit with his side molars like a feral animal.

Menelaus stared at it like it might come alive.

Then slowly, gently, he put it back.

Like returning something sacred.

Diomedes broke something. Again.

This time it was the table in the south barracks. No one asked how. It had a clean split through the middle, and Diomedes was sitting beside it, breathing hard, knuckles bloody.

He hadn’t spoken since they got the "confirmation."

His hands were still stained with dried blood from the last mission.

He refused to wash them.

He said he wasn’t done with them yet.

Some of the newer recruits whispered when they thought no one could hear.

Said Odysseus must’ve gone rogue.

Said he probably defected, or deserted, or planned this.

They didn’t say it twice.

Not after Athena slammed a coffee cup so hard on a metal table it split down the side.

Nobody even looked at her afterward.

That afternoon, Eurylochus sat alone on the back steps of the infirmary, rain beading down the curve of his nose, one hand fisted tight around Odysseus’ battered dog tags. He didn’t say anything.

Then quietly, bitterly, almost too soft to hear:

“Stupid bastard.”

They couldn’t even hold a funeral.

There was no body.

No remains.

No clue.

Just silence.

And that goddamn half-empty protein bar on Menelaus’ desk.

Day Four

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes with peace—no, this was the wrong kind. The kind that sunk into your bones. The kind that made men forget how to laugh.

Even the wind didn’t dare whistle.

Athena stood in the war room.

Still.

Unmoving.

The same maps lay scattered across the table, untouched since the last mission. Pins were knocked out of place, blood stained the margins. A mug—his mug—still sat near the edge, half-full, ringed with teeth marks from where Odysseus always bit the lip of the cup when he thought too hard.

She didn’t touch it.

Didn’t move anything.

She just stared.

Nobody else went in. They hovered at the door, took one look at her face, and turned right around.

That morning, she’d broken the base radio.

Not with a weapon. Not with tools.

With her bare hands.

She’d ripped the panel out of the wall with a snarl, wires dangling like entrails, sparks spitting from the sides. She didn’t even flinch when it shocked her.

Snapped the chair next.

Slammed it once, twice, a third time until it cracked into splinters.

When the formal announcement was issued—

Odysseus. Presumed KIA.

—she didn’t scream.

Didn’t curse.

Didn’t throw the desk out the window like Eurylochus had the night before.

She just walked to her office. Quiet.

Closed the door behind her.

And then the shattering started.

Glass.

One after another.

The sound of it echoing through the concrete halls like bones breaking.

Her personal stock of liquor, gone in under five minutes.

No one dared check on her.

Not even Polites.

Eurylochus didn’t eat.

He sat cross-legged in the back of the barracks with a blanket over his shoulders and Odysseus’ hoodie balled in his lap. It still smelled like cheap soap and war.

He held it like it might speak to him.

“Stupid,” he muttered. “Should’ve tied him to a post. Should’ve drugged him, chained him, locked him in a broom closet…”

He kept muttering. Kept pacing, kept moving like if he stopped for more than a second, grief would catch up and eat him whole.

Polites passed out in the hallway.

He hadn’t slept.

Hadn’t eaten.

He’d been checking every medical supply crate that came in, just in case. Kept a list on his clipboard of all unidentified casualties brought in, even the burned ones. His hands shook so badly he couldn’t finish the autopsy reports.

They put a blanket over him and let him sleep there on the floor.

Diomedes took the truck.

No one gave him permission. He didn’t ask.

He just grabbed the keys, grabbed his rifle, and drove straight out into the ruins where Odysseus had last been seen. The tires kicked up gravel and dust, fishtailing once before roaring into the trees.

He came back eight hours later.

Bloody.

With an bullet through his thigh.

Didn’t say a word.

Argos howled.

Every night.

Loud.

The wolf paced the perimeter of the base, dragging his claws against the concrete, leaving scratches deep enough to curl the edge of your soul. He ignored everyone.

Except the command tent.

He sat outside it like a statue, eyes glowing, staring through the fabric like he could see the man he’d chosen.

Athena didn’t throw him out.

And everywhere, in every corner of the base, they kept hearing it.

Ghost sounds.

The click of boots.

The scratch of a pen.

A bark of laughter too familiar to ignore.

A hum from the hallway.

A creak of a bed that wasn’t occupied.

But when they looked—

It was always empty.

The ghosts were just echoes.

Echoes of someone who should’ve been there.

Someone whose absence was loud enough to drive them mad.

Day Five

It was raining.

The kind of cold, ugly drizzle that soaked you through no matter how many layers you wore—clung to your skin like grief.

No one talked anymore. They hadn’t in hours.

Athena sat in her office, fingers steepled, eyes red-rimmed. Her sleeves were rolled up, scratches still on her arms from smashing the radio days ago. Her hands trembled like a machine stuck in a loop—she didn’t even notice anymore.

Polites hadn’t left the medical tent. He stared at the empty cot Odysseus used to crash on like it might conjure him back.

Eurylochus hadn’t spoken since yesterday.

And Diomedes—well, no one had seen Diomedes since sunrise. He’d limped off into the woods again, dragging a bloodied pack and growling when anyone tried to stop him. Said nothing. Did nothing. Just hunted.

For a corpse.

Because what else could there be?

And then.

The gate buzzed.

A garbled voice cut through the static of the comms.

“…Hey. Uh. This is gonna sound weird but—can someone let me in? I forgot the code and also I think I have a concussion. Also I might have made friends with a raccoon.”

Everyone froze.

Teucer, who had been asleep face-down on the kitchen table, lifted his head and blinked at the radio.

“…Was that—?”

A scream echoed from the hallway.

It came from Athena’s office.

The entire base exploded into motion.

Boots stomped down stairs. Metal creaked. People shoved past each other, tripping over chairs and desks and each other as they sprinted for the front gates like rabid animals.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

But none of them noticed.

Not when they reached the entrance.

Not when the gates groaned open—

And there he was.

Soaked. Muddy. One eye swollen shut. A cut over his cheekbone. Limping, bruised, bloodied, and definitely infected—but grinning like a lunatic and holding a half-eaten granola bar.

“…Hey,” Odysseus said. “Did I miss dinner?”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Because Polites hit him first.

Launched straight into his chest with a sob so loud it hurt. Arms locking tight around his ribs like a vice, fingers digging into his shirt. “You absolute bastard,” he choked, “you stupid, stupid bastard—”

Then came Eurylochus, who didn’t even pretend to be cool about it. He grabbed his other side, shaking, head buried in Odysseus’ neck like he was trying to confirm he was real by osmosis. “We thought you were dead. We buried you, you asshole.”

“Technically, you didn’t,” Odysseus wheezed.

And then.

Athena.

She didn’t run.

She stormed.

Grabbed his face in both hands, scanned him over like she was going to inventory every inch of skin and count all the bruises. Her lip quivered. Her eyes burned. She looked like she wanted to kill him and collapse all at once.

“You,” she hissed, voice shaking. “You absolute cockroach—”

Then she yanked him into her chest and held him like the world would end if she let go.

And finally—

Diomedes.

He didn’t say anything. Just came up behind them all, looked at Odysseus like he was a hallucination, and then punched him in the stomach.

“Ow?!” Odysseus gasped, doubling over. “What the hell was that for?!”

“For not dying,” Diomedes muttered, then dragged him into the group hug whether he liked it or not.

And that was how they all ended up on the wet pavement. Seven of them. Tangled. Soaked. Crying. Shaking. Holding onto him like he might vanish again if they blinked.

Odysseus, in the middle of it all, bloodied and bruised and barely alive, smiled softly—

“…You guys missed me, huh?”

Everyone screamed at once.

Chapter Text

12:00

It happened fast.

One second, Odysseus was confidently striding across the base like the dramatic menace he always was—arms full of folders he definitely wasn’t supposed to have, mouthing off about something undoubtedly stupid—

—and the next, he tripped.

A slick patch on the walkway.

Two uneven stones.

His shoe catching the edge.

“SHI—”

THUD.

He landed hard—knees first, palms scraping the pavement, folders flying like snow in the wind.

Everything went still.

Then—

“ODYSSEUS?!”

Athena’s voice cracked so hard on his name it practically broke the sound barrier.

She was running before anyone else even stood up.

Boots slamming the ground.

Hair flying.

Command tablet tossed directly into a bush.

He blinked from the ground, still catching his breath, as she dropped to her knees beside him with the urgency of a surgeon and the panic of a mother hen on meth.

“Where does it hurt? Can you feel your legs? Are your ribs broken? Are you bleeding? Who did this?!”

“I—what—” he stammered, looking down at his slightly scraped palms, “—I tripped, Athena—”

“Oh gods, you’re going into shock.”

“I’m not going into shock—”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale!”

She grabbed his face, eyes scanning him like lasers, and smacked his cheek lightly. “Stay with me, soldier!”

“I am literally sitting up and talking to you—”

She was already peeling his pant leg up like some kind of battlefield nurse, revealing two very skinned, slightly bloody knees.

She gasped.

“...Oh my god.”

Odysseus sighed, leaning back on his elbows. “I scraped my knees. I didn’t get sniped.”

Athena looked up at him.

Eyes wide.

Voice tight.

“Do you want stickers or a cookie?”

“…wait, really?”

“No. That was sarcasm. You’re on report for being an idiot.”

Then she cupped the back of his neck and pulled his forehead to hers, silent for a beat, breathing hard.

“Don’t scare me like that,” she whispered.

Odysseus blinked.

Then he smiled.

“…I’ll fall more gracefully next time.”

“Try falling less, dumbass.”

And with that, she helped him up—still gripping his elbow like he might implode—while muttering under her breath about getting him knee pads, a helmet, and possibly wrapping him in bubble wrap.

Chapter Text

16:02

It started as a joke.

A stupid, throwaway joke.

Odysseus, bored out of his mind and armed with a packet of rainbow glitter star stickers he’d stolen from the med bay’s pediatric ward, slapped one onto Achilles’ forehead after he didn’t cuss out a superior officer for once.

"Good boy," Odysseus said solemnly.

Achilles blinked.

Touched the sticker.

Turned bright red.

Mumbled something incoherent and stomped off like a kicked puppy.

Odysseus didn’t expect it to work.

But it did.

Because the next day, Achilles sat through an entire strategy meeting without kicking the table over or throwing a chair—and when Odysseus casually peeled a golden star sticker from the sheet and stuck it to the center of his chest, Achilles stood a little taller. Shoulders back. Smirking like he'd just been knighted.

The others noticed.

They tried to pretend they didn’t.

But they did.

It started subtly—Menelaus holding the door open for three people in a row and then pausing by Odysseus with a very obvious, very awkward cough.

“…You good?” Odysseus asked, suspicious.

Menelaus stared down at him.

Coughed again.

Then looked deliberately at the sticker sheet in his lap.

“…You want a sticker.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You held a door like a polite, sticker-seeking bastard—”

“I—shut up.”

He got a little silver moon.

Then Teucer started showing up to meetings early.

Axie stopped throwing people into walls.

AJ washed a dish. One. Singular. Dish.

By day three, Odysseus had a full-on system.

Sticker economy.

A chart.

He had ranks.

Gold star = outstanding.

Blue star = decent effort.

Sparkly frog sticker = exceptional emotional maturity.

The elusive glow-in-the-dark dinosaur sticker? Legend-tier. No one had earned it. Yet.

And like trained war dogs, the entire base started quietly trying to earn them.

Eurylochus tried once. Just once. He helped Polites carry medical supplies without complaint, stood in front of Odysseus, arms crossed, and grunted, “Well?”

Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “You want a sticker?”

Eurylochus stared, “I will throw you into the sun.”

Odysseus gave him a sticker anyway.

A smiley face.

Right in the middle of his forehead.

Eurylochus didn’t take it off.

No one said a word.

Athena hasn’t asked for one yet.

But sometimes she lingers near Odysseus’ bunk, arms folded, eyes narrowed—not at him, but at the sticker sheet clipped to his clipboard.

The addiction has begun.

And Odysseus?

He’s never been more powerful.

Chapter Text

19:00

The base halls echoed with the screech of rubber soles and the godawful sounds of someone being physically dragged against their will.

“LET ME ROT!” Achilles howled, clawing desperately at the linoleum as if the floor itself might save him. “I’M FERAL. THIS IS WHO I AM.”

Odysseus, behind him, arms locked around Achilles’ waist, grunted as he hauled the kicking man toward the showers.

“You smell like a battlefield and a dead raccoon, Achilles.”

“I EARNED THAT STENCH WITH BLOOD AND HONOR—”

“You haven’t showered in four days. There’s literal moss growing behind your ear, I checked.”

Achilles flailed harder, his nails carving grooves into the waxed floor. “THAT’S A LICHEN COLONY I NAMED THEM—”

Odysseus adjusted his grip like he was carrying a particularly violent golden retriever. “I will hose you down myself, don’t test me—”

“NOOOOOO—!”

Around the corner, a group of soldiers paused mid-conversation to watch the scene unfold.

Achilles, nails screeching.

Odysseus, huffing and dragging.

A streaked line of floor destruction trailing behind them like the path of a deranged slug.

Polites walked by, sipping tea. “Shower time?”

“Yep,” Odysseus grunted.

Polites gave a sage nod and kept walking.

They passed Athena's office—her head poked out just long enough to eye the chaos.

“Again?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Odysseus didn’t even look up. “He bit me last time. I’m winning this round.”

Achilles let out a howl of betrayal. “TRAITOR!”

“You literally tried to mark your bunk as a territory. With your teeth.”

“IT WAS A POWER MOVE!”

Odysseus planted a boot on the wall for leverage and yanked.

Achilles shrieked as he was dragged into the bathroom like a goblin being exorcised.

The door slammed.

The water turned on.

The base sighed in collective relief.

Until a second later—

“YOU CAN’T WASH OFF MY GLORY—”

“YES I CAN, IT’S CALLED SOAP!”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

11:30

It happened fifteen minutes after she arrived. The barracks were still reeling. Half the squad was trying to process that Odysseus—their Odysseus, the disaster gremlin in tactical gear—had royalty in the family. The other half was hiding

Ctimene walked through the halls like she belonged there. Like she owned the whole damn base. Which, to be fair, with her heels clicking and her coat swishing behind her like a cloak, she practically did.

She turned the corner.

And met a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

Argos stood in the hall like a sentry. Massive. Silent. Too wild for a collar. Fur thick and dark, with leaves still caught behind one ear. Most people edged away from him. A few braver ones offered snacks with trembling hands. One poor guy tried to pat his head and got growled into next week.

Ctimene stopped. Stared.

Argos stared back.

Odysseus, still chewing, peeked from around the hallway. “Hey, don’t get too close—he’s a little weird around strangers and—”

She clicked her tongue once.

Argos’s ears perked.

Then sauntered over, cool as anything, sat directly in front of her like a trained guard dog, and tilted his head up. Waiting.

Ctimene scratched behind his ears with one perfectly manicured hand.

Odysseus dropped his bread.

“…Are you kidding me.”

Argos huffed. Then flopped over, exposing his belly.

Everyone gasped.

Ctimene gave Odysseus a withering look. “You haven’t been brushing him properly. His coat’s shedding unevenly.”

“HE’S A WILD ANIMAL, CTIMENE.”

She didn’t even blink. “So are you. Mother still wiped your nose until you were twelve.”

Athena, passing by with a stack of documents, stopped dead. Watched Argos roll onto his side and nuzzle Ctimene’s boot.

“Is that the murder wolf?” she whispered, horrified.

Ctimene gave her a dainty smile. “His name is Argos. And he’s mine now.”

Polites—quiet, sweet, very much aware of how insane this family was—peeked out of the comms room and sighed. “She’s gonna be worse than him.”

“He raised her,” Eurylochus muttered, clutching a stress ball like it was a grenade. “We never stood a chance.”

Ctimene ran a hand through Argos’ fur, inspected the dirt on his haunches, and nodded to herself.

“I’m keeping him.”

“You can’t just steal a wolf,” Odysseus sputtered.

“Watch me.” She stood up and clicked her tongue again. Argos followed.

Just like that.

Like he’d always been hers.

“See you boys at dinner,” she said sweetly over her shoulder. “I’m making stew. And brushing my wolf.”

Odysseus looked around in slow horror. “Did I just get alpha-challenged in front of my own war dog—”

“Yes,” Athena said. “And you lost.”

Odysseus stood there, slack-jawed, hand still outstretched toward his wolf as Ctimene and Argos strode off like some kind of goddamn royal procession.

He blinked.

“Are you—ARGOS. Argos, you traitor. Get back here. You’re supposed to listen to me. I literally saved you. I fed you.”

Argos didn’t even glance back. His tail swished proudly as he matched Ctimene’s stride, fluff bouncing like some smug parade float.

Odysseus let out a strangled sound and took off after them. “CTIMENE YOU CAN’T JUST— Give me back my feral son!! You already stole my childhood, leave me something!!”

He vanished around the corner after her, yelling something about wolves, childhood trauma, and dinner etiquette.

A heavy silence fell over the barracks hallway.

Polites, leaning in the doorway, finally cleared his throat. “So… uh.”

Everyone turned.

Polites raised a finger, looking like he was about to drop a nuclear bomb.

“Odysseus is the older sibling.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Teucer’s mouth dropped open. Achilles stared like someone had slapped him. Agamemnon choked on his own spit.

“…No,” Menelaus whispered. “No, that doesn’t make sense. She walks like a god and he runs like a divorced dad.”

Athena was pinching the bridge of her nose so hard it looked like she was trying to vanish her own skull. “She once negotiated a ceasefire in under ten minutes with flowers and eye contact. He once got stuck in the vents trying to avoid morning brief.”

Eurylochus just groaned and rubbed his face. “Yeah. Well. He raised her. Think about that.”

Achilles turned to Patroclus, eyes wide. “We really need to send help.”

From around the corner, they heard:

“I SWEAR TO THE GODS, IF YOU GIVE HIM BATHS BEFORE I DO—”

“Then learn to brush properly, you filthy goblin. You always left knots behind.”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”

Argos barked once.

Like he agreed with her.

Everyone stared.

Polites clapped once, slow and exhausted. “There it is. Family love.”

“...More like war crimes,” Athena muttered.

The yelling didn’t stop.

It got worse.

It escalated so fast, it was like a truck going 90 in a 30 zone.

“You are not keeping him, Ctimene!”

“He likes me more than you already, you unwashed barnacle.”

“Because you probably rubbed dried meat on your damn hands—like you did to Father’s hounds. You are manipulating him!”

“Oh, please, you just don’t want me to have something you can’t ruin. Like you ruined everything else.”

“Yeah? At least I didn’t sell myself to enemy kings like they were olives at market!”

There was a full pause.

A collective inhale from the hallway. Polites’ mouth slowly fell open, his hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to bolt or intervene.

Ctimene’s voice was ice. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You wore those translucent dresses on purpose—"

“—to keep us fed, you rancid seaweed!”

“You were fifteen.”

“Exactly. And where the fuck were you?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Sneaking off to die like a coward while I was getting stared down by old men with countries and teeth falling out.”

Odysseus stepped closer. “Don’t talk like you were some kind of martyr—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, who slit their wrists in the royal tub and made the maids clean it up? You, you bastard.”

Another silence. One with weight.

Polites took a step into the hallway.

Athena’s face had gone blank.

Eurylochus’ jaw was tight, but he wasn’t moving either. No one was.

Chapter Text

17:00

He was out cold.

Not the usual Odysseus-out-cold—muttering plans in his sleep or twitching like he was mid firefight in a dream. No. This was the kind of unconscious that came after days of no rest, too much caffeine, too little food, and trying to out-stubborn the human body itself.

So now?

Now he was draped half in her lap, one arm dangling, dirt smudged into his temple, mouth slightly open as he breathed in slow, heavy pulls.

And Ctimene?

Ctimene looked like she was ready to commit war crimes if anyone got too close.

She sat with her legs crossed on the floor of the empty rec room, Odysseus cradled against her chest, her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders like steel bars. One hand absently threaded through his curls, checking for fever, scratches, gods forbid—bleeding. Her face?

Glacial.

Eyes sharp enough to slit throats. Back straight. Jaw locked.

And every time someone peeked around the corner, they flinched at the sheer intensity of the glare she launched at them.

Polites crept in first, holding a blanket. “I just—he gets cold sometimes when he—”

Her eyes snapped to him.

He froze like a rat caught under a hawk’s talon.

She didn’t speak. She just stared.

Polites slowly placed the blanket on the floor, nudged it forward with his foot, and backed out like he was disarming a bomb.

Teucer tried next. “Miss Ctimene, I just wanted to—”

“Leave,” she said without looking up.

Teucer did a full reverse like he’d walked into a lion’s den.

Even Eurylochus peeked in, raised an eyebrow, made eye contact with her—and immediately went, “Nope.”

Patroclus muttered to Achilles, “I think she might actually kill someone.”

“She’s like a possessive raccoon,” Achilles whispered. “He’s her shiny rock.”

Ctimene didn’t care. She didn’t move. She just watched over him like a vulture guarding treasure.

Odysseus let out a quiet sigh in his sleep, one hand twitching toward his chest.

Immediately, her entire body softened. She adjusted his jacket, tucked the blanket around him, and brushed a thumb across his cheek with the gentleness of someone who’d done this before—far too many times.

“Stupid brother,” she murmured, barely audible. “You never stop until you collapse, huh?”

Outside the room, Athena and Polites exchanged glances.

“Should we say something?”

Athena sipped her tea. “Not if we want to live.”

They all agreed.

Chapter Text

12:00

Athena had never been sick before. Or at least, that’s what she claimed.

But now? Now she was cocooned in a fortress of military-grade blankets, half-slumped across the couch in her office with a suspiciously flushed face, a mug of untouched tea steaming sadly on the table, and Odysseus pinned under her like he was a stuffed animal.

"You're disgusting," Odysseus muttered, nose wrinkling as she nuzzled her forehead into his shoulder.

“I’m perfect,” she replied, her voice nasally and muffled by his jacket. “You’re my baby. Shut up.”

“I am not your—” he grunted as she tightened her arms around him like a python. “Athena. You’re sweating through your shirt. And mine. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Athena—”

“Nooo.” She buried her face into the crook of his neck and whined like a gremlin. “You’re warm. You're soft. You're mine. Stay still.”

Odysseus let his head thunk back against the armrest of her stupid expensive military-grade couch. “You have a fever.”

“You have no soul,” she said sweetly, then sniffled.

Across the room, Eurylochus was silently watching the scene unfold through the half-cracked door, holding a report that had absolutely zero chance of getting signed today. Behind him, Polites leaned in to whisper, “Is she calling him her baby?”

“Yes,” Eurylochus whispered back. “This is the third time.”

Polites blinked “Should we… help him?”

“He got himself into this mess.”

Odysseus sighed deeply and patted Athena’s back like she was an oversized, feverish child.

She murmured, “My baby boy…”

“I’m more than a legal adult,” he hissed.

“You’re my baby forever,” she mumbled sleepily. “Even when you’re old. Even if you die. I’ll raise you from the grave and make you do paperwork again.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Mmhm.”

She was out two seconds later, her breath hot on his neck, her grip unrelenting. A literal general of the war, clinging like a toddler with separation anxiety.

Odysseus stared at the ceiling.

“…I hate my life,” he muttered.

A tiny snore buzzed against his collarbone.

Chapter Text

13:00

The shot cracked through the air.

A scream followed—not from Apollo, but from the soldiers around him.

The golden general of medicine hit the ground, white coat blooming red, hands still smeared with someone else’s blood as he slumped beside his latest patient. For a moment, the entire battlefield froze—like the war itself stuttered to a halt at the sight of Apollo bleeding.

“APOLLO?!”

It echoed across the comms. Athena’s voice went shrill. Poseidon cursed. Artemis’ breathing hitched so hard her comm crackled. Even Ares choked on a disbelieving laugh, the first true sign of fear he'd ever shown.

But Odysseus?

Odysseus was already moving.

He ducked behind a scorched jeep, eyes locked on the golden-haired man sprawled out near the crumbling wall of a bombed-out shack. Bullets whizzed by, dirt exploded near his boots—but he didn’t even flinch.

His boots splashed through blood and muck, coat flapping behind him as he reached Apollo, slapped his face lightly once, twice, then peered down at the wound.

“Shoulder,” he muttered. “Clean shot. Missed the bone. You’re fine.”

Apollo blinked up at him, dazed and pale. “...You’re not even gonna ask if I’m okay?”

“No,” Odysseus grunted, already pulling the man’s arm around his shoulder. “You’re not special.”

“I'm a general,—”

“You’re a medic who didn’t duck fast enough,” Odysseus cut in, dragging him upright like he weighed nothing. “Now shut up and bleed less.”

The comms were still losing it.

“Apollo’s hit?!”

“I’m rerouting evac now—”

“Artemis, breathe—”

Odysseus clicked on his radio and calmly replied, “I got him. Chill out.”

“CHILL—ODYSSEUS, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO YOU’RE HOLDING—”

“Yeah. Field medic. Bleeding. Won’t stop whining.”

Then he cut the comm.

Bullets pinged off the wall as he carried Apollo bridal-style like an unbothered husband retrieving a drama queen from a party. Apollo groaned once. “...This is humiliating.”

“You’re lucky we need you,” Odysseus replied, voice deadpan. “Now shut up before I drop you.”

Apollo didn’t argue. Just nestled against him with a weak sigh.

Behind them, the war resumed.

The moment the shot rang out, Artemis knew.

It didn’t matter that she was half a mile away, pinned behind debris and issuing commands through comms—it didn’t matter that the battlefield was chaos—her twin’s pain echoed through her like a second heartbeat skipping.

“Apollo?!” she barked into the comms. “Apollo, respond!”

Nothing.

“Apollo, where the fuck are you?!”

The comm crackled. Static. Then—

Odysseus’ voice, far too casual:

“I got him. Chill out.”

Chill out.

She froze.

She saw red.

The next thing she knew, her helmet was off and she was screaming into her comms.

“CHILL—ODYSSEUS, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO YOU’RE HOLDING—”

“Yeah. Field medic. Bleeding. Won’t stop whining.”

And then—

Click.

The channel went silent.

“...He didn’t.”

She stared at the comm in her hand. “Tell me he did not just cut the line—”

Poseidon’s voice chimed in cautiously, “He, uh... definitely did.”

“I’M GOING TO MURDER HIM.”

Her fist went through the side of the abandoned Humvee she’d taken cover beside. Metal crunched. The entire vehicle groaned under the blow. Several nearby soldiers instinctively flinched and shuffled a few feet farther away.

“HE CUT THE FUCKING COMM. HE CUT THE—DOES HE THINK THIS IS A JOKE? THAT’S APOLLO—MY BROTHER—MY TWIN—”

Athena’s voice, clipped and nasal, came through the channel. “I told you he’s impossible.”

“IM-POSSIBLE?” Artemis howled. “He is a MENACE TO SOCIETY! A WAR CRIMINAL! A FERAL GREASE-STAINED LITTLE—”

A soldier tried to step forward to calm her. She snarled at him. He backed off.

Ares chimed in, voice low and tense, “...At least he’s carrying him out. Look.”

Across the field—amid smoke and gunfire and chaos—Odysseus strolled through no-man’s-land with Apollo cradled in his arms, like he was just bringing a sack of laundry to base.

Artemis nearly combusted.

“I’M GOING TO SHOVE A SCALPEL INTO HIS EAR WHEN HE GETS BACK.”

“Do it after he patches up Apollo,” Athena muttered dryly. “We still need our medic.”

“I’M GOING TO DO IT TWICE.”

Chapter Text

7:05

The smoke was still settling.

Odysseus skidded to a halt beside the stretcher, heart pounding, hands already fumbling for the med kit on his hip. Ctimene was right behind him, coat flaring as she dropped to her knees beside Eurylochus like a vulture in silk. The moment she saw the blood, her expression sharpened like a blade.

“What the fuck happened,” she hissed.

Odysseus didn’t answer—he was already tearing through Eurylochus’ gear, checking the wound. The shrapnel had caught him in the thigh, ugly and red and still oozing. Not fatal. But nasty.

“You stupid, stupid asshole,” Odysseus muttered under his breath, smacking gauze onto the wound with grim efficiency. “I told you not to flank alone.”

“I was following orders,” Eurylochus rasped, voice dry with pain. “Your orders.”

Odysseus didn’t look up. “Yeah, well, don’t listen to me. I’m an idiot.”

“Clearly,” Ctimene snapped, elbowing her brother out of the way and snatching the bandage roll from his hands. “You’re shaking. Let me wrap it.”

“I got it—”

“No, you don’t.” She glared at him. “You’re about to faint, you dramatic bastard.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like a winded goat.”

Eurylochus let out a weak chuckle, and then a grunt of pain. “You two arguing makes me feel better.”

“Shut up,” they snapped in unison.

Ctimene finished wrapping his leg with quick, practiced hands. Her jaw was tight. Her voice was softer when she spoke again.

“You’re not allowed to die. I already lost one dumbass once.”

“I’m fine,” Eurylochus murmured, eyes fluttering. “It’s not that deep.”

“It’s literally deep,” Odysseus muttered, checking the blood-soaked gauze again. “I can see your muscle, ‘Lochus. Sit still or I swear I’ll staple your ass to the dirt.”

Ctimene grabbed his shoulder, nails digging in. “If you die, I will learn necromancy just to kill you again.”

“I’m starting to think you two care about me,” Eurylochus whispered with a faint smirk.

Odysseus snorted. “Don’t push it.”

Ctimene leaned down and kissed his forehead without warning. “Shut up and pass out, dumbass.”

And Eurylochus, finally, did.

Odysseus let out a long, exhausted sigh as Eurylochus slumped fully into unconsciousness, head tilting slightly against Ctimene’s knee. For once, she didn’t shove him off.

Instead, she reached up, brushed his hair back from his forehead, and glanced at her brother with a rare, measured calm.

“Give me the disinfectant,” she said, all sharpness gone, her voice smooth and clinical. “We’ll have to clean it properly before infection sets in.”

Odysseus tossed the bottle her way without a word and crouched by Eurylochus’ side again. His hands were steadier now. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off. Maybe it was just Ctimene being competent.

“Hold his leg steady,” she said, uncapping the bottle.

He did. Without hesitation. Without the usual commentary. Eurylochus twitched as the cold liquid hit the raw wound, even unconscious. Odysseus muttered a quiet, steadying, “Easy, ‘Lochus… I got you,” like it would help.

Ctimene glanced at him, quick and fleeting. “You’re always gentler with him.”

“You’re imagining things,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the wound.

“Sure I am.” Her hands moved deftly, wiping away the blood with gauze, layering salve, then wrapping it in clean cloth. She didn’t speak again until she tied it off with a neat, taut knot.

“Okay,” she said, blowing a lock of hair from her face. “It’s stable. He needs fluids. Sleep. And an actual bed.”

“He’s getting a cot,” Odysseus said. “If he thinks I’m carrying him to the barracks like some kind of heroic romance novel, he can eat dirt.”

“…You’re literally about to carry him, aren’t you.”

“I’m gonna make him feel really guilty about it later.”

Odysseus bent down and slid his arms under Eurylochus’ back and knees. Despite all his bitching, he lifted him gently, carefully, like he was made of glass. Ctimene stood beside them, folding the bloody bandages into a neat pile.

They walked side by side toward the nearest shelter.

“Do you think he knows?” Ctimene asked suddenly.

Odysseus frowned. “Knows what?”

“That we’d burn the world down if he died.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, softly, “I think he knows.”

Ctimene didn’t say anything else. She just walked beside her brother in silence, steps in sync with his, while Odysseus held the man they both would never admit they loved too much.

Chapter Text

Menelaus didn’t even blink when Odysseus plopped down onto his lap like it was a damn throne.

He just adjusted slightly, letting one arm rest around Odysseus’ waist as he kept reading through the thick, over-complicated manual for base communications calibration. Meanwhile, Odysseus had a small stack of mission reports in one hand and was furiously scribbling sarcastic commentary on the margins with a half-dead pen.

“Why is the supply report twenty pages long for bread?” Odysseus muttered, chewing the cap of his pen like it personally offended him. “They could’ve written ‘we got some bread’ and saved the trees.”

“You could just not annotate it with angry doodles,” Menelaus said mildly, flipping a page. He adjusted his glasses, which had started to slip. “That loaf is crying.”

“It should be. It’s dry.”

Menelaus hummed thoughtfully, then pulled the stapler from the corner of the table and handed it over without looking.

Odysseus took it and stapled a cartoon of a screaming baguette to the front of the report.

They sat in perfect, chaotic synergy—Odysseus ranting about administrative disasters, Menelaus quietly reading through dull specs and occasionally pushing Odysseus more upright when he started to slouch sideways like a sleepy cat.

From the outside, it looked absurd. A war-hardened commander with the clingiest war criminal curled in his lap like it was the most natural seating choice. But no one dared question it. Not anymore.

Menelaus tapped his pen against his chin. “I need the schematics for the new satellite uplink.”

Odysseus, without breaking stride in his own writing, grabbed the folder off the table and handed it back over his shoulder.

“Thanks, babe,” Menelaus muttered.

“Don’t call me that, I’m trying to ruin bureaucracy.”

“Mm. You're doing great.”

The office door creaked open with all the grace of a kicked-in dumpster, and in shuffled Agamemnon—half-dressed, half-conscious, and fully over it.

His hair was a mess, there was a single sock barely hanging off one foot, and he had that dazed, post-nap stare of a man who had no idea what day it was but was certain it was someone else's fault.

Menelaus didn’t look up from the schematics, nor did Odysseus stop doodling a funeral for a soggy ration bar. They both just vaguely acknowledged the energy shift—the heavy footsteps, the faint growling, and the sudden drop in temperature like a thundercloud had sleepwalked in.

“'Nelaus,” Agamemnon mumbled, voice thick with sleep, irritation, and older brother entitlement.

Before anyone could answer, Agamemnon walked over and dropped his arms around Menelaus from behind, practically draping himself over the back of the chair like a massive golden retriever with rage issues. His chin thunked down on the top of Menelaus’ head.

“I’m cold. Your chair is warm. Let me in.”

“I can’t ‘let you in’—this isn’t a sleeping bag,” Menelaus muttered, unimpressed, still skimming his manual.

Agamemnon groaned dramatically and slumped lower, hugging both Menelaus and—by default—Odysseus, who blinked as a very large, very warm arm came down over his shoulder.

“Oh good,” Odysseus muttered dryly. “Now we’re a panini.”

Agamemnon ignored him. “I want my little brother.”

“You have him. He's under your goddamn chin,” Menelaus sighed.

“I mean emotionally,” Agamemnon grunted. “You’re too far away emotionally.”

Odysseus snorted. “You’re literally pressing his spine into my kidneys, Agamemnon.”

There was a long pause.

Agamemnon just grumbled again and stayed where he was, tightening his grip. Menelaus made a low, tired noise of protest but didn’t move.

“I’m tired,” Agamemnon muttered into his hair. “You always make it easier to sleep.”

Menelaus finally set down the schematics and leaned his head back, the faintest softening in his expression.

“Fine. Five minutes.”

Odysseus slowly raised his hand, still holding his pen. “Blink twice if I’m allowed to breathe.”

No one moved.

“Cool. Suffocating it is.”

Chapter Text

9:00

Achilles’ sniffles echoed through the otherwise quiet base woods.

“Don’t look at me!” he yelled from somewhere above, voice cracking mid-wail. “I’m not stuck, I’m just— I’m just—strategically positioned!”

Odysseus, jogging toward the sound, squinted up through the branches until his gaze landed on a very miserable, very tangled Achilles clinging to the upper limbs of a massive tree. His face was blotchy, his legs were stuck at the weirdest angles, and he had clearly been crying for at least fifteen minutes.

“…How the hell did you even get up there?” Odysseus asked, hands on his hips.

“I was following a squirrel!” Achilles shouted, indignant and tear-streaked.

“…Right,” Odysseus said slowly. “And then?”

“And then I realized I don’t know how to climb down, okay?!”

A pause.

“…Please get me.”

Odysseus sighed and tossed his jacket to the ground, already eyeing the climb. “You do realize you're supposed to be a man of war, right?”

Achilles let out a watery growl. “If you mock me one more time, I’ll throw myself down and haunt you!”

“You’re too dramatic to haunt,” Odysseus muttered, grabbing the lowest branch and hoisting himself up. “You’d get distracted halfway through and start redecorating my kitchen.”

“I’d make everything PINK and COVER IT IN STICKERS.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

It took a solid two minutes of careful climbing before Odysseus reached him. Achilles was still sniffling, arms latched around the tree like it might betray him if he let go. His lower lip trembled pathetically.

“You came,” he mumbled.

“You’re literally crying in a tree. Of course I came.”

Odysseus reached for him slowly, gently prying one hand off the bark. “C’mon, brat. I’ve got you.”

Achilles whimpered and launched himself into Odysseus’ arms with all the grace of a flailing raccoon. The impact almost knocked them both off, but Odysseus managed to steady himself with a grunt, Achilles now clinging to him like a limpet.

“You smell like army rations and regret,” Odysseus muttered as he awkwardly started the descent.

“You smell like abandonment issues,” Achilles sniffed.

“Yeah, and yet here I am, saving your feral ass again.”

They hit the ground with a final hop, and Achilles immediately sat down in the grass with a dramatic flop, still wiping his eyes.

Odysseus handed him a protein bar like a peace offering.

“…Thanks,” Achilles muttered, taking it.

Odysseus ruffled his hair. “Next time you chase a squirrel, try not to cry about it from ten feet off the ground.”

Achilles, with his mouth full of protein bar, flipped him off.

Achilles sat there chewing, pouting like a kicked puppy and glaring up at Odysseus with all the fire of a soggy matchstick. He was dirt-smudged, his knees were scraped, and there was a leaf stuck in his hair that made him look even more ridiculous than usual.

Odysseus just sighed through his nose and crouched beside him, brushing the leaf away with two fingers.

"You're a mess," he said lightly, but there was that unmistakable warmth under the teasing.

Achilles didn’t say anything—just sulked harder and took another angry bite of his protein bar.

Odysseus smirked.

And then, slowly, he reached out again and gave Achilles a gentle, deliberate pat on the head.

And another.

And another.

Achilles blinked.

Paused mid-chew.

Went completely still.

Like a switch had flipped.

His body went soft—too soft—and he immediately slumped sideways until he was half-leaning against Odysseus’ leg. His mouth was still full, but his expression had transformed into something dazed and almost peaceful.

“...You good?” Odysseus asked warily, hand still resting on the top of his head.

Achilles made a little sound. A tiny, high-pitched squeaky grunt like a startled baby animal, and then—he nuzzled his head into Odysseus’ thigh.

“...Achilles?”

A pause.

And then came the possum mode.

Achilles, the mighty, tempestuous bastard, curled in on himself like a sleepy rodent. His eyes half-lidded, his limbs slowly pulling in. He chomped lazily at the last bit of the protein bar, then let it fall from his fingers like he was too tired to continue existing. His foot twitched. His shoulders slumped.

And then he cooed. Actually cooed.

Odysseus blinked down at him, horrified and also slightly endeared. “...Did you just make a sound like a dying microwave?”

“Warm...” Achilles mumbled.

“Do I need to call for help, or…?”

Achilles latched onto his boot like a baby koala.

“No help. Just head pats.”

Odysseus stared at the sky for a long moment, silently calculating his life choices.

He gave another slow, methodical pat.

Achilles made a noise so soft and contented it nearly echoed.

“...This is a threat to national security,” Odysseus muttered.

Achilles just snuggled closer.

Like a domesticated possum with abandonment issues and sharp teeth.

Chapter Text

Odysseus looked like death microwaved and served lukewarm. He was bundled in layers of blankets like a human burrito, his nose bright red, eyes glassy, voice completely shot. A mug of aggressively doctored tea sat untouched on the nightstand beside him, and tissues were scattered like battlefield casualties.

And at the foot of the bed, crouched like a wild gremlin guarding a treasure hoard, was Achilles.

Shirtless. Sleep-deprived. Possum mode: engaged.

He hadn’t left Odysseus’ side in nearly sixteen hours.

Someone—brave, foolish, suicidal—crept to the door with a tray of soup.

Achilles hissed.

The tray immediately hit the floor with a clatter as the poor medic skittered back, wide-eyed.

Polites leaned in from the hallway, whispering like a man on a bomb squad.

“Is it still unsafe?”

“Don’t,” said Eurylochus quietly. “He’s worse now. I think he’s been watching Odysseus breathe while perched on the dresser.”

From inside, a distinct snarl echoed, followed by the sound of claws dragging over wood. (It was probably a fork, but at this point? No one was betting.)

Athena approached next, holding a clipboard and a thermometer like a truce.

“I need to check—”

A growl.

“Achilles, he needs medication—”

“No.” Achilles’ voice was feral and low, like something spoken by a creature who’d forgotten how to be human. “He is resting. You will not touch him. You will not wake him. He is my fever prince.”

Athena blinked. “Your what—”

“Fever. Prince.”

Inside the nest of pillows, Odysseus stirred faintly, letting out a congested cough.

Achilles immediately turned to him like a mother hen crossed with a pit viper. He hissed toward the door again—a warning. Then slithered back into the blankets, curling tightly around Odysseus’ side with wild, yellow-eyed protectiveness.

Odysseus, half-delirious and croaky, mumbled, “...You’re so weird...”

Achilles didn’t blink. “I will die for you.”

“You’d die if someone sneezed on you too hard.”

“I’d kill them first,” he replied, stroking Odysseus’ hair with possessive reverence.

Outside the door, Polites whispered, “So we’re just… letting that happen?”

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Until Odysseus recovers? We’re all hostages.”

Eurylochus leaned in with a bowl. “Soup offering?”

A spoon clattered against the wall like a thrown dagger.

“...Soup denied,” he muttered.

The sign taped on the door said:

"DO NOT ENTER. HE IS MINE. - A"

(Below it: three tally marks and one skull doodle)

The hallway had turned into something of a triage camp—less for the sick and more for the emotionally wounded. Morale was low. A few medics had started a betting pool for who would survive the next attempt to deliver Odysseus food. One of them was missing a sock. No one dared ask what had happened.

Achilles’ reign over the infirm room was brutal.

Anyone who came within five feet of the door got hissed at, growled at, or—if they were really unlucky—glared at with such unhinged intensity they had to re-evaluate their life choices.

Until.

There was a soft knock. Not a "let me in" knock. A "Hey, it's me. You know me." kind of knock.

Achilles’ ears twitched under his messy blonde curls. His head whipped toward the door from where he lay curled around a miserable Odysseus.

"...Pat?"

The door cracked open, and there he stood: Patroclus. Rumpled hair. Gentle eyes. Mug of hot water in one hand, cold rag in the other. No armor, no clipboard, no threat.

Just Pat.

Achilles blinked once. Then shifted off the bed with slow, jerky movements. His lips curled, nostrils flared—

And then he nodded.

“Only you,” he whispered.

Patroclus stepped in slowly, carefully. Everyone outside the door held their breath. Athena clutched Eurylochus' arm. Polites mouthed, "Is this a trap?"

It wasn’t.

Achilles moved aside, sitting on the floor beside the bed like a silent, shaggy sentinel, tailbone resting on his heels. He tracked Patroclus’ every movement like a hawk. But he didn’t stop him.

Patroclus gently placed the mug on the bedside table. “He hasn’t taken anything, has he?”

A shake of the head.

“He’s burning up.”

Achilles stared at the floor. “He was shaking. I didn’t want anyone to touch him. They’d do it wrong.”

Patroclus reached out and gently touched Achilles’ cheek.

“I know,” he said, quiet, understanding. “You did good.”

Achilles melted at the praise, biting his lip to keep from physically wagging his head like a dog.

Patroclus leaned over Odysseus and began wiping his face down with the rag. Odysseus stirred, blearily opening one eye.

“Mmm… Patroclus? Are you also a hallucination?”

“Unfortunately not,” Pat said gently.

“...Shame.”

He smiled, and Achilles scooted closer again like a big, tired goblin, wrapping an arm around Odysseus’ blanketed chest possessively.

“Can I still hold him?” he asked.

Patroclus nodded. “Of course.”

The door creaked open a little wider.

Polites tried to peek.

Achilles didn’t even turn his head—just bared his teeth.

The door shut immediately.

Patroclus laughed under his breath and gently ran his fingers through Achilles' hair.

“He’s going to be okay,” he murmured.

Achilles just grunted and laid his head against Odysseus’ chest again, eyes sharp but calm. “I know.”

The sign on the door was updated an hour later.

"ONLY PATROCLUS ALLOWED. - A"

(Below it: a doodle of a wolf, a sun, and a little heart-shaped bandage)

Chapter Text

23:00

It was the dead of night.

The kind of night where even the stars were silent—like they didn’t want to be witnesses.

Odysseus moved like a shadow, every step calculated. No jokes. No sideways glances. Just cold, purposeful strides across gravel and grass.

His gear was packed. His rifle slung. Boots tight. Rations. Water. His old wedding ring, tucked in a pouch over his heart.

The fence at the northern edge had been pre-cut—blades cleanly slid through the wire days ago.

He reached the edge. His hand touched the opening.

And—

The floodlights roared on.

“ON THE GROUND! NOW!”

Guns cocked. Boots thundered. Shapes emerged from the dark.

Polites. Athena. Teucer. All armed. All livid.

Odysseus didn’t raise his hands. He just stood there, eyes like steel, bathed in white light.

“Explain,” Athena spat. Her tone didn’t waver—but her voice was shaking.

“I’m going home,” Odysseus said. No emotion. No hesitation. “To Ithaca.”

Silence.

“What?” Polites breathed.

“I’ve had enough of this shit. The fighting. The death. The mission. All of it. I was going to leave. Get out. Go back to the island. I already arranged the drop point.”

“You were going to ABANDON US?” Teucer roared. “Without a goddamn word?”

“You were going to ABANDON ME?” Polites’ voice cracked.

Athena stepped forward slowly. “You were going to crawl back to Ithaca like a coward?”

“I’ve done enough,” Odysseus barked. “I’ve led enough. I’ve bled enough. You want the truth? I can’t do it anymore. I was going to go home. I was going to be Odysseus of Ithaca again, not this—this thing I’ve become!”

Polites shoved him, eyes wild. “You were just going to vanish again?! After everything?! AFTER ALL WE—”

“You don’t get it,” Odysseus snapped. “None of you do.”

“You’re right,” Athena said, voice low and lethal. “I don’t get it. I don’t get how the man who dragged us through hell has the balls to cut the fence and run like a dog.”

He didn’t flinch.

Agamemnon, drawn by the noise, stormed into the scene—half-dressed, barefoot, fuming. “What the fuck is going on—”

“He was leaving,” Teucer said, almost numb.

Agamemnon blinked. Then turned to Odysseus. “You were going to desert?”

“I was going home.”

“Then crawl back to Ithaca with your arms torn off,” Agamemnon growled, fists curling.

Menelaus arrived behind him, wide-eyed and silent. He didn’t even speak—just stared at Odysseus like he didn’t recognize him.

Odysseus didn’t move.

And then Diomedes showed up.

He took one look at the scene, sized it up, and then lunged.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Polites and Teucer barely held him back.

“You were gonna let us think you were dead again!” Diomedes snarled. “We would’ve dug through every goddamn trench looking for your corpse!”

“LET HIM GO,” Athena growled, stepping forward. “He wants to go home so bad? Let him try crawling through that fence with his legs shattered—”

“Stop,” Polites whispered. His voice was shaking. “Stop it. Please.”

Silence.

Odysseus just looked down at his hands.

No words. No guilt. Just exhaustion.

Athena’s breath hitched—once. Sharp. Almost like a sob. But she didn’t cry.

Instead, she slapped him.

Hard.

And it didn’t even phase him.

“Lock him up,” she ordered.

Teucer and Eurylochus dragged him back through the mud and floodlights, shoving him into the brig. Nobody said a word to him.

He didn’t fight.

He didn’t apologize.

He just sat in the cell, hands limp in his lap, staring at the wall.

An hour passed.

The door creaked.

A cup of water slid through the bars.

Polites.

No eye contact. No words.

Just the water.

And then Polites walked away.

0:26

It was late.

Late enough that the lights in the brig hummed low, casting a dull yellow haze across the concrete. Odysseus lay on the cot, still in his boots, one arm slung over his eyes. He wasn’t asleep. Not really. Just drifting in that heavy, dead place between exhaustion and thought.

He hadn’t spoken since the cell door clanged shut behind him.

No one had visited again after Polites left the water. Or so he thought.

Because—

Click.

He didn’t flinch. The lock didn’t open, but the quiet sound of something metal being picked was unmistakable.

The door creaked. He tensed.

And then—

A body slid in beside him.

He blinked his eyes open.

Apollo. Curled gently against his right side like a cat seeking warmth, his arm tucked under his own chin, golden hair tangled from sleep.

“…what are you doing?” Odysseus rasped.

“Shut up,” Apollo mumbled sleepily. “You’re warm.”

Before he could respond, the door opened again. Another shadow.

Achilles. Shirtless, dragging a pillow behind him like a sulking child. He dropped it on the floor, climbed up onto the cot, and immediately plopped himself in Odysseus’ lap like a 160-pound possum, arms crossed, head tucked under Odysseus' chin.

“…you smell like stress,” Achilles muttered.

“Achilles—"

"Shut up. I'm mad at you."

Footsteps. Lighter ones this time. Patroclus, quietly slipping inside, followed by Eurylochus who looked like he had been dragged by his shirt collar by Athena herself.

“Move,” Eurylochus hissed at Apollo.

“No.”

“Then scoot over. You’re hogging him.”

Another pair of hands—delicate, warm—wrapped themselves around Odysseus’ ankle from where they’d snuck under the cot.

“Teucer?” he asked.

“Mmph,” came the reply. Sounded like he was half asleep under there.

Menelaus leaned against the wall of the cell, arms crossed, quietly holding an extra blanket like he didn’t plan to leave either. Agamemnon followed him in seconds later, wearing one of Menelaus’ jackets and looking deeply irritated.

“I am not here because I care,” Agamemnon muttered, plopping himself dramatically on the ground beside the cot. “I’m here because you’re an idiot and you obviously need a goddamn babysitter.”

Odysseus stared, too stunned to speak.

Then came the last.

Athena.

She didn’t say a word as she stepped in, the last to enter. Her face was stone. Jaw tight. She didn’t look at him.

Instead, she sat down on the floor beside the bed, back to the wall, arms crossed over her knees. She was in her fatigues still, boots unlaced. Her eyes were red—but dry.

“You’re not allowed to leave us,” she said softly, like a fact. “You’re not allowed to die. You’re not allowed to disappear. We won’t let you.”

Odysseus blinked. His throat tightened.

“…I wasn’t—"

“Yes, you were.”

Achilles shifted in his lap, clutching the front of Odysseus’ shirt like a baby animal. “You’re not allowed to do that,” he mumbled. “Only I get to run off and almost die.”

Odysseus finally looked down at them all.

There was no rage now.

Just quiet.

Apollo asleep, cheek smushed against his side. Achilles nestled into his chest. Eurylochus half-snoring into his leg. Teucer’s hand still clutching his ankle under the bed. Menelaus nodding off with Agamemnon using his shoulder like a pillow. Patroclus breathing slow and soft nearby.

And Athena.

Armed to the teeth. And yet, for once, she looked just as small and scared as the rest of them.

Odysseus swallowed hard.

“…Sorry,” he whispered.

Nobody replied.

But Apollo’s fingers curled gently in the fabric of his shirt.

Achilles’ grip tightened just slightly.

And Athena finally leaned her head back, eyes closed, and whispered:

“Next time you try to leave us… I will personally sedate you and chain you to the fucking mess hall bench.”

Odysseus gave the ghost of a laugh.

Then he closed his eyes too, surrounded by the bodies of people who refused to let him go.

Chapter Text

7:00

The hallway was silent. The storm had passed.

For now.

The others had filtered out of the brig in twos and threes, some still groggy from sleep, some pretending they hadn’t curled up beside Odysseus like puppies needing their alpha. Athena had left last, pausing in the doorway to give Odysseus a look that could peel paint.

But Polites stayed.

He stood just outside the cell.

Rigid.

Shaking.

“…Polites,” Odysseus said gently, reaching up to unlock the bars again. “You should rest.”

The moment the door opened—

Polites lunged.

Fists slammed against Odysseus’ chest. Weakly. But not without force.

“You were gonna leave me!” he shouted, voice cracking. “You were really—gonna leave—me—!”

His fists hit again. Again. But his voice was breaking apart as quickly as his arms gave out.

“You idiot! You selfish, reckless, brilliant bastard—!”

Odysseus didn’t stop him.

He didn’t try to defend himself.

He just took it.

Took the rage. Took the tears. Took the fists. Took the breathless, heaving sobs that finally overtook Polites’ throat and made him collapse forward.

Until the only sound left was him gasping in Odysseus’ arms.

“You said—we were in this together,” Polites whispered hoarsely, clutching Odysseus’ shirt like a child, forehead buried against his shoulder. “You promised. Don’t you dare break that. Don’t you dare leave me behind.”

Odysseus’ arms came up.

Slowly. Carefully. Gently.

And he held him.

Tight.

Anchoring him to something real.

“I’m sorry,” Odysseus murmured into Polites’ hair. “I know. I’m so damn sorry.”

Polites didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

He just stayed there, shaking in his arms like he was trying to hold back the ocean.

And Odysseus let him. Held him. Let the minutes pass without a word, no excuses, no jokes, no clever deflection.

Just his arms.

And that one quiet truth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not without you.”

Day Three After the Attempted Desertion

13:00

Odysseus opened the door to the hallway.

So did Polites.

“…Are you following me?” Odysseus asked, already weary.

Polites, bleary-eyed and still in his night shirt, simply blinked. “You were going to the mess hall, right?”

“Yes?”

“Cool. I’ll join you.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just slid in beside him like a second shadow.

Odysseus stopped. “Polites. You do realize I’m not going to launch myself off a balcony between here and the eggs, right?”

Polites tilted his head. “That’s exactly what someone plotting a second escape would say.”

Odysseus gave him a withering look. “I’m not plotting.”

“Uh-huh. And yesterday you ‘weren’t’ sneaking out to check the fencing alone,” Polites said, making air quotes as he clung to his arm.

“That was routine patrol.”

“You didn’t take a radio and you told Athena you were using the bathroom.”

“…Okay, fair.”

15:30

Odysseus turned, shampoo dripping into his eyes, only to find Polites sitting outside the shower stall, fully clothed, arms crossed, just waiting.

“Polites.”

“Yes?”

“You’re in the bathroom with me.”

“Yes.”

“I’m naked.”

Polites stared directly into the corner of the ceiling. “I’m not looking. But if you try to climb out a window, I will break protocol and tackle you in the nude. Try me.”

Odysseus just groaned and slammed his head gently against the tile.

4:04

“Why is Polites sitting in your lap?” Teucer asked flatly.

Polites, very comfortably nestled across Odysseus’ legs with a clipboard in hand, said, “We’re conserving space.”

“There are thirty-four open chairs.”

“Conserving emotional space,” Polites clarified.

Odysseus just let it happen, sipping his coffee like this was the price of treason.

—Day Six—

Polites had not slept in his own bunk since the incident. He had instead moved into Odysseus’ room, dragged in a cot, and positioned it directly beneath the window.

“You are not launching yourself into the darkness like a guilt-ridden Batman,” he said sternly, watching Odysseus as he pulled the blankets up to his chin.

Odysseus grunted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you are under surveillance.” He pointed to his own eyes and then to Odysseus’. “My watch never ends.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Odysseus asked, “Did you just quote Game of Thrones?”

Polites stared at him dead in the eye. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

Odysseus finally chuckled, quiet and genuine, as he turned onto his side and let the weight of sleep take him.

Polites waited a full five minutes before sitting back against the window sill, arms folded, expression grim and unblinking.

He wasn’t going to lose him.

Not again.

Chapter Text

16:42

The tree rustled ominously.

Teucer, patrolling near the line of old comm towers, glanced up from his notebook and squinted. “What in the name of—”
Before he could finish the thought, a thud echoed from the branches above, followed by—

“OH SHIT—”

CRACK. SNAP. THUMP.

Like a sack of potatoes wrapped in military-issue denim, Odysseus came plummeting out of the tree, flailing midair with a half-eaten protein bar still clenched in one hand.

Ares, walking below on his usual silent patrol, looked up a second too late.

There was a sound somewhere between a collision and an oof, and the world paused as Ares—war general, knife-eyed, tank-voiced, menace of the barracks—stumbled back half a step…

…and caught him.

Dead silence.

Ares stood frozen in place, arms full of Odysseus, eyes wide in baffled alarm. Odysseus blinked up at him, looking very much like a confused raccoon who’d just been yanked out of a trash can mid-snack.

“…hi,” Odysseus croaked, still chewing.

Ares slowly glanced down, face unreadable. “Why were you in a tree.”

“I lost a bet,” Odysseus replied, deadpan.

Ares stared.

Then, quieter, “Did you hit your head?”

“No?” He tilted his head, mildly curious. “Would it help if I did?”

Ares didn’t respond immediately—just adjusted his grip on Odysseus with surprising care and looked him over like he was a fragile egg carton someone had dropped into his arms. The worried crease between his brows deepened.

“You could’ve cracked your spine,” Ares muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Or your skull. Or—” He cut himself off with a frustrated exhale.

Teucer, watching from a distance with wide eyes, very wisely turned around and walked the hell away.

Odysseus blinked. “You’re, like… weirdly gentle.”

“You’re warm,” Ares grumbled, looking down at him again. “Why the hell are you warm? Are you sick?”

“I’m warm because you caught me and now you’re squishing me like a bear hug,” Odysseus drawled, poking him in the chest. “Are you sick? You’re fussing.”

Ares didn’t reply. Just slowly, carefully, lowered him back onto his feet. His hands lingered an extra second on Odysseus’ shoulders.

“You fall again,” he muttered, “I won’t catch you.”

“Yes you will,” Odysseus said smugly, brushing leaves off his hair.

“…Yeah, I will,” Ares admitted under his breath, jaw clenched.

He turned, walked off stiffly, and said nothing more—though Odysseus caught the way one hand flexed a little at his side, like he was holding back the urge to ruffle his hair or something equally embarrassing.

18:12

Odysseus was halfway through stealing Achilles’ soup—because Achilles wasn’t looking and the temptation was there—when a metal tray slammed down next to him. Hard.

He blinked. Slowly turned.

Ares.

The general loomed like a thundercloud with arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t sit. Just stared down at Odysseus.

“…Hi?” Odysseus offered, a noodle dangling from his mouth.

Ares pointed at the tray. “Eat that. Not leftovers. Balanced macros. Protein. Don’t skip meals.”

Everyone at the table went very still.

Polites slowly set down his fork. “Did… did Ares just bring you dinner?”

“No, he’s threatening me with nutrition,” Odysseus muttered.

Ares leaned down a little. “You. Are. Recovering. I saw the bruising. I don’t give a damn how ‘fine’ you say you are. You’re banned from climbing anything taller than a stool until further notice.”

Achilles leaned over to Patroclus and whispered, “Is this what a dad looks like or am I having a stroke?”

Patroclus, deadpan, replied, “Both.”

Ares stood there until Odysseus took a full bite. He only walked off after Odysseus lifted the tray and gave a half-hearted salute with a carrot stick.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

20:03 – Outside the Medical Wing

Odysseus sat on the steps, minding his own business, sipping tea.

Thunk.

A jacket landed on his head.

He blinked and peeled it off, looking up just in time to see Ares disappear around the corner at a stiff military march.

“...I’m not even cold,” Odysseus called after him.

From the corner, very faintly: “You will be. Temperature’s dropping.”

21:49 

Odysseus, finally flopped in bed, blinked sleepily up at the ceiling.

Then sat up with a grunt. “Where the hell is my knife?”

Polites peered down from the top bunk. “Did you check your locker?”

Odysseus checked. The knife was there.

Sharpened. Cleaned. Oiled. Polished.

He squinted.

Folded next to it was a note. Barely legible. All caps. Angry pen scratches.

“NEXT TIME BRING A DAMN ROPE IF YOU’RE GONNA TREE SPIDER, YOU ABSOLUTE LIABILITY.”

 

Odysseus read it twice. Then grinned.

Polites tilted his head. “What’s that look?”

“Nothing,” Odysseus said, folding the note neatly and tucking it into his vest pocket like a keepsake. “Just thinking.”

Ares, across the hall and glaring at a report, sneezed so hard he dropped his clipboard. And scowled. And didn’t know why.

Chapter Text

03:02

The rain had stopped, but the mud never did. It clung to everything—boots, jackets, the undersides of nails. It made movement slow and breathing feel heavier, like the earth was trying to drag them down and keep them forever.

Odysseus shifted in the trench, soaked to the bone and cold down to the marrow. Beside him, Diomedes grumbled incoherently and pulled the tattered military blanket tighter over both of them. His cheek was pressed to Odysseus’ shoulder, eyes closed.

“I swear to the gods,” Diomedes murmured, voice hoarse and low, “if you move again I’ll bite you.”

“I’m trying to breathe, not break your beauty sleep,” Odysseus whispered back. “You're the one latched on like a barnacle.”

Diomedes just grunted and pushed his nose into the side of Odysseus’ neck.

The trench wall was only inches behind them, the dirt cold and slick against their backs. Their guns were stashed beside them in reach, the safety off. Any sound above the trenchline was cause to freeze, hold their breath, and wait.

A crack of movement far off made Odysseus still completely. His hand reached without looking, and Diomedes—half-asleep or not—handed him his rifle wordlessly.

Still instinct. Still synced.

Silence returned. No alarm. Just wind again.

Odysseus exhaled. Slowly lowered the rifle. “False alarm.”

Diomedes didn’t say anything. Just curled more against him.

“You’re not even cold,” Odysseus muttered, but his arms wrapped around him anyway, pulling him tighter beneath the blanket. “You’re just clingy.”

“Says the man who dragged me into the trench and told me to shut up and snuggle like your life depends on it,” Diomedes slurred, already drifting again.

“That was strategy,” Odysseus hissed. “Tactical body heat. Not affection.”

“Mhm. Sure. Keep telling yourself that, princess.”

A beat of quiet passed.

Then, softly—almost too softly:

“…I thought I lost you yesterday.”

Odysseus looked down. Diomedes wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the trench wall.

“I saw your unit retreat. You weren’t with them.”

“I got pinned,” Odysseus said. “Hid under a truck and waited till dark. I'm here now.”

Diomedes just nodded against his chest.

Then muttered, “Don’t do it again.”

Odysseus sighed and let his chin rest atop Diomedes’ head, heartbeat steady and calm now. “Alright. I won’t.”

They stayed like that until the dawn started leaking over the edge of the trench, and neither moved until the call to regroup came hours later.

05:42

The sun barely crept over the trench line, throwing long streaks of dusty gold across the war-torn mud. Somewhere distant, a whistle cracked through the still morning air, signaling regroup.

Neither of them moved.

Odysseus blinked up at the sky, watching the pink-gold light try to soften the world. It failed. The dirt still reeked of gunpowder and iron.

Diomedes had shifted in his sleep sometime in the last hour, one arm now snug around Odysseus’ middle, the other curled between their chests. His legs had half-wrapped around one of Odysseus’, like a human blanket with far too much attitude.

Odysseus didn’t mind.

The whistle came again. Closer this time.

Still, he didn’t move.

His arm slid more securely around Diomedes’ back, fingers curling into the fabric of his field jacket like a tether. He pulled him in—tight, grounding, like if he held him hard enough, the war wouldn’t claw him away again.

Diomedes stirred faintly, brow twitching in his sleep. His breath hitched, like he might wake.

Odysseus tightened his grip just slightly.

“M’not movin’,” Diomedes mumbled against his collarbone, not even opening his eyes. “Try and make me, I’ll bite.”

Odysseus huffed a soft laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

The sound of boots splashing through puddles sounded from down the trench line, someone getting closer. Probably Polites doing headcount or checking who got their fool selves blown up.

Odysseus considered saying something. Calling out. Moving.

Then Diomedes’ fingers curled loosely into his shirt.

Nah. Not yet.

Let Polites yell. Let the others wait. Just five more minutes. Five more minutes of warmth, and breath, and still being here.

He buried his nose into Diomedes’ hair, his voice a low murmur only the dirt could hear.

“I’ve got you.”

And the war stayed quiet a little longer.

Chapter Text

13:00

The wind howled like a warning across the mountain ridge, icy fingers tugging at Odysseus’ jacket and hair as he climbed higher—one hand clutching at a jagged rock, the other digging his boot into a narrow ledge. His ankle, still not fully healed, throbbed with every movement, but he gritted his teeth and climbed anyway.

He didn’t hear the comms erupt in static down below.

Didn’t hear the sharp “Where the hell is he?” from Athena as she scanned the distant slopes through a pair of binoculars.

But he definitely heard the sharp scream of his name.

"ODYSSEUS!"

He turned just a second too late—caught sight of Athena sprinting up the ridge from below, gun strapped to her back, panic written all over her face—

—and then his boot slipped.

Gravity took over.

His body whipped downward, the mountainside blurring, rocks scraping across his limbs as he twisted mid-fall—

And then arms caught him.

Strong, trembling arms.

Athena landed hard, her back slamming into the ground with a grunt, but she kept him cradled against her chest, panting hard.

“Are you INSANE?! ” she shouted before she’d even fully caught her breath. “You’re not even cleared for terrain like this! What the hell are you doing up here?!”

Odysseus blinked down at her, flat on her back with her arms still wrapped tightly around him. “I was proving a point.”

“A POINT?!” Athena’s voice cracked. Her hands flew over him, checking for blood, broken bones, breathing like he had fallen into a warzone.

He grinned lazily. “You said I couldn’t climb it.”

“I— You sprained your ankle last week! ” she snapped, practically vibrating with a mix of fury and terror. “You could’ve— You almost— !”

Her voice broke.

She stopped checking for wounds. Just gripped his jacket tightly in both fists, burying her face against his chest. “Don’t do that again,” she mumbled.

Odysseus sighed softly, head tipping back as he let his eyes close for a moment. His voice was quiet. “Didn’t think you’d follow me.”

“You idiot,” she muttered into his collar. “You’re mine. Of course I did.”

And she didn’t let go for a long, long time.

Athena’s hands didn’t stop moving.

Her palms swept across his shoulders, down his arms, her brow furrowed in concentration as she checked for scrapes, bruises, fractures—anything. She tugged at his collar, pulled his sleeves up, pressed lightly at his ribs like she half-expected them to crumble beneath her fingers.

“Lift your shirt,” she ordered, curt.

Odysseus raised an eyebrow at her. “Buy me dinner first.”

She didn’t laugh. She just glared at him, jaw tight.

He rolled his eyes and slowly, with a wince at the ache in his muscles, tugged the hem of his shirt up, revealing mottled bruises across his side and back from the tumble. “Happy?”

Athena pressed her fingers to a particularly dark patch, and he flinched.

She looked ready to break something. “I swear to every god on Olympus, Odysseus…”

But he just laughed. Low, breathless, warm.

“Relax,” he said, dropping his shirt and leaning back slightly, arms spread like he was posing. “I bounce. See? Not even a broken bone. You’d think by now you’d have a little faith in my resilience.”

Athena narrowed her eyes at him, nostrils flaring. “You fell off a cliff. ”

“Technically it was a sharp incline.”

“You fell off a mountain, ” she corrected sharply.

“And you caught me,” he grinned, tapping her on the nose before she could stop him. “You really are soft when it comes to me, huh?”

“I’ll kill you,” she muttered, but her voice was thin now—tired, trembling around the edges.

His expression gentled. “Athena…”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. She sat back on her heels, brushing snow and dust off his shoulders, off his back, off his tangled hair.

“I thought I was going to watch you die, ” she said, quietly. “And you’re up here laughing. ”

Odysseus looked up at the sky above the mountain ridge. The clouds were clearing. Sunlight bled faintly through the gray, warm against his cheeks.

“I’m alive,” he murmured. “You caught me.”

Athena stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled through her nose. “You’re such a pain in my ass.”

“Love you too.”

And she didn’t deny it.

Instead, she pulled him into a hug again—tighter this time, one hand behind his head, the other pressed to his spine.

“You're not climbing anything else until your ankle heals,” she growled.

“Deal,” he mumbled into her hair. “But only if you carry me next time.”

“…I’ll throw you off next time.”

And he just laughed again.

Chapter Text

09:03

It started like any other morning argument between two overcaffeinated war generals.

Agamemnon stood across the makeshift table in the command tent, arms crossed, jaw ticking as Odysseus lazily slouched in his chair with one boot kicked up onto a crate of ammunition. The disagreement had started with strategy. As always, it quickly devolved into petty swipes.

“Gods, you are insufferable, ” Agamemnon snarled, jabbing a finger in Odysseus’ direction. “How anyone follows you, I will never know.”

“Talent,” Odysseus replied smoothly, sipping from his terrible tea-coffee concoction.

Agamemnon snapped. “ Go fuck yourself. ”

And then—he flipped him off. Full, aggressive middle finger, with all the weight of royal disdain behind it.

Odysseus blinked.

Then smiled.

And, slow as sin, he reached forward, curled his fingers gently around Agamemnon’s wrist, brought the hand close—

And took the extended finger into his mouth.

Agamemnon froze.

Odysseus looked him in the eyes as he dragged his mouth all the way down to the knuckle, expression unreadable but gleaming with nothing but pure mischief.

There was a wet pop as he pulled off.

Agamemnon’s ears turned red. Then his face. Then his soul.

“—YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE! ” Agamemnon shouted, yanking his hand back like it had been burned. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Odysseus gave a lazy little wink. “You said ‘go fuck myself,’ figured I’d start with your finger.”

Agamemnon made a noise like a kettle boiling over and smacked Odysseus squarely on the forehead with his palm.

“ Pervert! ”

Odysseus laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Menelaus poked his head into the tent a moment later, looking sleepy and confused. “Is it—why is Aggie screaming again?”

“Don’t ask,” Agamemnon hissed, face still flaming as he wiped his hand on his cloak like it had been defiled by sin itself.

Odysseus blew him a kiss.

Menelaus stepped fully into the tent, arms folded, mouth set in the sternest line he could muster—which, to be fair, was about as threatening as a slightly annoyed puppy. “Odysseus.”

Odysseus, still lounging in the chair with that shit-eating grin, glanced over lazily. “My dearest, sweetest Menelaus,” he purred. “Have you come to scold me too?”

Agamemnon was already halfway to combusting in the background, muttering curses under his breath and scrubbing his hand against his trousers like he could cleanse the memory.

Menelaus furrowed his brows, trying to maintain composure. “You can’t just—put people’s fingers in your mouth, Odysseus!”

“Why not?” Odysseus tilted his head innocently. “I brush twice a day.”

“That is not the point! ” Menelaus snapped, voice cracking just a little. “It’s inappropriate! And unsanitary! And—and—”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Odysseus murmured.

Menelaus flushed pink.

Immediately.

Odysseus leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. “You want me to show you how gentle I can be?” he asked, voice low and smooth. “I’m very good with my hands. And my mouth.”

Menelaus made a high-pitched squeak. His entire face went red, even his ears. “I— that’s not— Odysseus!!”

“Mm?” Odysseus blinked innocently.

“I— Agh! ”

Menelaus spun on his heel and stormed out of the tent, muttering something about “baths” and “repentance” and “why does he always do this to me—?”

Agamemnon watched him go, turned back to Odysseus, still red, and hissed, “I hate you.”

Odysseus stretched with a yawn. “Love you too, princess.”

Chapter Text

12:00

The strategy tent was quiet—painfully so. Maps were sprawled across the table, little markers denoting divisions, supply routes, enemy movements. And in the middle of it all stood Tiresias, tall, composed, and perfectly still, his clouded eyes fixed somewhere past the canvas wall.

Odysseus tiptoed in, barefoot, silent as a whisper.

Tiresias, of course, knew instantly.

“Don’t even try it,” the blind strategist said flatly, not turning his head. “I heard you breathing like a winded donkey the moment you entered.”

Odysseus gasped theatrically. “I’ll have you know my breathing is very seductive.”

“You sound like a dying goat.”

“You wound me.”

“I’m considering making it literal.”

Odysseus sauntered over and plopped down into a seat beside him, flipping a marker between his fingers. “C’mon, lighten up, old man. War’s already grim enough. You need someone to keep you from turning into stone.”

Tiresias scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I need peace and quiet, not an Ithacan gremlin scratching his name into my maps.”

“That was one time.”

“You wrote it six times in a heart.”

Odysseus shrugged, unbothered. “Just wanted to make sure you knew who loved you the most.”

Tiresias exhaled through his nose slowly—an exhausted man, a monk, a saint. “If I had eyes, I would be rolling them so hard they’d fly out of my skull.”

“You like having me here,” Odysseus said, grinning as he leaned back in the chair and propped his feet on the table.

“I endure your presence.”

“You adore my presence.”

“I should’ve predicted this.”

Odysseus leaned over, head resting on the strategist’s shoulder for a beat. “You’re not as alone as you think, y’know. Even if you pretend to be.”

Tiresias didn’t answer at first. His jaw tightened, then relaxed, his hands loosening at his sides. “I know.”

And though he didn’t smile, something in the set of his shoulders eased—just a little. Just enough.

Odysseus didn’t press further. He just stayed there a bit longer, comfortable silence between strategy and sarcasm, letting Tiresias enjoy the company he pretended not to need.

Even if he secretly loved it.

He always heard him before he spoke.

That obnoxiously deliberate rhythm of boots slapping dirt—too heavy to be casual, too light to be aggressive. The kind of gait that screamed, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," louder than any trumpet. Odysseus never entered quietly unless he was planning something—and even then, Tiresias could feel the grin peeling across his face from across the tent.

This time was no different.

Tiresias kept his back straight, chin up. He didn’t turn his head toward the sound. He didn’t need to. The weight of Odysseus’ steps was as familiar as breath by now, as familiar as the hand that always, always , found his.

It brushed his knuckles first, warm and calloused, then confidently slid down until it wrapped around his wrist. Firm. Settling. Thoughtless in how natural it was.

Tiresias could feel the steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his skin. Not rushed. Not anxious. Just… there. A small, living reminder that someone was with him.

And—gods help him—it comforted him. That stupid Ithacan comforted him.

Odysseus squeezed his wrist like he always did—his little greeting. His I’m not going anywhere.

Tiresias made a grumbling noise in response, something gruff and dismissive. “Your pacing is disruptive. Again.”

Odysseus didn’t let go.

He never did.

Tiresias would never admit it aloud—not in a hundred years—but in the shifting chaos of this war, there was something grounding about the way Odysseus existed. Loud, irritating, intrusive… and unmistakably loyal. He announced his presence in a world that tried to erase people like vapor, and he left imprints behind like footprints in clay.

Even now, Tiresias listened—not just with his ears, but with every inch of him. To the fidgeting. To the slight creak of Odysseus’ chair. To the way his breathing deepened when he leaned against the table, resting a little too close. The way he muttered under his breath when moving the little markers on the map, narrating mock battles between “Commander Genius” and “Blindfolded Wisdom Man.”

Tiresias pretended to be annoyed. Pretended not to smirk.

But he held onto that hand just a moment longer than necessary.

Chapter Text

17:00

There were very few moments in war where peace could settle into the cracks like warm soup in a chipped bowl. But somehow, Odysseus had declared this night one of those moments.

The three of them were squeezed around a tiny crate they were using as a makeshift table. Odysseus was sitting cross-legged on top of it, despite Polites' half-hearted protest that, "You're going to break it, you oversized satyr," while Eurylochus sat stiffly beside them, arms crossed like a disappointed commander babysitting drunk goats.

Polites had smuggled a half-melted chocolate bar from a passing supply line. Odysseus was trying to roast a piece of it over a candle stub with a stick. Eurylochus had been reading an operations manual. Had been.

Now he was squinting suspiciously as Odysseus tried to balance a matchstick between his nose and upper lip. "You look like a cursed walrus," Eurylochus muttered.

"I am a walrus," Odysseus replied solemnly, voice thick and nasal. "Hear my war cry— awooooo— "

Polites immediately lost it, doubling over with laughter. The chocolate bar dropped to the floor. "Gods, shut up, shut up, you're going to summon Athena with that noise!"

" She WISHES she could summon a war walrus," Odysseus declared proudly, shaking his head like he had a mane. The matchstick flew off and hit Eurylochus square in the forehead.

Eurylochus blinked.

He did not move.

Odysseus froze. Polites froze. There was a tense pause—like they had just poked a bear in its sleep.

And then…

Eurylochus snorted .

It was so small, so quick—but unmistakable. A stifled snort. He immediately coughed to cover it, clearing his throat and returning to his stern posture, but his ears were turning red.

" I heard that, " Polites said, pointing an accusatory, delighted finger.

"Shut up," Eurylochus muttered. "Both of you. You're imbeciles."

Odysseus grinned wide and leaned forward dramatically, poking Eurylochus in the cheek. "You love us."

"I do not."

"You doooooo."

"You are deeply mistaken."

"And yet," Polites chimed in with a smug grin, "you haven't left."

Eurylochus didn’t answer. He just stared blankly ahead as if wondering what life choices had led him to this exact moment—sitting next to two absolute disasters masquerading as soldiers.

Odysseus leaned his head on his shoulder. Polites leaned on the other.

Eurylochus exhaled through his nose. “You’re both heavy.”

They didn't move.

He didn’t push them off.

Chapter Text

10:00

It was unusually quiet near the entrance, save for the crunch of polished boots and the murmurs of the guards doing their shift changes. The midday sun cast long, lazy shadows against the packed dirt. Odysseus was leaning against a half-finished sandbag wall, sipping a horrible excuse for coffee, when he noticed a figure approaching the base.

Not just a figure. A woman.

Long black hair—long, like to-the-damn-ground long—swayed behind her in gentle waves. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain in the dusty light, and her eyes were the soft, glacial blue of winter seafoam. She walked with purpose, every step deliberate, yet strangely… elegant. Unbothered. Not a single strand of her ink-dark hair was out of place.

Odysseus blinked. Then smiled.

Well. That was new.

“Miss,” he called out casually, stepping forward with that warm, unassuming charm that made people either fall in love or start swinging. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Can I ask who you’re visiting?”

She turned to look at him. Her eyes swept over him with a slow, almost clinical curiosity before answering with the softest voice—refined, measured, and absolutely deadly.

“My father,” she said. “General Poseidon. Do you know him?”

Odysseus didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

Every neuron in his body SCREAMED at once.

Oh.

Oh no.

His smile froze on his face like someone had hit pause.

“I—uh—” he croaked, eyes flicking subtly to the left, toward the command tent, where he knew Poseidon had been yelling about weapon inventories not an hour ago.

Her eyes narrowed just slightly in amusement.

“I take it you do,” she said.

“...Charybdis,” he repeated slowly, recognition slamming into him like a goddamn freight ship. “Right. Miss Charybdis. Hi. Hello. You’re—alive. And tall.”

“I get that a lot,” she replied simply, brushing some imaginary dust off her sleeve. “He told me he’s been staying on base for months. I thought I’d check in.”

Odysseus was checking out. Mentally.

His entire war life was flashing before his eyes.

Behind him, one of the guards who’d overheard the conversation immediately dropped his clipboard and sprinted off to alert someone—anyone—that Poseidon’s daughter was here.

Meanwhile, Odysseus was still frozen in polite horror.

Because Charybdis had just smiled.

And gods help him, it looked like her father’s smile.

Odysseus was still standing there like a man who had just realized he was about to die in the next five minutes when—

“CHARYYYY—?”

Poseidon's unmistakable baritone thundered from inside the command tent. The flap slammed open.

There he was.

Poseidon. Towering. Broad-shouldered. Beard like a crashing tide. Scowl permanently etched into his face. And those storm-blue eyes—identical to Charybdis’s—were already locked onto her.

Then shifted.

To Odysseus.

Charybdis smiled sweetly and took a step back.

Odysseus didn’t say anything. He just immediately lifted both hands in surrender, slowly, deliberately…

Then—with full, unbroken eye contact—he mouthed:

“I didn’t touch her.”

Poseidon's brows twitched.

Odysseus doubled down, finger to his chest, mouthing again more urgently:

“I. Did. Not. TOUCH HER.”