Chapter Text
Penelope moved to stand slowly, wincing as her limbs were stiff from the cold, hard floor. She never let go of Odysseus’ hand, though.
“Come.” she mumbled, her voice soft and grounding to Odysseus.
“Let’s wash your tears away, my love. Just a warm bath, then sleep.”
Odysseus nodded slowly, standing up shakily and following her around like a mindless zombie.
His movements were almost mechanical.
He was so drained that he couldnt even realize where they were going or what they were doing until it hit him.
The smell… that sound…
No… nonononono, fuck no!
Penelope turned the bronze tap, and it only fueled Odysseus’ panic. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the rising steam of the bath.
He felt phantom pain vibrating through him—the smell of salt and blood from Poseidon’s wrath rushing to his head.
His breath hitched, becoming labored once again.
He did NOT want to get in. To be submerged was to be vulnerable. Who knew what could happen?
Anyone could keep his head underwater long enough to drown.
Plus, he had to get naked.
He didnt let anyone touch his clothes, much less take them off—he had learned his lesson since.
He still remembered the first—and last—time a servant had tried to bathe him, the way he almost killed them before they could even see a glimpse of the shameful ink embedded on his skin.
Penelope had noticed the change almost immediately—the way he stared at the water as if it were a hydra (heheh…) making his thoughts clear.
“Odysseus…?” She asked, her hand still steady on his arm.
“It’s okay, love. It’s just a bath. It’s still, it’s safe.”
He shook his head, his voice dry and hoarse from so much crying and sobbing.
“It’s not… Penelope. He… he never lets it stay still…” He pulled his arm away from his wife’s hand slowly, the sound of running water turning into the very screams of his own men being drowned mercilessly by the god of the seas.
He retreated slowly, gripping the door frame so tight his knuckled turned white.
His body froze up—a stance that seemed threatening but terrified at the same time.
Penelope didnt argue, knowing that it had to do with the gods somehow. It wouldn’t be possible for Calypso—a name she swore to never dare speak out loud again—to make her dear husband afraid of something as simple as water.
Instead, she reached out to the tap and turned it—the screams in Odysseus’ head ceased.
“Then maybe we should try something else.” She said, her voice firm but gentle as she brought Odysseus down from his panic.
She left him alone for a moment, returning with a stool they kept in their bedroom whenever Odysseus insisted on guarding her—a gesture that she appreciated, but found concerning nonetheless.
She set the stool down near a counter far from the basin—far from that god.
Odysseus sat shakily, sinking onto it immediately with his head against his hands.
His head bowed, his hands twitching against him as if waiting for vines to grab him.
He felt like a coward—a brave king reduced to trembling and hiding at the mere sight of water— but he couldnt stop the aching in his lungs whenever he caught a smell of the steam emerging from the draining water in the basin.
Penelope reached for a bowl she kept in the bathroom, filling it up with warm water.
Odysseus sank lower, covering his ears with his hands and closing his eyes tight. She turned the tap, holding the bowl up for Odysseus to see.
She waited until Odysseus finally looked up to take a soft linen cloth and kneel between his knees.
Her husband initially flinched at the sight, but relaxed when he noticed the size of the bowl and how she sat.
It was small, manageable, and no one could keep his head underwater in that position—a position that once would’ve brought him comfort, but now felt like a healer tending to a shattered patient after the war.
“Close you eyes, Odysseus…” she whispered, wetting the cloth in the water-filled bowl.
He obeyed, his eyes closing slowly and hesitantly.
When the damp cloth grazed his forehead, he flinched—a sharp, jagged recoil of his shoulders as he lowered down slightly.
“It’s just me.” his wife reminded, her voice soft but steady.
She began to wipe away the sweat and grime from his face, and then the dried tracks of the tears he’d left on her lap.
She was gentle, careful to avoid any sudden movements or particularly rough touches that might’ve resembled those of that wretched goddess.
She cleaned his neck, her finger brushing against the thick, rope-like scars across.
Her expression dropped slightly, wondering when her husband was gonna tell the story about those.
She just hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was.
Odysseus’ breathing slowed eventually, and the smell of salt began to fade, replaced by the soft scent of lavender. For a moment, he was at peace—not a monster, not a warrior, just a man who simply wanted to be clean.
“You’re doing good, my love.” his wife mumbled, moving the cloth to his hands and gently prying his fingers open.
He had never noticed how clenched they were. They had left marks on the palm of his hands.
“I’m… not, Penelope.” He rasped out, his eyes still squeezed shut,
“I—I’m not the man you remember… that man—he died with the rest of my crew. I’m just what the sea spat back out…”
Penelope paused, holding his trembling hands in hers—not to hold him down, but to ground him.
“Then i will learn to love what the sea returned with.” she mumbled, her voice sounding almost heart-broken if it weren’t for the gentleness in her touch.
“We can wash it all away, my love.”
She dipped the cloth back into the bowl, and the small sound it made didnt resemble that of the storm her husband was used to—no, it was a promise.
A promise that he would finally find peace.