Re: Tandy/Billy/Atticus: the lake
Billy hadn’t given up on thinking about it, the planetary weight on Atlas shoulders -- not really. Didn’t ever, really. Couldn’t? Maybe. He was good at keeping the visibility low at surface level, keeping the smile bright and eyes gleaming mischief and his feet kicking gently against the deck of the boat like he wasn’t actually some kind of beetle pinned to a board and kept under glass. Like there wasn’t always the knowledge simmering at the cellular level, that one day Mr. Mister would come back for him. Even if the guy really was dead and Billy never had to see him again for real-for real, he was always still gonna be under that glass. Bisected, wings gone, the pins more like spikes ran through and keeping his pain on display for the people that knew about it. Like these two.
And realistically, since he barely had the sleep thing under control with potions and Valium, even if Mr. Mister kept coming back for him at night, all in his head, he had an inkling that it would eventually kill him.
But he was here, with people who cared about him, and who would get pissed if he ran before he really knew that he had any reason to do so, right? So it served them all, really, to let the gentle lap of water against the hull cool down the coal-red edges of anxiety and hitch his smile up a little higher on one side.
“Thank you, Tandy,” he said pointedly, expression implying something like smug as he gave Atticus a Look and picked up his plate, trailing behind. “Finally, somebody who recognizes that the guy who wears tweed and elbow patches doesn’t get to take credit for my brilliance.” He paused, glancing down the length of a sweater that looked soft and very un-frumpy jeans, and waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Wore. My point stands.”