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It's Monday night--nearly morning, really. It's the third night in a row that Annabeth's woken up, drenched in sweat, unshed tears in her eyes.
She hadn't cried since they had returned from Tartarus - and she wouldn't start now.
She had screamed until Percy had shaken her gently awake, wrapped his arms around her, murmured into her hair that it was alright, that he was there, that he would never leave her alone again.
He knows from experience that she can probably barely hear the words he is saying, but that his voice is enough. Annabeth's tearless sobs slow to a quiet sniffling.
Percy's not daft enough to believe that she would be able to fall back asleep, but he holds her anyways, and they pretend.
- • •
On Tuesday before breakfast, the two of them are drinking coffee in their kitchen. Like most things in their too-expensive apartment, it is tiny but neat (because Percy is a clean-freak in disguise,) and cluttered (because Annabeth can't bear to part with anything of even a little sentimental value.)
"You think I should go see a therapist?" She's watching him watch the Eight O' Clock News.
"Err...I think you should try it. It never hurts to try... It helped me, Annabeth, it really did." Because it had--but then, Percy had never felt the effects of Tartarus the way she did.
"Annabeth," he murmurs when she doesn't respond, getting up to look her in the eyes. Hers are tinged red, complete with deep purple bags. He puts his forehead to hers, his hair still wet from his shower.
"It's just not me," she sighs. Percy sighs, too, then takes both their mugs to the sink to rinse out.
Annabeth's forehead is damp from his hair.
- • •
Lucali's in Brooklyn was almost an hour long drive in New York Traffic, and the air conditioning in Annabeth's Jeep wasn't working again.
It's Wednesday afternoon. Percy had called an hour ago to order their pie - half pepperoni, a quarter Hawaiian, a quarter buffalo chicken. There was always a long line, but Lucali's was worth it.
"Hey," Percy says now, "I love this song." He leans his head back against the headrest and the wind tousles his already messy hair. She loves him so much, her chest hurts. She swallows her tears.
Annabeth merges lanes onto the route that will take them straight to Brooklyn.
- • •
On Thursday morning, Annabeth finds a business card for a therapist sticking out of one of the vents for the pointless air conditioning system in her car.
Brian Holt, Ph.D.
"Ugh! Percy!" She yells at the windshield, thumping a fist on the steering wheel. It's pointless - he can't hear her from his cozy spot back in the apartment in their bed, probably still fast asleep.
When she comes back from work, Percy sits down with her at their neat, cluttered kitchen counter. "He can squeeze you in for tomorrow if you'd like."
Annabeth doesn't reply, because giving in feels like defeat.
But there must be something different in her expression, because Percy takes out his phone and dials, before setting it on the counter, putting it on speakerphone and wrapping an arm around her.
- • •
On Friday at dawn, Annabeth finds herself in the waiting room to see Brian Holt, Ph.D.
"Annabelle?" the receptionist lady calls, and Annabeth corrects her before walking into the warmly decorated office. The name Brian Holt, Ph.D. belongs to a round face, lined with smile lines. His resemblance to Father Christmas is uncanny.
"Hello, Annabeth... Chase? Come in and sit down, I've heard almost too many wonderful things about you from your Percy."
Her Percy.
And Annabeth begins to cry.