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Chapter Text

An angel falls. Crimson blood blossoms against the white of his wings and a rasping scream tears from his throat. It's soundless, ripped into nothing by the storm. Cold bolts of rain lash him as he streaks through the dark clouds, spinning and spiralling out of control. He's drenched through within a heartbeat. Slick strands of black hair cling to his forehead, his neck.

His eyes are screwed shut in his terror. He tries to stop screaming, but he can't. Blood trickles into his face from a gash in his brow, rendering him blind. He claws it away with a sob, so viciously that his bitten nails tear into his cheeks.

Animal desperation seizes him as terminal velocity arrives. Now he just plummets headfirst; he isn't spinning anymore. It's a relief, at least until he glimpses first sight of the impending city below him. He wonders if it will hurt. A gale rips at him, tearing bloody feathers in handfuls from his wings. The angel can't bring himself to care. They're destroyed beyond use anyway.

Below him, golden lights glare through the rain. He can hear human laughter, human music, human heartbeats thrumming in the city.

Everything hurts. He knows the fall won't kill him, but he wishes it would.

Annabeth is an early riser. The blinds on her bedroom window are too thin to keep out the sunrise, so she tends to wake up before most sane people would want to be awake. Still, she doesn't mind. A nice, hot cup of coffee is usually enough to spur her brain into action most days—even when she's only had a few hours' sleep after working late into the night on architecture projects for her university's summer classes.

She lives alone in her apartment. In her first year of uni she'd taken a dorm, but it eventually turned into the biggest regret of her life. Her roommate had been unbearable. Annabeth had been locked out of the dorm for the night whenever she felt like having a guy over, which was every weekend and most Fridays. Seriously, who manages to have that much sex without even being in a relationship?

To say the least, Annabeth likes living by herself. Talking to people is a chore more often than not, and Annabeth is a homebody anyway. Less going out means more time to spend on assignments and personal projects, which aren't always architecture related. Annabeth had begrudgingly taken an art course in high school as it was necessary for the courses she was interested in, but drawing ended up burrowing its way more deeply into Annabeth's life than she ever anticipated. It's now her refuge. Graphite is her preferred medium—paint or even pastels are always too messy, too unpredictable. With a pencil, she's in control.

This morning, Annabeth has been awake since four-thirty. It's Sunday, which is always bliss as it's the only day she doesn't have to waitress and—of course—there's no classes on the weekend. Outside, the weather looks golden, a typicality of London's summers. Maybe a walk would be nice. This early in the day, the city's traffic should be a little less vicious.

Annabeth changes out of the oversized, knee-length shirt which used to belong to her dad that she usually sleeps in to put on a more socially acceptable outfit. She shoves a paperback and her battered earphones into her pocket—she figures she can head to the park and read on a bench while soaking up the sun. As she steps out into the day, the cold morning air washes over her. Annabeth sets off walking, absently smoothing her fingertips over the prickling goosebumps on her arms. She wishes she'd remembered a coat.

There's a fair few other pedestrians walking the streets. Most are workers on their way to an early shift, eyes dark with under-eye bags. Though none of them ever make eye contact with her, Annabeth sometimes wonders about their lives, about what's going on inside their heads. All of them have a backstory, a childhood, countless personal connections: family members, friends, lovers. Annabeth knows it's probably a little weird to spend so much time contemplating the stories behind people she doesn't even know, but whatever. No one has to hear Annabeth's thoughts but herself.

Annabeth turns a corner and heads down a disused alleyway, taking a shortcut to avoid the raging traffic on the main roads. She's so absorbed in her music, in her idle daydreaming, that she almost doesn't notice him.

But she does.

In the shadows, an injured guy is sprawled on his stomach across the alleyway's floor. Rivulets of blood seep from his stagnant wounds and onto the dirty concrete beneath him. He seems to be unconscious. A shaft of sunlight ripples over his bronze skin, highlighting his purplish bruises and scrapes. Annabeth stutters to a stop, eyes glued to his ragged form. "What the fuck?" she mumbles, unsure if she's correctly processing what she's seeing.

It's actually not a guy. Because...he's got wings. They're limply folded over his ruined back, pearl-white and broken. Shattered bones stick out of them at odd angles. Annabeth wants to run, wants to scream, wants to go and get her head checked because there's no fucking way she's not hallucinating right now.

Instead she just stares, frozen in place. Though the angel is injured and weak as a dying animal, he somehow radiates a sense of coiled-up tension. Power. There's strength in his battered limbs, in the pained furrow of his dark brow. Annabeth can imagine that if he wasn't on death's doorstep, he could incapacitate anyone she knew with a single blow.

She doesn't know what to do. It's been forty-five seconds since she's taken a breath, and guess what? There's still a goddamn fallen angel lying on the floor a metre away from her. So Annabeth shakes off her shock and stumbles to his side, kneeling heavily down on the concrete beside him. Her hands tremor slightly as she carefully takes his pulse. His skin isn't quite warm, but she can feel the flutter of a heartbeat. In any other situation Annabeth would call an ambulance, but she's not quite certain what the procedure is for finding a dying, possibly supernatural being during her early-morning stroll.

Annabeth takes him by the shoulders and, with a grunt of effort, heaves him onto his side. The angel's dark hair falls away from his face, revealing bloodied and bruised yet regal features. "Uh, hello?" There's no response elicited, so she shakes him gently. "You'd better wake up," she grits out, "because I'm sure as fuck not giving you CPR." To Annabeth's relief, a hoarse sound comes from the angel's throat. She shakes him again, harder this time. "Come on, wake up—"

All of a sudden, the angel surges awake, enraged. "Get away from me!" His voice is barely a rasp, but it drips with unadulterated hysteria. He strikes out blindly with his wrecked wings and hits Annabeth in the gut, knocking her hard against the wall.

She lets out a huff of pain, completely winded. "Asshole," she croaks.

The angel tries to get to his feet, but his injuries seem to catch up with him. He crumples to his knees, bracing his shaking palms against the gravel. "Oh, Michael," he curses. Annabeth watches in horrified awe as his wings convulse wildly as he feebly attempts to move them. He lets out another, more guttural, groan of pain. "What the fuck did they do to me? What the fuck did they do to me?"

Continuing to mutter to himself, he grows more and more frantic before his gaze finally locks on Annabeth. His eyes are so vividly green that it's disconcerting; Annabeth doesn't think anyone has any business having eyes like that. As he takes in the sight of her, a dozen emotions flicker across his face faster than Annabeth can comprehend them. Confusion, fear, panic, terror.

He tries to scramble away from her, but only ends up twisting in pain. "Argh! What did they do?"

Annabeth struggles to her feet, fighting to regain her breath. Quickly, she raises her hands in surrender. "I won't hurt you," she insisted. "I don't know who did this to you, or even what you are, but...please, let me help. Please."

Hearing Annabeth's voice seems to somewhat placate him, but the stare he fixes her with is tinged with fear and the threat of violence. When he speaks, his voice is more controlled. "Where am I?" he asks. "Who are you? Where did I fall?"

A million questions fight their way to the forefront of Annabeth's mind, but she pushes them away. "Um, well. I'm Annabeth, and you're in the UK. London, specifically."

He doesn't look any less confused. Annabeth watches him mouth London like he can't quite place where it is, then closes his eyes with the sort of exhaustion that only few can muster. "Annabeth," he rasps slowly, as though he's trying out the way the vowels feel on his tongue. "I'll admit, I'm a little underwhelmed."

"You—what?"

The angel shrugs in an offhand sort of way, which is impressive considering he's sprawled in a broken heap on the floor. "Well, I expected you to look more...fearsome? Considering we're told your kind tend to go around relentlessly violating your planet and murdering each other and all that."

Annabeth feels like she should be offended, but his assessment of the human race sadly seems accurate. "Fair enough," she mutters. "But you're the one with—with wings! Not to mention you've lost so much blood that you should be dead."

"Sure. I guess a mortal would be." The angel scoffs in disdain, but it quickly turns into a hacking cough. He turns over and, to Annabeth's horror, spits more blood onto the ground.

Against her better judgement, Annabeth crouches down next to him again. When she lays her palm on his forehead to check his fever, he snarls, but loses the strength to a second later. "Should I take you to a hospital?" Annabeth wonders aloud, but decides that would most likely result in him being thrown in a laboratory in Area 51.

"Don't let anyone see me," he whispers, words dry and grating. "I'll get worse before I'll get better, just...please. I can't be seen."

As the angel's breathing starts getting more and more laboured, the enormity of what's happening slowly dawns on Annabeth. She can't leave him here. Can she? He seems to pass out again, lost to the fever overtaking his system. His skin is gaining an ashy hue, undoubtedly an effect of the blood loss.

Annabeth can't carry him home. He's taller and more muscular than most humans could hope to be. Not to mention the wide span of his torn-up, shattered wings, which the angel himself can't even move. Annabeth makes a decision and quickly takes off her jacket, folding it up and gently slides it beneath his head. Though he can't hear her, she tells him, "I'll be back soon. Just hold on, okay?"

Without hesitation, Annabeth sets off running back to her flat. She gets a few weird glances, but frankly there's stranger things to see in London.

Outside her building, her old, busted Honda is parked in the garage. It used to belong to her dad, but he gave it to Annabeth when she left for university. She unlocks it and takes as much junk out of the backseat as she can, hoping the angel will be able to lie down inside without being too uncomfortable. The insanity of the situation isn't lost on her, but she can freak out later. Right now, she needs to be quick.

Annabeth drives recklessly through London's traffic, wincing whenever she cuts a red light. She screeches to a stop outside the alleyway she'd found the angel in, praying to God that the warden won't fine her for parking on double yellow lines. Luckily, these roads seem to be mostly deserted, so the chances of anyone seeing him aren't too high.

She hurries back down the alleyway, almost wondering if there'll be nothing there—maybe she hallucinated the whole thing. But she turns the corner and he's still there, now almost completely unconscious. His skin is beading with feverish sweat, and he's muttering under his breath. Annabeth kneels down next to him, whispering, "I'm here. I'm gonna try to move you, okay?"

He doesn't wake up, only shifts in his fever-haze, brows furrowed in pain. His wounds are still bleeding heavily, and Annabeth begins to get worried about how much blood an angel can feasibly lose before dying.

Can he die? Annabeth decides that's a question for later.

It takes fifteen minutes to drag him by the shoulders through the alleyway, including a break every few seconds for Annabeth to collect her strength. There's nothing Annabeth can do about the way his wings drag roughly against the gravel except offer words of sympathy, but she doubts the angel even registers the discomfort among the rest of his blindsiding injuries. Annabeth checks for prying eyes before loading him into the backseat of her car, carefully arranging his wings around him.

Panting for breath, Annabeth gets into the driver's seat and turns on the ignition. Ignoring her car's pathetic sputter, she steps hard on the accelerator. If anyone looks into the window, both of them will be well and truly screwed.

Still, Annabeth makes it to her flat without any incident and parks her car outside, hoping wildly that none of the other residents will see her heaving the broken form of an angel into her flat. As she half-drags, half-carries him into the back entrance of her building, she decides to take the maintenance stairs—that'll reduce the chance of anyone seeing.

It's a fucking effort to get him up the stairs, and Annabeth comes close to giving up and leaving him multiple times. Her goodwill slowly becomes flimsier and flimsier, but falling back on sheer frustration seems to do the trick. She makes it to her flat—which is on the third goddamn floor—and fumbles with her key to get inside. It's a sheer miracle that no one else on her floor steps out and calls MI6 on her or something, but soon enough the door is locked behind them. Annabeth almost sinks to the floor in ragged relief, arms still braced under the angel's shoulders.

It's somehow even more difficult than the whole trip here to get him to her bed, hoisting him up onto the mattress. His wings shudder of their own accord, spreading out around him even in their ruined state. Annabeth places her palm on his forehead again to take his temperature. "You're burning up," she tells him absently, even though he's unconscious. She needs to find some bandages for him ASAP—blood is seeping into her bedsheets, and she's worried about having to buy a new mattress.

Annabeth digs out a first-aid kit from her bathroom and grabs a cold cloth to help bring down his fever. She pulls a chair up beside him and starts pressing disinfectant against the many cuts and open scrapes marring his bronze skin. Sounds of pain echo from his throat at the alcohol in his wounds, but Annabeth has no idea how to deal with gangrene or sepsis so there's no way she's skipping this step.

As Annabeth works, she lets her thoughts travel. What happened to him? Did he fall from Heaven, or is he just some fucked-up experiment that escaped from a laboratory? If the former is true, then is God real?

The philosophy becomes a little too much for Annabeth as a born and raised atheist, so she diverts her attention back to his injuries. She has no idea how to sew up wounds and the prospect of doing irreversible damage seems very real, so instead she focuses on bandaging some of his worse injuries with gauze in order to stem the blood flow. There's a huge, gaping wound on the angel's stomach, like someone slashed him with a sword. It's deep. Any human would've been dead hours ago, but this guy doesn't seem human anyway.

She closes her eyes, taking a moment to breathe.

Annabeth attends to him constantly for the next few hours. She changes his cold cloth and blood-soaked bandages several times, and religiously monitors the progression of his fever. His sleep is restless, plagued by groans and feverish mumbling. At times, he switches to what sounds like another language. In it, the vowels are wholly round and the consonants fluidly sleek. Annabeth finds herself mesmerised, listening to the strange rambles of his fever dream.

After a while, she opens the blinds behind her bed, allowing light to stream in through the window. It pools on the angel's bruised body and changes the shadows on his face. Sunlight catches on his eyelashes, painting them gold. When Annabeth first found him, he'd looked savage and dangerous—inhuman as anything. But now that he's fallen into a deep, undisturbed sleep, Annabeth can see the beauty and regality of his straight nose, the softness of his curved lips. Without thinking about it, Annabeth reaches out and brushes his tangled hair off his face, where it had been fluttering up and down in time with his uneven breathing.

The angel sleeps on.

It's not long before he wakes up again. His eyes are frantic and wild as he tries to sit up, hand flying to the bandaged wound on his ribs with a gasp of pain. He tries to lift a wing, but the bone holding it together is so damaged that he only succeeds in making himself cry out. "I'll kill him," he chokes out, delirious. "I'll kill him."

Annabeth's hands find his shoulders, pressing him back down to the bed. "Stop, you'll hurt yourself."

The angel's gaze tracks cruelly over Annabeth, not even seeing her. His breath is ragged and desperate. "Where am I? Who are you?" he asks, voice hoarse. His eyes dart around Annabeth's bedroom, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

"I'm Annabeth," she says firmly. "You're in my flat. You're safe, I promise." Recognition flashes across his face, but he doesn't react. He tries to lift himself up again, but the strength dissolves from his body once more and he sinks back into the mattress. Annabeth picks up some painkillers on the bedside table and holds them out for him, along with a cup of water. "Here."

A blank stare. He looks at the water, then at the pills. "What?"

Annabeth sighs. "You swallow them. It's medicine."

"What does it do?" he asks, hoarse as sandpaper.

"It'll help. It'll kill the pain."

The angel closes his eyes again, disregarding her. "Pain isn't alive," he murmurs. "How could it be killed?"

Annabeth has waitressing and classes, so she tentatively leaves the angel by himself during the day with some food and water to have if he gains any presence of mind. She waits for his fever to pass—changes his bandages once a day, occasionally gives him a mock bed-bath to stop the stench of sweat and blood becoming overpowering. Annabeth, surprisingly, only has two major freak-outs about the situation she's in.

The rest of Annabeth's time is spent obsessively checking the news and researching the supernatural. Angels, in particular. Annabeth finds herself on dozens of Christian prayer websites, conspiracy theorist blogs and Reddit forums. Still, all the information she comes across seems like guesswork, and she still has no idea what the advice is for when you have a fallen angel holed up in your flat.

The conversations Annabeth manages to get out of the angel are few and far between and glean absolutely nothing about the scientific fallacy of his existence. Once, Annabeth catches him trying to stumble out of bed at two in the morning, pupils black as pitch and canines sharper than she'd ever seen them. He's speaking in that language again, voice intrepid and dripping with fury. Eventually, he collapses back asleep without her intervention.

A week passes before his fever finally seems to abate. It's early Sunday morning. The sky outside Annabeth's flat is bleak, drizzling cold rain. Annabeth goes to make her morning coffee, but startles as she steps into the kitchen. The angel is standing there quietly as he stares out the window into the desolate weather outside. Annabeth notices that the skin around his wings is red and irritated, but the rest of his wounds are healing quickly.

Seeing him standing at full height, back muscles bunched up like a reflex, his power seems less subdued. The pale light he's bathed in makes him look even more like he could be from an extra-terrestrial species. Beautiful, strange, ethereal—other.

The angel turns around, jade eyes locking onto Annabeth. Fully alert, after days of weakness. "Why did you bother to take me here?" he asks, voice hard and unfailing.

Annabeth tries not to shrink under the weight of his gaze or fidget with the cuffs of her nightshirt's sleeves. Instead, she squares her shoulders. "You were dying," she replies. "Would you rather I'd left you to rot in the gutter?"

He barely reacts, cold and unblinking. "I've been thinking about it. I've decided it doesn't make sense. You're human. You have no loyalty to me."

Annabeth folds her arms, leaning against the countertop. "Yeah, I'm human. So, what does that make you?"

His nose wrinkles. "You say that like I'm some alien."

A disbelieving laugh punches its way out of Annabeth's chest. "You're kidding. You don't exactly look like a goddamn human. It's not like any of us have wings growing out of our backs."

He silently turns back to the window, watching the rain dance its way down the glass. "I thought you'd be more familiar with the concept of me," he says softly. "I mean, Thalia always says you humans used to be obsessed with us. You painted us on ceiling tiles, moulded statues in our likeness. We were your old gods."

Annabeth wants to know who Thalia is, but she doesn't ask. "So, you're actually an angel? Like from the Bible?"

He arches a brow. "I don't know about that." Shaking his head, he lets loose a sigh. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm a world apart from my old life. I can't go back—I'm lucky to have escaped in one piece. You can testify to that, I suppose." Frustration and resentment ripple off him in tangible waves. He moves to leave, walking past Annabeth.

"Hey!" Annabeth grabbed his arm, tugging him back. The angel turns to glare at her. His gaze is searing, stripping her to the core, but Annabeth doesn't back down. "You owe me an explanation. Why did you have to escape? Are they still after you?" Annabeth loosens her grip on his arm but remains steadfast. "Don't you want to go home?"

The angel's gaze shutters, blank as anything. His lips draw into a thin line. "Humans sure do like asking questions, huh?"

When he yanks his arm away, Annabeth's breath catches. They're too close; Annabeth has to angle her chin up to face him. She gathers the strength to speak. "At least tell me what your fucking name is. I saved you, don't you know that? I let you bleed out in my goddamn bed until your wounds closed up. I'm the only reason you're alive and not chained up in some lab."

His eyes narrow. Annabeth can't discern a single trace of empathy in his cold, resolute expression—he's never seemed more inhuman than he does now. "It's Percy," he says.

They fall into some kind of routine, each growing used to the presence of the other in Annabeth's tiny flat. Most days, Annabeth goes to her architecture classes, and every evening she leaves for yet another waitressing shift. Percy remains in the flat while he recovers, finally taking the medicine Annabeth offers him for the pain.

She also spends a few nights studying and researching bird wings, and while they're obviously a far cry from Percy's, the general structure of both are fairly similar. With the knowledge she's gathered and Percy's guidance, she makes an attempt at setting the broken bones of Percy's wings. He shows Annabeth where the bones should lie by pressing her fingertips to his mangled, torn muscles, and grits his teeth in stifled pain as she attempts to reset the bones by binding his wings to wooden splints. It's a shoddy job. Annabeth is doubtful that Percy's wings will ever be as efficient as before, but at least now they'd heal somewhat correctly. He seems thankful, anyway.

The hostility that originally hung between them fades slowly. Sometimes, Annabeth sits down to watch a sitcom with some architecture coursework on her lap and Percy sits with her, eyes steady on the TV. They talk a lot, and when they do it's kind of nice. Often, Annabeth feels herself gearing up to ask a loaded question about why he really ended up having to escape to Earth, but the words always die in her throat. Percy never wants to talk about it, and she's loath to make him.

Annabeth usually has a life drawing class on Saturday mornings, but she's never been particularly good at it. Being an architecture student, she's always gravitated towards drawing buildings and houses—unmoving objects set in stone. Human anatomy is a whole other beast, and a moving model makes it even harder. Still, like everything else she's tried and enjoyed, she's determined to get good at it, and getting good means plenty of practice.

At first, she's tentative to ask for Percy to sit for her. But then she decides that if he's gonna be camped out in her house until he recovers, he might as well make himself useful.

"Stop moving," Annabeth snaps. They're sitting out on her balcony, with Percy on the floor leaning against the railing while she's on a stool. Annabeth is trying to work on loosely sketching out his basic form, but he keeps shifting around like he's uncomfortable.

"How long is this going to take?" Percy grumbles. Sunlight falls haphazardly over him, leaving dappled shadows on his long-sleeved shirt and tattered wings. Annabeth had to cut slanted wing-holes in the back of one of her dad's old shirts for Percy to wear to preserve his modesty—not that he had much to start with anyway. Annabeth ignores him as she works on the clean-cut shape of his calf, which is propped up in front of him. His pose is informal yet still wound-up, and Annabeth thinks it makes for an interesting composition. Percy sighs heavily. "Why do you need to do this, anyway?"

"For an assignment," Annabeth answers. She frowns down at her sketchbook—she needs to foreshorten his outstretched leg a little more.

"So you're studying...what? Art?"

"On the side, yeah. But I'm trying for a career in architecture."

Percy is silent in thought for a moment. "We have beautiful architecture where I live," he muses. "Pillars of gold and houses of sandstone. Doorways lined with sapphires."

Annabeth lifts her eyes from where they'd been trained on her half-finished drawing. Percy looks tired, with his broken wings and bruised body. He starts fiddling with the hem of his shirt and Annabeth has to resist the urge to tell him to quit it. "Where is it that you live, anyway?" she asks. "Heaven?"

A frown. "Some call it that. It's just home to me."

Home. Annabeth wonders if he still considers it that, after falling to Earth. She wants to know how it happened, but that wound seems too bloody and open to invade just yet. "What do you all do up there?" she asks him. "Just sit around looking pretty?"

Percy smirks. "Well, I was a guard. An attendant of Raphael's."

"You mean...the Raphael? From the Bible?"

He rolls his eyes. "Like I said before, I wouldn't know about that."

Annabeth considers asking the obvious questions—about religion, about God—but resolves that maybe she'll have less of a quarter-life crisis if she doesn't pry too far into the whole heavenly angel thing. She shakes her head. "You're something else, alright."

Putting down her pencil for a moment, she reaches for her jacket on the floor beside her and plucks a straight cigarette from its pocket. Percy's gaze follows her as she places it into her mouth and carefully singes the end with her Zippo lighter. "What's that?" he asks.

Annabeth exhales a cloud of bitter smoke over her shoulder. She wonders if he's joking. "It's tobacco. You smoke it."

"Why?"

Annabeth started smoking just before her A-Levels, when she stole a box of fags from her dad's room after hearing it helped with anxiety. She shrugs. "Calms me down, even though it's shit for your lungs."

Percy nods, though he doesn't really look like he understands. Annabeth returns to her drawing. She's finished marking out the general proportions of Percy's body, so she moves on to start adding tone. More depth to his eye sockets, to the shadow cast by his jaw. Light layers of shading where his arms and legs bulge slightly with muscle. It starts coming together, but Annabeth knows it'll never be entirely complete—not without the wings arranged neatly around him, half-bound by splints to his back. Somehow, she doesn't think her teacher would appreciate such abuse of creative license.

Percy looks apprehensive, both in the drawing and in real life. She imagines he's not used to having someone's eyes so heavy on him before, even though she's purely judging the structure of his body and nothing else. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. "Does it look like me?" he asks, which takes Annabeth off guard.

She flails for an answer for a moment, then recovers. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, I think so." As she adds a final detail to the illustration (a messy flicker of shading where his lower lashes sweep out from his waterline) she turns her sketchbook around and shows it to him.

His expression is unreadable, though Annabeth thinks she might see disdain in the furrow of his brow. Finally, he nods. "It's good. You're good."

Annabeth laughs, reaching over to put out her cigarette on the ashtray. "Sure." She helps Percy up, levering him to his feet by his arm. Now, he's taller than her again. It's somewhat disconcerting.

"I mean it," he insists. "You're skilled. You have a great eye for detail."

Annabeth fights off the flush that threatens to rise to her face. "Whatever. You want something to eat?"

Percy smiles, a show of sharp canines. "I'd love another one of those, uh...what are they called again? Pot Noodles."

She laughs. "Those aren't very healthy, you know. What if you ruined your figure?"

"Can't be worse than smoking." Together, they go inside.

Chapter Text

Percy's bruises fade completely over the next day and a half, though his wings have barely even started to knit back together. Now that his energy has returned, he's even more unbearable to live with than before.

It's Saturday morning and he's sitting on Annabeth's bed, legs crossed beneath him. Annabeth is folding her laundry, placing the clothes in stacks in her closet. "I miss being outside," Percy mutters, gazing dolefully out Annabeth's window. "Maybe a walk wouldn't hurt...?"

She raises a brow. "Really? You're that eager to get caught and dissected on an operating table?"

"Don't exaggerate. From what I've gathered about you, the stories I've heard about the cruelty of humans can't be right."

Annabeth scoffs. "As much as I'm flattered, I think you'll find there's plenty of shitty people on Earth. Take it from me—you're much safer staying here until you recover."

Percy groans. "Come on. You can help me cover up my wings. We won't go far, anyway. We'll just keep to the quiet areas."

"This is London. There are no quiet areas." He pouts, which is a strange expression to see on an angel. Though Annabeth takes pride in her iron will, she feels herself starting to crumble at the sight of his wide, faux-innocent green eyes. "Oh, my God. Fine," she retorts. "But only five minutes. I think we might be able to stuff your wings under one of my dad's old winter coats. If people stare, we'll just say you're a hunchback or something."

Fifteen minutes later, they're out of Annabeth's apartment and into the day. True to Annabeth's word, she managed to dig out a knee-length coat which completely obscures Percy's wings, as they're drawn-in and bound to his back, which reduces their size. It does, however, make him look a little deformed. Annabeth has to stifle a laugh when she looks at him. She wonders if it's uncomfortable for them to be so bound-up like that—and then decides the pain from his healing bones probably hurts way more than the cramp.

"What?" Percy gives her the side-eye, daring her to say something.

She just laughs. "Nothing, nothing."

As they walk down the street, Percy ogles at the city and each Londoner that passes them. Thankfully, most of them don't even look twice at Percy's bulked-up coat. "So different but so similar," he murmurs to himself, gazing up at the towering, concrete buildings around them and then at the cars roaring by.

Annabeth can't stifle her curiosity. "In what ways?" she asks. "London's probably boring to you."

Percy looks at her, then, something nameless glinting in his eyes. "If you crash-landed on another world," he asks slowly, "would you be bored?"

Annabeth supposes that's a fair point.

They walk for maybe twenty minutes along the streets. When they first come across a street of shops, Percy seems enamoured. "What kinds of things do they sell?"

Annabeth shrugs, somewhat fixated on her undone shoelace. "All sorts. Food, clothes, make-up. Everything people want."

Percy stares into a bakery, at the loaves on display in the shop. "I thought there'd be more of a difference," he muses.

"A difference?"

He waves a hand. "My home is more spectacular than yours, but..." he trails off. "It seems as though when it comes to the basics, humans and angels are alike in their needs." Not for the first time, Annabeth wishes she could see where he came from—Heaven, or whatever they called it—if only so she could understand more of Percy's thinking.

They walk for a while longer. Percy asks Annabeth more questions about life on Earth, and she tries asking him a little about Heaven. He seems hesitant to reveal too much information, which irritates her. If she wanted to go shouting about Percy's existence to the rest of humanity, she would've done it already.

Just as Annabeth starts to consider taking Percy back to her flat in order not to risk anyone getting too curious, he stops in his tracks, cocking his head. "What's that?"

Annoyed, Annabeth grabs his sleeve. "Don't just stop. Come on, it's busy here." She tries to tug him with her, but Percy is immovable.

"No, really. That music. Where's it coming from?"

"What music?" Annabeth asks. She can't hear anything except London's raging traffic and the babble of pedestrians. Percy stares at her blankly, then starts walking, this time in the opposite direction. Frustrated, Annabeth hurries after him. "Hey! Where are you going?" Percy ignores her, walking faster. Annabeth has to jog to keep up with him, unable to match his walking speed. "Seriously," she tries again, "We need to go back. Someone's going to notice you!"

Percy doesn't look back at her, just keeps walking. Suddenly, he cuts across the busy road, slipping between cars. When Annabeth follows, the drivers honk and curse at her. "Idiot! You could cause an accident!" someone yells.

Annabeth grabs Percy's sleeve again, trying to slow him down. "What the hell?" she demands. "You can't randomly wander across high streets here! Do you have a fucking death wish?"

Percy isn't perturbed. "I just want to find it," he murmurs. "The music. Listen."

This time, when Annabeth listens, she begins to hear the faraway hum of raucous Caribbean music. Realisation hits her all at once. The carnival. "Oh. Percy, we can't go near there! It's a huge gathering. You'll be discovered."

He turns around. Eyes pleading, he says, "Come on, this is my first time amongst humans. There's so much to see!" At Annabeth's unimpressed look, he pouts. "Please? We'll only stay five minutes. And I'll look from a distance."

Annabeth is slowly realising that some arguments you just can't win. Heaving a sigh, she pinches her nose bridge. "Fine. But only five minutes, you hear?"

Percy's grin is immediate and bursting with excitement. He grabs her hand to hurry her along. "Let's go."

It takes them twenty minutes to reach Notting Hill, and with each step Annabeth begins to regret her decision to show Percy the carnival more and more. She's only been here twice, both times with her dad, but it's always one of the busiest events in London. And, due to the good weather, it seems as though half the city has decided to go on a day out.

Percy grows wide-eyed as they walk deeper into the celebration. Notting Hill Carnival is a haze of colour, light and sound. Beautiful—but also the perfect recipe for sensory overload. Percy stares at the food stalls, the stages playing live music, all the bright and summery outfits everyone is wearing. "You humans are interesting," he says. "Strange, though. We don't have anything like this back home."

Annabeth snorts. "You haven't even seen the parade yet," she says. "Come on. We can watch it, but for God's sake, don't get too close."

The parade starts. The music swells and becomes even more lively. The first performers emerge from a bend in the road, only half-visible from where Percy and Annabeth are standing. It's an array of dancers in silken, draping clothes. They dance in lines, moving along slowly. Each line of dancers wears a colour of dress. The first is orange, followed by blue, then violet. Annabeth finds herself smiling, swaying to the music. The atmosphere is infectious; happiness bleeds from each Londoner that cheers the parade on.

Percy, too, seems influenced by the joy of the carnival. He grabs Annabeth's hands and pulls her into a loose dance, laughing. Annabeth resists at first, but soon gives in. Who cares if she looks stupid? Everyone's focused on the parade, not a couple of teenagers dancing.

Well. She doubts Percy's a teenager. As Percy spins her in a pirouette, curiosity gets the better of her. "How old are you, anyway?" she asks Percy, raising her voice to be heard over the din.

Percy smirks, cocking a brow. "That's quite a rude question to ask, isn't it?"

Annabeth shrugs. "It's not like I know anything about your customs."

He rolls his eyes—a surprisingly human gesture. "Well, I'm pretty young for an angel. We live for far longer than you, as I'm sure you're aware; we're capable of surviving thousands of years. But we're not immortal. We can be killed or fall prey to illness."

"How old are you, then?" Annabeth pries.

Percy hums. "Three hundred and something. It's easy to lose count. Age is kind of irrelevant for us, to be honest. Once we're past adolescence, which takes around fifty years, our ageing slows down almost to a halt."

"But it doesn't stop?"

He shakes his head. "No. After a few centuries, we do start to show signs of age. The more powerful you are, the longer that will take to happen."

Annabeth stops dancing. Brow furrowed, she asks, "The more...powerful? As in, magical?"

Percy laughs. "No, of course not. Magic isn't real. But power is a different thing altogether. It feeds your strength, your stamina. Even your senses."

"What level of power do you have?" Annabeth asks.

"A normal level. I'm skilled, but I could never be a general or a lieutenant. The most powerful of us are the archangels—Michael, Raphael, Uriel and more. Our leaders. They're so strong, some of us wonder if they'll ever die."

That doesn't compute in Annabeth's brain. "But...those are names from the Bible," she stammers.

"You keep mentioning that. Honestly, Annabeth," he says, like he's chiding a kid. "From what I know of the Bible, it really has very little to do with anything." He takes her hands again, guiding her back into the dance. His hands are warm but textured, scarred. Annabeth thinks about his mention of generals, of lieutenants. Paired with the wounds he'd had when he fell, Annabeth wonders what kind of wars could possibly afflict Heaven, a place known for purity.

The parade goes on and on, a celebration of vibrant colours, music, and dancing. When a parade of women dressed as angels with gorgeous, blue-feathered wings dance by, Percy scoffs. "No angel has feathers that colour," he says.

Annabeth just laughs. "Most of us don't even believe in your existence, and you expect us to be accurate?" At that, Percy looks miffed, but his eyes still linger on the blue angels, considering.

They stay at Notting Hill for a while longer, enjoying the festivities. Annabeth tries to protest that they should go home, but her heart's not in it. She's having fun anyway, and neither of them are ready to leave just yet. Even when the parade peters out, the music and dancing continue. As the afternoon fades into evening, the whole city seems to get drunker and drunker. Percy seems intrigued, watching a group of uni students stumble over each other in front of a small stage where a band is playing, laughing as their drinks splash everywhere.

Annabeth smiles at Percy's reaction. "Don't you have alcohol in Heaven?"

"Yes," he replies. "But we're not quite so obnoxious about it."

Annabeth's eyes land on a confectionery stall. Suddenly, she's very aware of her empty stomach and the packet of instant ramen she had for lunch. She nudges Percy. "Hey. You hungry?"

His gaze slides over to the stall. Catching her drift, he grins. "Starving."

They walk over to the stall, enticed by the sweet-smelling food. The stall gleams with boiled sweets and candy floss, but Annabeth is drawn to the bundles of toffee apples lined up at the front of the stall. Pointing to them, she turns to the old woman running the stall. "How much for these?"

The woman gives her a kind smile. "Two-fifty, love," she replies. Annabeth digs out the change and thanks the woman as she hands Annabeth two toffee apples.

As they walk away, Percy stares, mesmerised, at his toffee apple. "What kind of food is it?" he asks.

"A toffee apple," Annabeth answers, unwrapping her own. She tosses the plastic in a bin and licks her apple, letting out a hum of enjoyment. "Oh my God, this has so many childhood memories," she mumbles around her apple, taking a bite of the sticky toffee.

Percy stares at her. "So weird. Why would anyone think of making this?"

Annabeth grins. "'Cause why not? Come on, just try it." He looks at her a moment longer, then takes an experimental bite of his toffee. A bit of it shatters in his mouth, but his eyes light up. "It's sweet," he says, as though that's a surprise.

Annabeth takes another bite of her own. "Why wouldn't it be?"

He shrugs. "It's an apple. I thought it would be savoury."

And for some reason, that's the funniest thing Annabeth has heard all week. She laughs and laughs in the most unattractive way ever, bending over double and clutching her stomach as she gasps for breath. "Savoury," is all she can get out, snorting.

At first, Percy looks confused, but then he's laughing too. Annabeth catches her breath, wiping a tear from her eye. Percy's laugh is beautiful—because of course it'd be. Annabeth leans into him, linking arms. "Come on. Let's go somewhere to eat these."

They finish the toffee apples in fifteen minutes, both too hungry to slow down. As the day draws to a close, the sun dips below London's skyline. They're standing by a stage. On it, a man croons into a mic while his band plays reggae behind him. In the golden hour, Percy's face is cast in liquid metal. Annabeth finds herself unable to stop looking at the curve of his brow, at the taper of his Adam's apple. Details that, on anyone else, she'd never give a second thought.

Heat rises to Annabeth's cheeks as she realises she's staring. She turns back to the music before Percy notices her appraisal, berating herself. Percy is nice to look at, sure, but she's known him for barely a week—not to mention he'll return to Heaven eventually.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Percy's gaze flickering to her face. His smile sings of contentment, of happiness.

This is dangerous, Annabeth thinks. After a moment, though, she finds she doesn't care.

Annabeth and Percy watch the music for a while longer, swaying with the crowd. It's late when the music finishes, but their walk is unhurried as they amble through the festival. "Thank you for letting me experience that," Percy tells her.

Annabeth smiles, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket. "I had fun, too," she replies. "It was probably stupid and risky, but..." She shakes her head. "Maybe it's okay to be stupid and risky once in a while."

They reach the edge of the festival and come out onto a dark street. Along the perimeter of the street, old-fashioned streetlights emanate a hazy orange glow, casting many long-limbed shadows onto the ground before them.

Most of the festival-goers remain at Notting Hill, drinking and dancing. Still, a few of them have streamed out with Annabeth and Percy, ready to start their journey home.

Suddenly, Percy halts in his tracks. Annabeth stops too, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"We need to go," Percy says quietly. He jerks his head in a careful, almost unnoticeable gesture. Annabeth follows his line of sight. Instantly, her heart climbs into her throat. There's a tall, male figure standing across the road, hidden in the shadow of an alleyway. Though Annabeth can't discern his features, the silhouette of two large, sweeping wings hang behind him.

The angel steps out into the dim light. Now, Annabeth can see his short, cropped blonde hair and ethereal blue eyes. A white scar mars his top lip.

Beside Annabeth, Percy stiffens. He grabs Annabeth sleeve, guiding her away. "Come on. We need to go," he repeats, this time with more urgency. "Somewhere public."

Annabeth doesn't need to be told twice. Following Percy's lead, she turns and books it, too terrified to even glance over her shoulder to see if the angel is chasing them.

They crash onto a high street, weaving in between pedestrians. Music plays from a nightclub as they run past, and Annabeth glimpses Percy's determined face lit up in purple from the nightclub's neon sign. Annabeth's lungs are already ragged and her stamina ebbs away. As she begins to slow, Percy grabs her wrist and pulls her along. "Keep going," he grits out. "If Jason is here, there'll be others."

Annabeth nods, unable to get any words out. She notices a bus station across the street, and an idea seizes her. "Percy, let's get on the bus. They won't be able to follow us on."

Percy looks confused, but he trusts her anyway. Thank God, a bus pulls up just as Annabeth and Percy cross over. There isn't a queue. Annabeth presses a fiver into the bus driver's hand. "Two adult tickets, please." The wait while he prints them is excruciating, but then the doors close and they're off, driving away into the dark city.

Annabeth guides Percy's hand onto one of the rings hanging above them. "Here. Hold on," she tells him. The rest of the seats on the bus are filled, but Annabeth doesn't think Percy, with his bound wings, would be able to sit down in one with any measure of comfort anyway.

Percy looks anxious, his eyes glued on the window as he scours the street outside. "I wonder if they're still following," he murmurs. "It's pretty dark. Maybe they didn't see us get on."

She hopes that's the case as they can only ride the bus for so long. "We're not gonna be able to head back to my flat. A motel will be safer."

"What's that?" Percy asks.

"A place where you can pay money to stay temporarily. It'll only be for a night, and then we'll head off again."

Percy nods. He's quiet for a moment, then speaks. "I don't know how to repay this debt, Annabeth. Jason and his hunters would've caught me long ago if not for you."

Annabeth exhales, leaning against Percy. The bus sways slightly, a living beast below their feet. "You don't need to repay it," she whispers. "Anyone would do the same."

"Somehow, I don't think that's true."

They ride the bus until the glowing, digital clock on the wall reads 11:49. It parks, opening its doors. They're the last passengers left on. Annabeth peers out the window, deciding they should get off here. There's a motel she's stayed in with her dad a few times near here.

Annabeth thanks the bus driver as they get off. She searches the skies and the shadows of the streets around them, but Jason and his hunters are nowhere in sight.

"I think we lost them," Percy says.

Annabeth nods in agreement. "Let's get to a motel. It's late."

They arrive outside the motel—The Cassiopeia—and Annabeth pushes open the double doors, walking inside. It's not a wealthy establishment, but it's enough. Annabeth's dad had always liked it, mostly for its name and the strange art adorning its walls. "A room for two, please," Annabeth asks the stone-faced receptionist, holding out her debit card.

"ID," the receptionist drones. Annabeth digs out her drivers' license, and he squints at it for a moment before taking her debit card and scanning it. Percy watches the exchange, fervently interested. The receptionist slides a heavy skeleton key across his desk and Annabeth quickly grabs it before it falls off the edge. "You're in Room 5."

As they climb up the stairs to their room, Annabeth grumbles, "He probably thinks we're booking a place to get it on."

Percy blinks. "Get it on?"

Annabeth rolls her eyes. "We're two teenagers, Percy. What other reason would we have for booking a place this late at night with no luggage?"

A beat passes, and then understanding dawns in Percy's eyes. "Oh," he laughs. After a pause, he adds, "Well, I'm not really a teenager—"

"God, just shut it."

Annabeth opens their room, kicking off her shoes with a sigh of relief. Her ankles ache from all the running. Percy pulls off his coat, trying to free his wings. "Help me get the bindings off." He turns around, baring his back to Annabeth.

"Keep still, okay?" Careful not to disrupt his splints, she loosens the bindings holding his wings in place and pulls them off. Though his movement is still restricted due to his bandages, now he can at least stretch his wings a little. "Thanks," he says, turning around with a smile. "They're definitely healing. I can feel the bones knitting back together."

Annabeth arches a brow. "Already?"

Percy grins, stepping into the bathroom. "You know I heal faster," he calls, voice echoing as he closes the door and turns on the shower. "It's only taken this long because the injury is so complicated."

Annabeth stumbles into the bedroom, taking off her jacket and throwing it onto the chair in the corner. The room isn't badly furnished, with a vanity on one side of the bed and a balcony on the other. It faintly registers in the back of her mind that the receptionist gave them a room with one double-bed—which makes sense, considering his assumption—but she's too exhausted to care.

Flopping backwards onto the bed, she stares up at the ceiling. The plaster is water damaged, lined with cracks that form eerie shapes. Annabeth traces the lines with her eyes, mind vacant yet wandering.

Percy walks out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. His hair is damp and sticks in strands to his forehead. Thankfully, he's managed to avoid getting his bandages damp. "You can use the shower now, if you want. There's some toothbrushes and toothpaste as well."

Annabeth groans, dragging herself off the bed to go freshen up. Fuck having to maintain hygiene when you're tired, honestly. She steps around Percy, averting her eyes as she flees into the bathroom and shuts the door. She showers her body quickly but leaves her hair, instead shoving the mess of it into a low bun to deal with tomorrow. Drying herself off, she grabs her clothes back up off the floor and changes back into them. Luckily, they won't be too uncomfortable to sleep in.

A couple minutes later, she steps out again with freshly brushed teeth. Percy is back in his trousers, lying on his front in the bed. He's flipping through a book from the bookshelf in the hallway by their door. Annabeth dimly recognises it as Jane Austen's Emma. "Why is this English so strange?" he mutters, a half-question.

"It's a Georgian novel," Annabeth tells him. She turns off the light and climbs under the covers. Something occurs to her. "What language do you speak up in Heaven, by the way?"

"A few of the modern languages of Earth are taught up there. French, Spanish, Mandarin. English is spoken by most," he lists. "But Latin is our mother tongue. Most of us only use it as a formality, though the higher-ups favour it."

Annabeth snuggles down, watching Percy try to make sense of the book. "Say something in Latin," she prods.

Percy's attention turns to her, dark and unsettling. His hands fall still on his book, but he doesn't close it. "Ōdī et amō," he murmurs, that strange accent once again afflicting his voice. "Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris. Nesciō, sed fierī sentiō et excrucior."

The words wash over Annabeth, a pleasant tide of unfamiliarity. "That's lovely. What does it mean?" she asks.

He smiles. "It's an ancient human poem about the endless tortures of feeling emotion. Catullus 85—my mother's favourite."

"Oh," Annabeth breathes. She feels lucky to have been given a glimpse of his life back home. "Why Latin, then, of all the dead languages?"

"Firstly, it's not dead. Not completely," he corrects her. "And we use Latin because the Roman Empire was the last time any of us lived among humans. Of course, a few of us still visit Earth occasionally, but we have to remain unseen."

Annabeth searches his expression. Guarded yet vulnerable, it's impossible to tell what he's thinking. "Would you want to walk on Earth, undeterred, if you could?"

"I was never interested in it. Home was enough for me." He leans over to put Emma over on the bedside table, then pulls the duvet up over his arms.

"You going to sleep now?"

"Yeah." A soft smile, then, "Goodnight."

"Night," Annabeth echoes. She closes her eyes, her mind a writhing mess of carnival colours and Latin poetry and green, green eyes.

Annabeth's sleep is restless. She wakes several times as the night wears on, each time checking on Percy's sleeping form beside her. She knows it's unlikely he'll be snatched away while she sleeps, but the paranoia is there anyway.

It's four in the morning when Annabeth wakes again. This time, however, Percy is gone. "Percy?" she mumbles, sleep-hazy. She reaches out to find him, but grasps nothing but cool, vacant space where Percy had been sleeping. Opening her eyes fully, she squints into the darkness. The window is open—no, that's not right. The door to the balcony is ajar. Moonlight streams into their motel room through the space, pooling into liquid on the bed. Percy's silhouette is faintly visible, leaning against the balcony's rail.

Already mourning the loss of the bed's warmth, Annabeth pulls back the covers and gets out of bed. She pulls her jacket on to combat the cold and steps out onto the balcony to stand beside Percy. "Hey. Couldn't sleep?"

Percy's face looks ghostly in the darkness, all subtle accents of light on slanting shadows. His gaze is tilted upwards, trained on the few faint stars struggling to glisten in London's light-polluted sky. "Not really," he answers. "Thinking too much."

Annabeth nods. "It must be frustrating," she starts, "not being able to take off into the sky whenever you want. Being trapped down here rather than up there."

"Frustrating, yeah. But I don't feel trapped."

"You don't?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm not eager to go back, anyway."

"Why aren't you?"

Silence hangs between them for a moment, punctuated by the rumble of engines on the streets below them and the far-off blaring of car horns. "When you escape from somewhere, it's not usually because you plan on returning."

Annabeth's breath catches in her throat. Of course, the thought has occurred to her that Percy might have done something wrong. Why else would Jason and his hunters be after him? Why else has he fallen from Heaven? Still, try as she might, Annabeth can't picture him as some violent criminal-type. There has to be some other reason he was forced to escape. "What happened?" she asks softly.

Percy isn't looking at her. "I tried to do something. Something bad. And I was caught."

Annabeth can tell that's all the information he's willing to reveal. "I can't imagine you doing something shitty just for the hell of it," she says. "You probably had your reasons."

"So does everyone, for doing everything."

It's such a nonsense reply that Annabeth isn't sure what to say. "If they catch you, what will they do?"

A dry laugh echoes from Percy's throat. "They'll cut my wings off for good, probably. They already tried once."

Annabeth takes Percy's wrist and pulls him around to face her, setting her jaw. "I'm not gonna let that happen."

There's a look of hopelessness in Percy's eyes. "How will you stop them?"

"However I can."

At that, Percy smiles. "You sound naïve."

She leans her head against Percy's shoulder. His bare skin is cold, drawn up into goosebumps by the night air. "It's not naïvety that I don't want to give up."

"You're strong, then." The compliment comes out of nowhere, stated as nothing but fact.

"And you're not?"

"Not in the same way."

Annabeth frowns. "What do you mean?"

Percy exhales slowly. "I'm afraid."

"You can be afraid and still strong, you know."

"Can you?" he asks. He seems tired, like he's asked himself the same question before.

"Of course." She nudges him with her elbow. "Come on, you look cold. Let's go inside."

He follows her in, closing the door behind them.

The next morning, Annabeth wakes up to the slow creak of an opening door. Her eyes fly open, certain that there's an intruder. But all she sees is Percy standing in the doorway, fully dressed and ready to leave. "Where are you going?" she shouts. She throws off her covers, now completely awake.

Percy spins around, lips drawn in a wince. "I hoped you wouldn't wake up."

Annabeth stutters, "What? Why?"

He fixes her with a look. "Because this is dangerous. It's only a matter of time before I get caught. You've done so much for me already, and I don't want—I don't want..." He throws his hands up, clearly frustrated. "I can't let you get hurt, okay? Yesterday was a close call."

Anger rips into Annabeth all at once. "What the hell?" she bites out. "So you thought you'd just fuck off and leave? Make that choice for me?" She stands up, striding towards him. "And maybe you didn't realise, but your friends will be after me, too, you know," she says, jabbing a finger into his chest. "They saw me with you. I doubt they're happy about the chance I'll ramble about your existence to the nearest reporter."

Percy's brow furrows. He sighs. "I know. I know. It's just..." He scrubs his hands over his face, the movement filled with frustration. "I was thinking too much. I couldn't stop imagining them catching you, and I thought it was safer…" He trails off, looking guilty. "It's eating me up. I never should've dragged you into this."

Annabeth cocks a brow. "Maybe you didn't notice, but I walked into this mess myself. No one dragged me. If I'd wanted to, I could've just left you to bleed out on that fucking pavement."

Percy looks torn. With finality, he pushes the door shut again and slumps against it. "I'm an idiot."

Annabeth lets out a disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, you are."

They have to leave The Cassiopeia at ten, so they formulate a plan before heading out. Percy says that now Jason knows he's in London, the hunters will be picking through the streets for him. "They'll leave no stone unturned," he tells her. "It'll be safer to get out of the city."

Annabeth decides they should travel by train—their tickets are cheap and train journeys are fast. "We'll head up to Birmingham," she says. "I know it pretty well, so hopefully we'll be safe."

Together, they walk into King's Cross Station, buying a pair of tickets from a vendor on the way in. The station is impressive. With a huge, arching glass roof, sunlight streams through from above in golden drafts. Annabeth has always loved the architecture of it. Victorian in essence, she's always thought it has an ethereal quality that's rarely replicated in modern architecture.

Percy's attention, however, isn't on the architecture. He stares, wide-eyed, at the trains as they pass. "Are they safe?" he asks. "How do they travel so quickly?"

Annabeth laughs, glancing up at the platform numbers to check they're under the right one. "Magic," she jokes.

Percy throws her a cutting look. "Liar."

"I'm kidding, God. It's engineering." Percy continues to watch the trains. Soundlessly, he mouths the word engineering as though it holds the secrets of the universe.

Annabeth and Percy board the train. They manage to secure two table seats and sit opposite one another as the world passes in a blur outside. Percy's like a little kid, a grin on his face as he stares out into the English countryside. "I wonder if this is faster than flying," he muses.

"Depends," Annabeth says.

"On what?"

"If you're an angel or on a plane."

He stares at her. "A plane? What's that?"

"A big, metal thing with an engine that hurtles through the sky. We use them to get across the globe in a matter of hours."

Instantly, Percy looks up into the grey sky outside, as though expecting to see a plane up there instantly. "Sounds dangerous," he says.

"Only some of the time." Percy gives her a look that tells her he really, really doesn't want her to elaborate.

They pass the time by playing cards with a deck Annabeth had in the bottom of her bag. Percy doesn't know any human games, so she tries to teach him blackjack. "This is the easiest game I know," she complains. "How don't you get it?"

Percy frowns down at the cards in his hands. "So, the king is ten, right?"

Annabeth thumps her head on the table. "Yes. It was also ten the last million times I told you."

"Whatever," Percy mutters. He throws his cards down, a sulky expression on his face. "The decks we use back home are so much more interesting."

"Well, unless you happen to have one on you, this is what we're working with." Annabeth collects the cards back into a pile. "You're a lost cause. I think we're done here."

Percy sags back into his seat. Outside, the world goes dark as their train plunges into a tunnel. "How far now, do you think?"

Annabeth glances up at the electronic sign which changes to display the next stop. "We only have four or five more stops, so...half an hour, maybe?" But before she can finish speaking, there's a loud thump on the train's roof above them. It rattles the whole train, causing a few of the passengers around them to make sounds of shock. Instantly, a sense of foreboding descends upon Annabeth. "What was that?" she whispers.

Percy cocks his head, listening. Whatever he hears isn't good as he stiffens, his mouth folding into a grim line. "We need to get off."

Incredulous, Annabeth shoots back, "We can't! The train's moving." At that, Percy stands. Another thump rattles the train, and he has to seize the edge of the table in front of him to keep his balance. "What are you doing?" Annabeth demands. "Don't be stupid!"

Percy's eyes are fixed on the window. The words In case of emergency, break glass are pasted on it in crimson lettering. "This is an emergency," he tells himself. He starts to take off his long coat.

A thousand realisations crash through Annabeth all at once. "No. No, Percy, don't—" Annabeth is cut off by yet another thump. This is the worst yet, and she has to grip her seat as the train physically sways on its tracks. Several passengers scream. On the other side of the car, a baby starts crying. Annabeth gets up, trying to stop Percy. "Your wings are broken. You can't fly!"

"But I have to," he replies. In one swift motion, he tears off his bandages and lets the splints inside fall to the floor. Around him, the train explodes into chaos as people start yelling, clamouring to get away from Percy as their eyes lock on his wings.

With a heart-wrenching cry of pain, Percy unfurls his only half-healed wings and grabs Annabeth's waist, pulling her against him. Climbing onto the table, he draws back his fist and punches through the glass, shattering it into hundreds of sharp shards. The train sways even more violently, and Annabeth braces herself as Percy leaps through the window's shell, spreading his wings fully.

Annabeth squeezes her eyes shut, holding onto Percy as tight as she can. All she can think of is the terrible, unquestionable certainty of their deaths. However, a second passes with no impact. Then another. Another.

She opens her eyes and sees that they're airborne. Percy is panting hard, beating his wings ragged. The ground is twenty feet below them, racing past like a river. Annabeth gasps, a bolt of fear shooting through her. She glances at Percy's face, sees a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He's muttering, "I can't...I can't..."

"How?" Annabeth breathes. Percy's wings are huge in flight, moving in tempo with Annabeth's hammering pulse. She can see the damage that Percy's doing to them by trying to fly—it's evident in the way Percy's gritting his teeth. He won't be able to keep this up for long.

Annabeth dares to look behind them and nearly freaks out when she sees who's chasing them. That angel from before, Jason, is in front, leading six unfamiliar angels. They're flying in perfect V-formation, and all of them have swords sheathed at their waists. They're flying quickly, so much more quickly than Percy could ever hope to with his barely healed wings.

Percy begins to slow. As a result, their altitude starts dropping. Annabeth holds on in sheer terror, knowing that Jason will catch up with them and only hoping that Percy can at least land them safely on the ground.

Behind them, Jason shouts, "Land, Jackson! That's an order!"

Percy doesn't look like he could keep flying anyway. Letting out a guttural sound of pain, he beats his wings once, twice, three times more before landing them both in a messy heap on the ground. Percy's wings are bloody, falling apart at the seams. Annabeth holds him by the shoulders, throwing herself over his torso in a hopeless bid to shield him from their pursuers. Still, she feels herself being wrestled away from him by one of the angels. "Please, don't hurt him," she begs, helpless to stop the angel—a tall, severe-looking girl with a dark braid—from pushing her to the floor and holding her down.

"Stop fighting, human. It's over," the girl spits. Annabeth tries to move her arms, but the girl is already wrenching them behind her back.

"Reyna, try not to injure her." In the sunlight, Jason's blonde hair is reflective and his eyes even more terrifyingly blue. He's clearly the leader. Annabeth watches in horror as he orders two of the other angels to advance on Percy's broken form. "Bind his hands," he barks. "The rest of you, help lift him."

Percy seems woozy from the pain, but still has the presence of mind to protest. "Get off me," he slurs. "Grace, please. Don't do this." The plea sounds personal, and Annabeth watches a twinge of grief flicker over Jason's face.

In the haze of adrenaline, Annabeth remembers Percy talking about the punishment he was due to receive. They'll cut off my wings for good, probably. They already tried once. She thrashes beneath Reyna's control, but her grip is steadfast.

The angels hoist Percy into the air as Jason watches, gaze dark and shuttered. "Please," Annabeth tries again. "I'm begging you, don't hurt him."

Reyna twists Annabeth's arm, making her cry out. "Shut up," she snaps. "He's a fugitive. You don't know anything." Annabeth wants to argue, but Reyna's iron hands threaten to crush her wrists. She shoves Annabeth to the hard ground, winding her.

Annabeth curls into a crescent, trying to blink away the tears stinging her eyes. Levering herself up by an elbow, she watches with contempt as five of Jason's hunters carry Percy away, soaring into the sky.

Jason gestures to Reyna. "Go with them. I'll deal with the girl."

Reyna glares at him. "How're you gonna clean up this mess? Dozens of humans just saw Jackson's wings, then watched him take flight. We're fucked."

Jason doesn't even blink, presumably used to her harsh tone. "Humans are docile, Reyna. With just a little coaxing, they'll convince themselves it was anything but the truth. Now, go. Don't make me ask again." Reyna snarls at him with a flash of white teeth, but her rebellion proves to be all for show as she takes off after the others a moment later.

Annabeth scrabbles away from Jason as he turns to her. His eyes burn into her, a predator's gaze. Annabeth forces herself to take control of her breathing, to square her shoulders. "Don't come any closer," she warns, but the threat sounds hollow even to her own ears.

Jason ignores her. "I don't want to kill you," he says flatly. "Can you keep your mouth shut?"

Annabeth stares him down, ignoring his question. Desperately, she says, "I can tell you care about Percy. How can you send your own friend to his execution?"

"He's not my friend."

"But he is."

Jason folds his arms. "He's a criminal. He could've lived, but instead he brought this on himself."

Annabeth laughs bitterly. "Wow. That's fucking cold."

At that, a shard of emotion slices through Jason's cool façade. He grimaces. "I wish things didn't have to be this way. I tried to...I tried to convince him—" With an effort, he cuts himself off, hands curling into white-knuckled fists. When he looks up again, the façade is back in place. Annabeth rises unsteadily to her feet, now eye-level with Jason's collarbones. He steps forward. "Is your life important to you?" he asks. He doesn't phrase it as a threat; it's conversational, like something you'd say during Twenty Questions.

Annabeth nods jerkily. "Yes." But before Jason can say anything more, she adds, "Percy's life is important to me too."

Jason sags slightly. Even his wings droop. "Can you do something for me?" he asks.

The question catches Annabeth off guard. "Do what?"

"Don't tell anyone about this. Tell a lie. Tell a thousand lies. I've already condemned my best friend; I don't want to also condemn his lover."

Annabeth wants to interrupt, say he's not my goddamn lover, but she knows what Jason means. All at once, she sees her chance. "I don't know very much about what happened," she says. "But I know enough. He's a good person. He's kind. He's caring. He's innocent."

Jason's fists are trembling. He looks ill. "You're right," he says. "But that doesn't change the fact he attempted to commit regicide."

Regicide? The answer does nothing for Annabeth except spiral into a million more questions. She closes her eyes, choosing her words carefully. "They're going to sever his wings, aren't they?" she murmurs.

"Yes."

"He'll look like a human."

A pause. "Yes."

Annabeth opens her eyes again, carefully removes her nails from where they were drawing blood from her palms. "So. He could live here. On Earth." Her words are halting.

Jason shakes his head. "I think Raphael means to kill him."

Questions, more questions. "We can save him."

"We can't."

"We can."

Jason begins to pace back and forth, his white feathers fluttering in the lilting wind. "You have no idea," he says, "how much I want that to be true." He spins around, fire in his eyes. His façade has disintegrated, bashed up into bits. "What's your name?" he demands.

Annabeth blanches. "Annabeth Chase."

"Annabeth Chase," Jason repeats. He steps forward again, but this time Annabeth feels no fear. "Well, Annabeth, you've convinced me." Extending his arms, he beckons Annabeth towards him. "I'm taking you to Heaven."

Anticipation pools in Annabeth's stomach, sickly and warm. "Percy never calls it that," she says absently, lacing an arm around Jason's neck.

Jason smiles. "He wouldn't." Hoisting her up, he tells her, "Don't let go. If you pass out, try to keep holding on."

Annabeth wants to scream slightly and point out the conflict in that statement, but she doesn't. A second later, Jason spreads his wings and lifts off into the open sky.

Chapter Text

The way to Heaven is turbulent. Annabeth definitely passes out multiple times, and she's certain that the only thing sustaining her through the extreme conditions is Jason's power reaching out to her in the form of heat and oxygen. She's not really awake when Jason passes through whatever entrance leads to Heaven, but she regains consciousness as Jason flies her towards the pearly gates. They're open, which seems counter-intuitive.

Jason lands them on the ground in front of the gates, right where the sky ends and Heaven begins. Annabeth remains kneeling for a second, resisting the urge to vomit. "God, that was awful," she manages.

"Was it?" Jason asks pleasantly. Taking her hand, he helps pull her, shakily, to her feet. He's looking out into the sky, into the dark nothingness below them. "This was where Percy jumped," he tells her. The façade has slid over him again, Annabeth notices. Like a veneer.

"He...jumped?" Annabeth asks.

Jason's pale eyes flit back to her. "How else would he have escaped?"

Annabeth supposes that makes sense. With injured wings and all his people out for blood, Percy had no other way of getting down. She stares down into the open space for a moment longer before nausea overtakes her, heaving her stomach. She has to turn away. Past the gates, a thick, grey fog hangs in the air. Annabeth peers into it, squinting. "So, where do we go now?"

Jason starts walking through the gates. "This mist is our main line of defence. Close your eyes as you walk through. All your other senses will be overwhelmed, but as long as you relinquish your vision, you'll be fine." In a low tone, he adds, "I've never taken a human through the mist before, so I don't know how you'll react." He takes Annabeth's arm, leading her forward. "And for Michael's sake, don't let go of me."

Annabeth swallows the lead in her throat, nodding. "Okay." Already, she's regretting coming here. An aura of blinding purity has enveloped her, knowing she doesn't belong. Maybe she'll take one step through the gates and collapse, too human for this place.

"You ready?" Jason asks. Annabeth closes her eyes, holding on to Jason's arm as though it's a lifeline—which it is. Subconsciously, she stops breathing as they walk through the gates and into the fog. At first, Annabeth doesn't feel anything. She lets herself believe that nothing is going to happen, that maybe this defence doesn't affect humans.

That's when the screaming starts. It slices into Annabeth's ears, crushing every other thought out of her mind. Pain lances over her, a thousand droplets of poison burning into her skin. Hands scrabble at her, their nails creating channels of what feels like her own blood. She can smell rotten flesh. Taste it. Right then, she is given an intimate introduction to the true meaning of the word overwhelmed.

Her feet tremble, giving out, but Jason grunts and keeps dragging her forward. "Don't fall," he grits out, clearly struggling himself. "You won't get back up again."

Annabeth heeds his advice, pouring a mammoth effort into taking one step, then another, then another. It feels like she's walking through quicksand. As the endless screaming ricochets like bullets within her brain, she wonders what she would see if she dared to open her eyes.

All at once, it's over. Jason lets go of her and she opens her eyes, gasping for breath. A quick once-over of her body proves that she isn't hurt. The wounds she believed she was sustaining were a figment of her imagination, a psychological trauma. How is this Heaven?

As Annabeth struggles to take charge of her breathing, she notices that they're now standing on a worn cobblestone path. To her surprise, small, dilapidated buildings surround them. They've emerged into a town's entrance. Hundreds of battered buildings line the eroded streets, all crammed together. People are milling around, their ragged clothes a far cry from the luxurious garments Annabeth had imagined angels wearing.

Except many of them aren't angels. And they're not humans, either. All the townspeople appear different—some are tall, willowy, with green-tinged skin. Others have scales, like walking merpeople. Still, they seem to have two things in common: firstly, the poverty they live in and secondly, their scorching looks of hatred directed at Jason. None of the townspeople approach them head-on, but many snarl at Jason.

Jason grabs her arm, keeping her moving. "We can't stop here," he hisses.

Annabeth's mind whirls as she takes it all in. How was this real? Dozens of different species of immortal beings lived here, not just angels. "Who are these people?" she asks him.

Jason doesn't look down at her, keeps his gaze fixed on the road ahead of them. "The undercitizens," he replies. "The Fae, the nymphs, the less powerful angels. Everyone who's been dealt some shitty cards in life."

Annabeth feels a throb of sympathy as she sees a gaunt-looking angel watching them through a window. Her hair and wings shimmer, like molten gold, and she's holding a baby to her chest. "This isn't right," Annabeth murmurs. One of the minor citizens gives Jason some sort of rude gesture, but he doesn't react. "Why do they all seem to hate you?" she asks.

Jason sighs. "It's not personal. They wouldn't be acting like this if I was just an angel, but I'm a guard. I work for Raphael. He's the reason they all live like this."

"He's an archangel, right?"

"Yes. He owns all the lower sectors—including Lake, which is where we are. Not to mention he holds a great deal of influence over the rest of the city. These people here in Lake? Raphael has them all under contract. They can't own homes, get married, or work for anyone else other than him."

"What? That sounds like slavery."

Jason shrugs. "It does. But as long as Raphael controls the law, he can call it anything he wants."

They come to the end of a street, and Jason leads them around a corner. He continues talking as he leads them towards a small, hidden door. "The archangels reign from their glass palace at the highest point of Heaven, just as they have for millennia. Raphael is the worst of them."

Disgust simmers in Annabeth's gut. "How has no one tried to stop them?"

Jason opens the door. Stepping through, he holds it ajar for Annabeth. "Well, someone has."

"Who did?" The door closes behind Annabeth. She blinks, her vision adjusting to the dim torchlight in the room. The chatter of voices is rife in the air and dozens of stalls are all set up in lines around them. The scents of spices and salts tickle Annabeth's nose. She takes in the sights, wide-eyed. "A black market?"

Jason smiles back at her. "Amazing, isn't it? Me and my sister used to work here, selling wares."

"You lived here?" Annabeth hadn't expected that. "Then how did you become a guard?"

He shrugs. "Worked hard and I was lucky. But I'd never have gotten out if not for Percy." Before Annabeth can press further, Jason's eyes land on a stall at the other side of the black market. A grin splits his face. "Leo!" He strides across the room. Annabeth follows, curious.

The guy manning the stall—Leo—turns around. When he sees Jason, he whoops. "Hey, it's Grace!" Leo appears mostly human, except for his dark, slitted pupils and blood-red hair. When he smiles, Annabeth realises his canines are serrated. He steps around his stall to pull Jason into a hug.

Jason steps back, still smiling. "Annabeth, this is Leo. We grew up together in Lake."

Leo's eyes snap to her like lightning, which is somewhat terrifying. They drag over Annabeth, taking in her humanity. "You must be joking," he tells Jason. "Raphael will hang you."

Jason's feathers bristle, like he's irritated. "I'm not stupid. Once we get into the upper sectors, she's on her own."

Leo's eyes go wide. "You're taking her up there? Why?"

Jason glances around, like he's worried about someone overhearing. "Percy's been found and arrested. This was the human who hid him down there. She can help him, take him back to Earth to live amongst humans once he's had his punishment. It's better than death."

Leo chews on his lip, which looks painful with his sharp canines. "I don't want to see Percy die," he admits.

Setting her jaw, Annabeth insists, "I'm going to save him."

Leo's gaze is cutting. "How much do you know about the assassination plot?" he asks her.

"Not enough."

Jason shares a glance with Leo, then turns to her. "Percy used to work for Raphael as his right-hand man. He was always so—so angry. At the poverty in this city, at the brutality, at the martial law he was forced to carry out. About a month ago, he and another guard called Luke started plotting an assassination. They tried to get me in on it, but..." Jason shakes his head. "I was scared. Of Raphael, of what he would do to us. I knew the risks better than either of them. In any case, they went ahead with it. It went up in flames—Luke was murdered and Percy was captured. But he managed to escape."

Annabeth's breath catches in her throat. "God."

"Still want to try and save him?" Leo jabs, raising a brow.

Annabeth glares at him. "Obviously. What do I have to do?"

Leo laughs bitterly, teeth flashing in the dim light. "Percy's wings will be cut off and then he'll bleed out. There's nothing you can do."

"There is," Jason persists. "Help her get him out, afterwards. She healed him once."

"No."

"Please, Leo. If you care about Percy at all, you'll do this."

Leo's expression is unreadable. He folds his arms. "Just because I work in the upper sectors doesn't mean I can keep her safe once she's inside. And as I recall, I said I'd rather Percy didn't die—I never said I cared about him." Jason's wings rise slightly in threat as he steps towards Leo. Leo stands his ground, rolling his eyes. "Well, maybe you shouldn't have dragged Percy back up here if you wanted him to live."

"I had no choice!" Jason spits.

"Everyone has a choice," Leo says. "You chose to start working for that monster."

"I didn't want to fucking rot here in Lake. It's different."

"Is it?" The silence that hangs between them is heavy with discomfort and unsung endings. Eventually, Leo lets out a reluctant sigh. "I'll help her. For six sephyres."

Jason scoffs. "Shut up."

Leo spreads his palms. "Not everyone works in the Guard. Some of us need every coin we can get our hands on."

At that, Jason sags. "Cassiel. Fine. Fine." He digs in his pockets for a moment, then withdraws a coin purse. He tips it, pouring several rough-cut blue coins into Leo's palm.

Leo accepts them with a grin. "Thanks, Grace. You coming, or is it just me and the girl?"

"It's Annabeth, to you," she interjects.

Jason looks regretful. "I can't come with you two; Raphael will be expecting me back. I need to help set up Jackson's punishment in the main square. I'll do what I can on my end, but—" He holds up a finger. "If it looks like things are going south, I won't be able to help much."

"Thank you," Annabeth tells him. "You've done enough just getting me here."

Jason nods in acknowledgement. Inclining his head in respect, he turns and walks away. "I'm trusting you not to kill her," he calls over his shoulder to Leo.

Leo smiles at Annabeth, teeth razor-sharp and dangerous. "I can't make any promises."

Leo takes her to a back alley. "It's a long way to the upper sectors from here, and it'll be a pain to travel on foot." Annabeth realises they're approaching a stable. Dozens of cubbies are lined up along each wall and stacks of hay sit outside of them.

Leo greets the stablehand, handing him one sephyre. "Just for the day, thanks," he tells him. Without a word, the stablehand takes the money and opens the door to one of the cubbies, waving Leo through. A sleek, blue horse is tied up inside.

Annabeth runs a tentative hand over the horse's flank. It's soft, velvet-like. "Wow. She's beautiful."

Leo smirks, winding his hand around the reins as he leads the horse out of the stable. "It's the Fae blood in her." He helps Annabeth up, then climbs on in front of her, taking the reins. Annabeth gently digs her heels in to keep herself upright. "Flying is faster, but horses work fine. Don't let an angel tell you different."

Leo is good with the horse, spurring her quickly through the town. As they ride further and further into Lake Sector, the buildings they pass seem to get slightly more dignified. At last, they reach a bridge. It crosses over a river with specks of gold glinting in the rushing water. Annabeth gapes. "This river marks the divide between the upper and lower sectors," Leo calls over his shoulder as they trot to the entrance of the bridge. "When we cross, try to breathe as lightly as possible. I'm an undercitizen so I doubt the angels here will pay much attention, but we'll both be in deep water if they scent you."

Annabeth nods already trying to lessen her breathing. "Has there ever been humans up here? In Heaven?"

He glances back, his slitted pupils reduced to fine lines in the bright sunlight. "Not in a long time."

Leo shows a glossy ID to the bridge's security guard—a tall, tawny-winged angel. He just waves Leo past. "How come they let you through so easily?" Annabeth asks.

"Oh, I work in the palace."

They cross the bridge in galloping strides. Annabeth wonders how their horse hasn't even begun to tire, but then she supposes that the animals here probably have power of their own. Up ahead, the main city is now visible. It's a feat of architecture—towering sandstone buildings stretch up into the sunset. The archangels' glass palace gleams on the horizon.

Still, though the city looks outwardly beautiful, Annabeth knows that the resplendent nature of it is the reason that so many of the undercitizens struggle under the burden of poverty. She's beginning to see why Percy risked his life to kill Raphael, their bloody-handed dictator, in a bid to topple the system.

"It's horrific, isn't it?" Leo says quietly, slowing his horse to a trot. "This used to be a place of dreams, of equal opportunity. Now, wherever I look, all I see is hateful division. The upper sectors are areas of privilege and everyone knows it. I've never seen a single undercitizen living in any of them. All of us have just been taking the archangels' shit, hoping for the winds of change, but...Raphael is too strong, too influential. The wealthier angels here don't even know they've been brainwashed." He pauses. "Our childhood stories warn of the violence of humans, but the truth is we're no better ourselves."

Annabeth is silent, listening to the sound of the horse's hooves clattering against the road. As they pass into one of the upper sectors, Annabeth watches the angels milling around. Some are airborne, others aren't. All of them are dressed in comfortable attire, contrasting with the faded rags that had been so common in Lake Sector. Percy hadn't been lying about the beauty of this city when she'd first met him, but she'd never expected the reality to be so bleak.

She wishes she could help the people in the lower sectors, but Percy already tried—and look where that got him. Now, the only thing left to salvage is his life.

It takes them over an hour to make it through the labyrinthine streets of the main city. Anticipation builds in Annabeth's gut like bile. None of the angels offer Leo or her a passing glance, and she can see why. They probably look like servants, just a couple of undercitizens bound by contract to Raphael. Still, she follows Leo's advice and tries to breathe as lightly as possible. "What's your job in the palace?" she asks him as they cross a neatly-laid marble square.

"My mother was a servant there. I used to help her out," he says. "When she died, I took over. My duties mostly involve dealing with imports to the palace, organising storage. That kind of thing."

"How did she die?" Annabeth asks without thinking, then instantly wishes she could bite the question back. "Sorry, you don't need to answer."

Thankfully, Leo doesn't seem too offended. "A fire," he says shortly. He doesn't elaborate.

"What was she like?" Annabeth asks carefully.

"Smart. Powerful, which is rare in Lake. She would've lived for a long time."

"And you? What about your power?"

"Oh, I've only got a few drops. My senses are almost as dull as yours. I'll doubt I'll last another century."

Annabeth hums. "Seems unfair. This whole power-linked-to-lifespan business."

"Well, it's better than what you humans get."

"Is it?" Leo doesn't reply, and Annabeth decides there's nothing more to say about that.

Eventually, they reach the centre of the city. The streets around her seem aggressively wealthy, adorned with polished glass and marble. Leo slides off the horse. Annabeth follows him down, landing with a grunt on the hard ground. She watches as Leo ties the horse to a flagpole. He murmurs a few soothing words to the horse, then sets off, beckoning Annabeth. "Take my jacket," he tells her. "Being Fae makes my scent more overpowering than yours, so this will help mask your own scent. With any luck, it'll be so crowded when we head into the square that no one will notice you. Everyone's attention will be on Raphael carrying out Percy's punishment."

She accepts the jacket with a word of thanks, threading her arms through the worn leather sleeves.

Leo stands up straighter, like he's readying himself. "We'll stand in the back," he tells her. "Keep your eyes down while the punishment is happening. I don't know how you're planning to save him, but I won't be taking any part in it. If you do somehow manage to get Percy out, this horse is your means of escape." Glancing around, he makes sure the side-street they're standing in is clear before slipping a small, glinting knife out of his clothes and offering the hilt to Annabeth. "Take this, just to be safe. It's a Fae knife. All our weapons are steeped in viridium, a compound we make up here that's toxic to angels."

Annabeth takes the knife hesitantly, almost scared to touch it. "Viridium?" It's small, barely as long as her own handspan and glows faintly green. "How are weapons like this legal?"

"They're not," he replies. "Viridium weapons are contraband, reserved for Raphael's private army only. Only the Fae can make them, so a lot of us are conscripted to work in forges on the outskirts of the city. The conditions in them are rough. A friend of mine risked his life to smuggle this out for me—so don't lose it."

"I won't," she says, tucking the weapon into her sleeve. "Thank you. I know you're risking a lot."

Leo grins, his serrated fangs glinting in the dying light. "That's true," he replies. "But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I stood by and did nothing."

It's only a two-minute walk to the square. As they approach, the roads get busier and busier. The citizens surround them seem to be in good spirits, all laughing and chattering. At Annabeth's horrified expression, Leo laughs. "Seems crazy, doesn't it?"

"They're on their way to witness someone being killed. How are they making it a fun day out?"

He shrugs. "The archangel's power here is normalised. Everyone is taught to believe that anyone who dares to rise up against their dictatorship is insane. Deluded."

Annabeth doesn't reply, a little shaken.

They arrive in the square. It's right in front of the towering palace, cast in sheets of dying sunlight that filter through the palace's glass. The floor below them is decorated by thousands of ceramic tiles. The square is crowded, but in an organised way—dozens of guards stand around the perimeter of a podium in the middle, keeping the crowd several metres away from it. Annabeth feels sick as she realises that that podium is most likely where Percy will endure his punishment.

Beside her, Leo sucks in a breath. He nudges her. "Look."

She follows his gaze. Instantly, her stomach turns over. All around the square, hundreds of Fae and nymphs stand in groups, watched over by guards. Undercitizens. "Why are they here?" she breathes.

Leo keeps staring at them, his expression unreadable. "By order of Raphael, I'd expect," he replies. "He must've forced them to attend. This is a demonstration, after all—he wants them all to see exactly what happens to those who challenge his dictatorship. They'll go home and tell their families and friends everything, spreading the fear throughout the lower sectors."

The undercitizens look miserable. Though they're technically free to move about, the glares of the wealthy angels around them seem to be keeping them in check. Annabeth even notices some hostility towards herself and Leo, as the angels assume they're both Fae undercitizens. The scent of Leo's jacket seems to be working to assure nobody realises she's human. "God, this is sickening," she mutters.

Leo doesn't reply, but his agreement is obvious on his face.

Roughly ten minutes lapse, and nothing changes. It's as though the crowd is holding their breath. Annabeth begins to get antsy. "When are they going to bring him out?" she asks Leo.

"On the strike of sunset, so any second now."

True to Leo's word, a loud, reverberating toll echoes through the square a few moments later. There's a commotion on the other side of the square. Annabeth cranes her neck to get a better look. Immediately, her eyes lock on Percy. He's being escorted by two guards, hands bound behind his back. Annabeth gasps when she realises one of the angels holding him is Jason. She can't tell what he's thinking—that practised façade has slid over his face again.

Percy, on the other hand, looks terrified. His eyes dart left and right, a hunted animal. Though he shows no outward resistance, his feet drag slightly as Jason and the other guard haul him towards the podium. They tug him up the steps, then throw him to his knees. Annabeth is too far away to hear the crack of his kneecaps hitting the stone podium, but she's sure it's brutal. The image is haunting—an angel kneeling, head bent in prayer.

Annabeth takes a step forward, but Leo grabs her wrist. "You'll be killed," he hisses.

Irritation lances through her. Still, she knows he's right. Curling her hands into fists, she nods. "I know. I know."

Suddenly, the crowd falls silent. From the direction of the palace, an angel emerges. He's tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His wings are tawny. They trail behind him as he walks, though he holds them up in a careful, imposing manner. He's swathed in a black, gleaming toga that ripples like liquid metal.

Annabeth doesn't need to be told who he is. "That's Raphael," she murmurs.

Leo nods, a jerking motion.

Raphael's head remains forward, as though the crowd is completely and utterly below him. With dignity, he steps up onto the podium. Jason offers him a large silver sword, bowing his head in a show of respect. Raphael takes it, inclining his chin in Jason's direction. With that, he turns toward the crowd and raises a hand. At once, everyone starts clapping and cheering, pouring their praise at Raphael's feet. He lets the racket go on for a few seconds, then closes his hand in a fist. Like an orchestra, the crowd falls silent.

"Good evening, everyone," Raphael begins. His voice is loud, affirming. The voice of a leader. "Thank you all for attending this demonstration. Your solidarity does not go unnoticed." He lowers his fist. "As you all know, a few weeks ago, an attempt was made on my life. Though it was feeble, it was still an act of defiance. An act of blasphemy." He gestures to Percy, kneeling at his feet. "This guard was once one of my most trusted advisors. Due to his idiocy, I have now been forced to tighten security both among my ranks and in the lower sectors. These policies have been written into our laws, effective tomorrow." The crowd applauds. Though the undercitizens clap too, it's clearly difficult for them to conceal the dismay showing on their faces.

"Fuck," Leo mutters. "I didn't realise it was possible for him to make life any harder for us." Annabeth touches his wrist in a silent show of support.

Raphael closes both hands around the handle of the sword. "I hope the severance of this disgraced assassin's wings will make it clear to you all that the archangels' rule is eternal, and shall always be so." Annabeth's breath turns halting as he raises the sword, its blade glinting in the sunset's crimson light. In one easy motion, he lets the sword fall.

As it slices past Percy's shoulder blades, he lets out a ragged scream. Blood spurts from the wounds as Raphael saws the blade forward and back, tearing through Percy's flesh and bone. Finally, his wings flop to the floor of the podium, useless. Percy keeps screaming and spasming, forehead pressed to the stone beneath him as he shakes. Annabeth's heart shatters. Ignoring Leo's warning, she screams, "No!" and breaks into a run, pushing through the crowd. As she bursts out into the empty space around the podium, the rough hands of guards lock around her wrists, holding her back. "Please, let me get to him," she yells, fighting as hard as she can.

Ahead, on the podium, Raphael's eyes snap to her. "Who's this? Identify yourself."

Annabeth says nothing, unable to summon any words beneath Raphael's suffocating gaze. One of the guards holding Annabeth twists her wrists, drawing a cry of pain from her. "Speak," he grunts.

"Annabeth. My name's Annabeth," she manages.

At that, Raphael raises a brow. He steps over Percy's crumpled form, raising his wings up to avoid getting blood on them. Curiosity is written all over his face as he steps down from the podium and walks towards Annabeth. Half a metre away from her, he stops. "You smell Fae," he muses. "But not quite. And I can't see a single mark of power anywhere on you." Annabeth stiffens, tries again to break loose from the grip of the guards. The effort is futile. Raphael reaches forward, and, to Annabeth's disgust, runs his fingers through her hair and holds it up to his nose. Instantly, the spark of realisation appears in his eyes. "A human," he whispers.

In response to his words, a wave of unease ripples over the crowd.

"I'm not," Annabeth insists.

"Don't lie to me," Raphael shoots back. He waves a hand at the guards. "Relax. She's human; she's about as dangerous as a grass snake." Slowly, the guards let go of Annabeth. Relieved, she rubs her wrists, trying to bring back the blood flow within them. Raphael cocks his head. "Well, Annabeth. I'd be intrigued to know exactly what you're doing in Heaven."

Annabeth, unable to stop herself, glances past Raphael to where Percy lies, crippled on the podium. His screaming has stopped, replaced with quiet sobbing. Raphael seems to notice the look she gives him. An eerie, serpentine smile crawls across his lips. "Interesting," he murmurs. "So you're the human who took him in, down on Earth? I was told you'd been neutralised."

Neutralised. The word ricochets through Annabeth's head like a stray bullet. She swallows, straightens her posture. "Clearly, I wasn't."

"That is very clear indeed," Raphael replies, smiling. "I have an inkling regarding which of my guards assisted you. Mark my words—he will be dealt with. Right now, however, I would like to focus on the matter at hand." He sweeps his gaze down Annabeth's form, a predator assessing his prey. "It's been a long time since I've been in the company of a human. Forgive me, but I've forgotten your airs and graces. What is it you're meant to offer in greeting? The shake of a hand?"

A little overwhelmed, Annabeth can do nothing but nod. With every instinct in her body screaming at her to back down, she holds out a trembling hand.

Raphael appears charmed. He accepts her hand, shaking it. "There. Now, no one can say I'm not hospitable towards my visitors. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Annabeth replies, trying to slow her racing heart. She's certain Raphael can hear it hammering away in her ribcage. Knowing that this could be her only change to rescue Percy, she summons the courage to speak. "Raphael," she begins. "You asked why I'm here."

"I did."

"Well, I'm here because your prisoner over there deserves a second chance. He's received his punishment. He needs medical attention!"

Raphael grins, teeth gleaming and white. "I'm afraid that isn't protocol. If he survives capital punishment on his own, he will be allowed refuge as a contractee in the lower sectors. If he doesn't..." He shrugs. "Then that is his fate. It would be hubris to interfere."

Looking at Percy, it's clear that he won't last until morning. There's such a horrifying amount of crimson blood pooling around him that Annabeth knows even his accelerated healing won't be able to save him if his wounds aren't bandaged. Despair washes over her, settling into her chest like cooling ash. "Please," she tries. "I know him. He's good, I've seen it. He was—he was misled. Please, please, don't let him die."

Raphael seems utterly untouched by her words. "If I forgave every misled soul that ever wronged me, this city would have drowned in the blood of archangels centuries ago. Human, you may think you know him. A wounded soldier, a pretty thing that fell into your lap. But he is lost, angry. A fugitive of the state. You may think you know him, but you don't."

"I do." Annabeth wants to scream, frustrated by Raphael's cold words.

"Be careful," Raphael warns her. "So far, you have said nothing that warrants execution. Imprisonment, perhaps." His eyes gleam suddenly, and he cocks his head. "It's been a while since we've had a human up here. I have to say, I find you enchanting. Rather than subject you to the prison chambers, you could come stay with us in the palace. You can become a handmaid, perhaps. Or a servant. I think you will find our culture far more...satisfactory than your own."

The idea of it is revolting. Come stay with us, he says, like she'll be there for the weekend. Not the entire span of the eighty-odd years she'd live. When she eventually grows old, Raphael and the others will undoubtedly tire of her. She would prefer to die now than be trapped in Raphael's palace for the better part of a century, doting on him and the other archangels.

Rather than voice all this, however, Annabeth realises a plan has settled into place in her mind. Leo's viridium knife is still tucked into her sleeve, thankfully unnoticed. Even now, the impossibly warm handle of it rests on her wrist bone. Painting a veneer over her face, she relaxes her features into a mask of consideration. "Can't I go back to Earth?" she pushes.

Raphael laughs. "Of course not. You've seen us, seen our home. What's stopping you from shouting about our existence to anyone who'll listen? You could jump, of course, but you wouldn't survive the fall."

Annabeth looks one last time at Percy, like she's giving in. Hanging her head, she stares at the ground by Raphael's feet. "I could really stay here?" she murmurs. "In Heaven?"

She feels Raphael's fingertips come to rest under her chin, tilting her head up to look at him. "If you like," he says, phrasing it as an invite instead of the threat she knew it was. To her surprise, Raphael opens his arms, beckoning her to accept his embrace. The chance is clear as day. Annabeth steps into them, enduring his embrace. She knows he believes he's won. "You will want for nothing," Raphael whispers into her ear, and she stifles the urge to shudder.

Without missing a beat, Annabeth lets the handle of Leo's angel-hating knife slip into her palm. Gathering all her strength, she plunges the blade deep into Raphael's back. It must hit a lung because blood spurts from Raphael's mouth as he chokes, spraying across Annabeth's jaw. "You disgust me," she tells him, then twists the knife.

Ugly anger and shocked pain contort Raphael's features. He garbles, "Damned human bitch." Within the next instant, his hands are around her neck. Even as Annabeth fights for breath she can feel Raphael's grip losing its strength as her knife saps the power from his body, reducing him to a human. She twists the knife one last time before wrenching it out. There's a moment's pause for her to gaze at the golden blood soaking her right hand as Raphael's poisoned body shudders. His grip on her neck loosens, then finally falls away as he crashes to his knees.

Several things happen between one of Annabeth's heartbeats and the next. First: Annabeth's consciousness fades into hazy white noise as Leo's knife slips from her fingers and clatters onto the floor. Second: she is wrenched away from Raphael's still body. Third: Percy screams her name. Fourth: a cry of Raphael is dead! comes forth from the hundreds of undercitizens standing in the square.

A guard hits her in the head, knocking her down. Someone steps on her in the commotion as she gasps for breath through her bruised throat, trying to form a conscious thought through the ringing in her ears. Fights start everywhere in her peripheral. At once, the undercitizens turn on the angels around them, their fury a weapon as potent as a machine gun.

Someone grabs her by the back of her shirt, hauling her to her feet. Through her swimming vision she glimpses the face of an angel with piercing blue eyes and white-blond hair. Jason. He's the one holding her, his hand like a vice at her sides. His sword is stained crimson."Go," he shouts, trying to reach her through her shock. "Run. I'm getting Percy."

Annabeth doesn't have to be told twice. She turns and sprints through the crowd, ducking under flying fists as adrenaline seizes control of her body. She heads in the direction of the horse, but as she reaches a road at the end of the square she collides with someone. Certain that it's a guard, she raises her fists, preparing to fight.

"It's me! Annabeth, it's me." The person in front of her is Leo, his uncanny eyes almost glowing with excitement.

She can't think of what to say. "I'm sorry, I lost your knife—"

"Fuck that! Annabeth, you killed an archangel. You've started a fucking revolution!" He hugs her, then shoves her in the direction of the horse. He shoots her a grin, rolling up his sleeves. "I might not have a knife, but I can still throw a punch. Jason knows where you're going. He's sent supplies for Percy to the horse."

Annabeth stutters, walking backwards. "Thank you. I couldn't have—"

Leo's grinning, his serrated canines bright in the dusk. "Yeah, yeah. Love you too, you blonde twat. Now, shut your mouth and run."

She does.

Annabeth reaches the horse in a matter of minutes. True to Leo's word, a bag has been tied to the side of the horse. Within, she finds bandages. She can still hear the commotion of the fight in the square, but she has no way of knowing who's winning. But even if all the undercitizens are killed, she thinks, their deaths will incite a rage in their families and friends back home in the lower sectors like nothing else could. Maybe Leo is right. Maybe there really is going to be a revolution.

The golden blood staining Annabeth's fingertips shimmers like molten metal in the dim light, and the sound Raphael made as the knife pierced his ribcage lingers in her ringing ears.

Suddenly, an angel descends from behind the rooftops above her. It's Jason. Percy is slumped in his arms, a lifeless silhouette against the dark sky. As Jason lands, he calls out to her. "Unbind the horse! I'll get Percy secure." Annabeth nods and quickly untangles the horse's rein from the flagpole she was tied to. Jason lifts Percy up and manoeuvres him so he's straddling the horse. Percy mumbles incoherently, eyelids fluttering.

"Hold still," she tells Percy. Pulling a roll of bandages out of the bag, she winds the gauze around and around his torso, ensuring both that the bandages are wrapped tightly enough and that both his ragged wounds are covered. Still, even as she applies the bandages, crimson blood starts soaking through.

Jason's brows are furrowed. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I don't know," she replies, frustration clear in her voice. "I'm not a fucking doctor, alright? I can maybe get him some medicine and properly bandage his wounds if we make it off this hellscape, but otherwise..." She shakes her head, unable to finish the sentence.

Jason turns suddenly, eyes narrowing. "They're coming," he murmurs, head cocked like he's listening intently. Jason locks eyes with Annabeth, gaze urgent. "If Percy wakes up by the time you make it to the gates, he'll be able to keep you alive during the fall. His power will extend to you, create something of an air bubble—just as I did for you when we came up here."

"And if he doesn't?"

Jason draws his bloodied sword. "Jump anyway. It's better than the Guard getting their hands on you. Hopefully Percy will regain consciousness on the way down." He looks back, once again listening to voices Annabeth can't hear. "I'll tell the Guard I've killed you both, that you've been dealt with. I don't know if they'll believe it, but..." He sighs. "Annabeth, I'm indebted to you. If not for you convincing me to try and save Percy, my best friend's death would be on my conscience."

Annabeth softens. Going onto her tiptoes, she slings her arms around Jason's neck. "Thank you," she says, voice muffled in his shirt.

Jason leans into the embrace, then, after a moment, gently pushes her away. "Go. Take him home." Without another word, he spreads his wings and takes flight with several powerful wingbeats, rising above the rooftops and disappearing

Unable to waste another second, Annabeth hoists herself up onto the horse, stabilising herself by entwining her fingers with the horse's soft, blue mane. Behind her, Percy lets out a quiet groan of pain. "You're gonna be okay," she tells him. "Hold onto my waist." Steeling herself, she digs her heels into the horse's flank. An instant later, they fly off into the city.

The sounds of clashing metal and shouting diminishes the further away they gallop from the square, but Annabeth knows the Guard could be far closer than that. Soon enough, they reach the bridge. The gold hue that the river had before has somehow changed since the daytime. Now, beneath the star-speckled sky, the river glows silver.

The security guard who was standing here before is nowhere to be seen—presumably because of the state of emergency that's been called in the upper sectors. Thankful not to be stopped, Annabeth spurs their horse faster over the bridge's hard cobblestones.

Returning to Lake Sector is a relief. It feels more grounded, more real than all of the upper sectors' wealth. There are only a few undercitizens out as it's late, but the ones that are stare at Annabeth and Percy with curiosity as they pass. They must be somewhat aware of what's going on up near the palace, but they don't yet seem to have been told about Raphael's demise.

Annabeth glances back at Percy. He's managing to maintain a tight grip on her waist, but his face is contoured with lines of pain. It looks like he's slipping in and out of consciousness. "Percy, stay awake," she begs him.

He doesn't respond, only lets out a grunt of pain as their horse goes over a bump. His arms are warm around her, so full of life.

Annabeth takes them to the edge of Lake Sector, searching frantically for the gates. At last, she spots them. The fog surrounding them seems just as dense as before. Every nerve in Annabeth's body sobs at the idea of walking through it again.

She climbs down from the horse, landing with a wince on her ankle. Straining to support his weight, she helps Percy down from the horse. He lands in a crumpled heap, crying out. "You're good, you're good," she murmurs, trying to soothe him. Looping an arm under his shoulders, she tries to lever him up. "Come on, please try and stand. I can't lift you on my own."

The okay that escapes from Percy's lips is soundless.

It takes them a few tries, but eventually Percy manages to stand. Annabeth grits her teeth, trying to keep him upright. Percy's tall, far heavier than her. As they approach the fog, Annabeth holds onto Percy tighter, squeezing her eyes shut. "Close your eyes and don't let go of me," she tells him.

It's just as awful as she remembers. She can't decide which is worse: the scrabbling nails, the screaming, the poison splashing up her limbs. This time, she hears Percy's voice intermixed with the others. He's screaming for Annabeth, begging for her to save him as he cries. It's ugly, so ugly. For a brief, awful moment Annabeth imagines cutting off her own ears just to bring silence.

They stagger through the fog and emerge into the open air, gasping for breath. Percy's shaking, almost convulsing. He's muttering under his breath in what sounds like Latin, the words alien to Annabeth. His eyes are wide open, which is a small mercy. Finally, they reach the end of Heaven. Annabeth peers over the edge. Below them lies nothing but a vast abyss of oil-black clouds. Below that, she isn't sure. With luck, they'll fall into some nice countryside rather than the Arctic Ocean. Annabeth turns to Percy. "Ready?"

His green eyes are vacant, lost in a haze of fear. "No. No." He looks at Annabeth, scanning her face back and forth frantically. "Please, no," he says, voice hoarse with pain. "I can't. Not again."

"We have to! Percy, if we don't jump now, they'll kill us."

"You'll die in the fall. I can't...I can't be the only one who survives."

Annabeth reaches up, brushes her cold fingertips over his cheek. "You won't be. You won't be, I swear. Extend your power to me in the form of protection. Jason said that would work."

Percy's already shaking his head. His face is bruised, his lip split. "I'm not strong enough right now. All my energy…"

"Just try," Annabeth says. "Please, just try." A tremor racks her fingertips where they rest on Percy's cheek. They slip down to his jaw. All at once, every emotion she's experienced since meeting Percy hits her like a tidal wave. Happiness, confusion, fear, determination, love.

Shrugging off every sane thought still hiding in her splintered mind, she leans forward and presses an unsteady kiss to Percy's lips. It's short-lived, but something new flickers to life behind Percy's vacant eyes. Something like hope. Somehow, an uncertain smile finds its way across his pained face. "Annabeth—" he starts.

She cuts him off. "Save it, alright? For when we've made it."

He nods, a little haltingly. "Then let's jump."

"Don't fucking let go of me," she whispers, winding her arm tighter around his.

He mirrors the action, locking their arms. "I won't. I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

With that, they jump.

They land on a beach, in the foaming waves. Neither of them are conscious when they're dragged out of the sea by a lifeguard who can't work out why they went swimming fully clothed, or why one of them has a pair of bleeding wounds spanning his shoulder blades.

When Annabeth comes to, she tells the French beach medic that they're surgery wounds—the salt water must've irritated them badly enough that the skin came open again beneath his bandages. This excuse is taken with a few grains of salt, but Annabeth insists he doesn't need to go to hospital. Percy is given stitches and morphine in the medical van instead.

He just stares blankly at Annabeth the entire time, not quite sure how they're alive.

Annabeth calls her stepmother to tell her that she went on a spontaneous holiday to France with a friend, but their money and IDs were stolen so they need her help to get home. Helen's irritated, but seems to believe her. This results in a messy situation surrounding Percy's complete lack of human identity, but Helen manages to pull a few strings to help Percy get some credentials in order to travel. It's a long process, but Percy successfully applies for new identification.

After a few gruelling weeks, they make it home to London. For a while, it's as though Annabeth's whole life is in limbo. She continues with her summer architecture course and returns to her drawing classes. The calluses on her palms from holding stacked plates during waitressing come back in full force. Life slowly begins to go back to normal.

Except...not quite. Percy lives with her now, officially. After his wounds heal, he gets a part-time job in a library which earns decent money and—with Annabeth's help—enrols into a Latin course. His fluency allows him to pass with flying colours, and he starts looking into advertising as a Latin tutor. Though Annabeth knows he's patient enough, smart enough to make it work, Percy confides in her that he feels like an imposter. "This life is worlds apart from what I know. Someone will notice, someone will see I'm not what I'm pretending to be."

Annabeth kisses him on the cheek, tells him, "You don't need to pretend to be anything, okay? You make everything better just being the way you are."

That's another change: the kissing, the touching. Sometimes, Annabeth thinks Percy's become her anchor. Her lifeline. On nights when she can't sleep, she gets up and walks around for a while before climbing back into bed with him. Without fail, his warm arms find her again beneath the covers and pull her against him. Every time, her hands come to rest on his back where his scars lie. Percy hates them; they're a reminder of what he used to have, who he used to be. He sees them as nothing but jagged, pale memories of violence.

Annabeth sees them as his.

One evening in October, they're sitting on Annabeth's balcony. A shared blanket is wrapped around each of their shoulders. While it's redundant for Percy, with all his eternal warmth, it does well to fend off the goosebumps prickling Annabeth's skin. Annabeth's eyes are fixed on London's skyline where the sun has set below the horizon, tinting the whole sky red. A cigarette is burning to the filter between Annabeth's fingertips, forgotten.

Percy takes a sip of the cooling mug of coffee in his hands. "I'm glad," he says quietly.

"About what?"

"That you're alive, existing," he replies. "That you saved me. That I get to have this life."

Annabeth turns to him. "I'm glad too." She leans in first, but Percy closes the distance, settling his lips onto hers with a contented sigh. They kiss for a second longer, not quite able to yield the perfect moment to time just yet. Soon enough, though, they break away. Annabeth rests her head on his shoulder, gazing out into the red-hued sky.

"This is the kind of night I'd want to go flying," Percy murmurs. His words are a half-formed thought, thrown with abandon out into the world. "No clouds. Gentle winds. You could hitch a lift on the air currents and soar for miles uninterrupted."

"That sounds amazing."

"It is. If I still had my wings, I'd pick you up right now and fly over the city with you in my arms."

Annabeth says nothing for a while, unsure how to break the silence that lingers afterward. When she speaks, every syllable is carefully measured. "If you could have your wings back," she asks, "would you? Knowing a life on Earth would be out of the question."

After a pause, Percy shakes his head. "No," he says. "I wouldn't give this up. Not for flying. Not for anything else in the world."

Annabeth smiles, tilts her head up from where it rests on his shoulder to kiss him on the jaw. The sky is darkening, a spill of indigo ink blotting out the crimson. A few heartbeats pass before Annabeth becomes aware of Percy's eyes on her face. "What?" she asks.

"Nothing, just...you look happy."

Annabeth rolls her eyes. "What's so interesting about that?"

He shrugs. "There's only been six times I've seen you genuinely happy. First, when you sketched me for your drawing class. Second, the carnival. Third, staying in The Cassiopeia, when I recited Latin. Fourth, when we were lucky enough to fall onto a goddamn beach, of all places." Annabeth laughs, the sound a blossom of warmth in her lungs. Percy smiles back, pressing a kiss on her forehead, then her eyelid, then her nose. "Fifth...last week, when I told you I loved you. Right now is the sixth."

"I seriously can't believe you remember all those."

Percy shakes his head. "There should be more. There will be more."

Annabeth grins, endeared. "I hope so."

They stay on the balcony for a while longer, watching the few stars that are bright enough to resist London's light pollution emerge from the darkness. It's simple to slow-dance to the tuneless music of the city's traffic, to kiss in tandem with the far-off wails of sirens. When hands begin to wander over shoulders and waists, it's simple to stumble inside, cheeks flushed.

It's simple to switch off the light, to fall asleep in a tangle of limbs beneath the bedsheets. It's simple to breathe in sync, to hold one another. It's simple to dream.