Work Text:
I'm going back to 505
If it's a seven-hour flight or a forty-five minute drive
In my imagination you’re waitin’ lyin’ on your side
With your hands between your thighs
Mr. Jackson's suit was tailored to perfection.
An all-red, strings imported from Italy, finely woven by ten of the best handmaid tailors altered to his liking, plated in one of the finest leather with gold coating in the inside. On the outside, the suit was a wine red, the color of blood. The vest was black, chains woven tightly as to serve as a bulletproof plate at the same time, but classy enough to be seen as a regular one. Designed to perfection that not even a knife can pass through. In his pocket was a ring, a small one, glittering with gold and diamonds of sorts. The dress shirt, the same obsidian black, was tightly fitting on his broad shoulders, just enough for him to have space to move while in combat.
He figures this must be what it means to bear the curse of Achilles. As his history professors imply.
On the outside, the bar looked like a temple built in Roman times, in the middle of British houses. The rain poured continuously, but the lights were built to adjust. The inside is another different thing. The bar was a high stoned hall with marble arch, chandeliers up top with high corinthian columns, music feebly playing in the background. It was a song from some English band, Arctic monkeys, was it? He might have heard it before, but he couldn't quite catch on where. At the center of the bar was a round marble countertop and seats circling in, the bartender at the circle with his huge collection of champagne, wine, and other alcoholics. He figures some of it were even rare, seeing 1945 Chateau Petrus, approximately thousands of dollars worth for one wine. And he had a whole dome of collection.
No wonder rich people tend to visit - it was every alcoholic man's dream, here in the center of Manchester, just near Wilburn Basin and Hotel Campanile, which is accessible to everyone in the city. Now, he was no fan of English culture, to be fair, some of it he can understand. His New York state of mind can't grasp the thought of living here for a long time. The houses were historic, victorians lining up after the other, then there were Queen Anne's, Gothic, and every other style she might know in one simple gaze.
Chills ran down his body, thinking of her .
Men in suits were prominent in this area, guys gambling down the back of the hall, others talking quietly, murmurs filling the air. He caught a whiff of smoke and what looked like the smell of cocaine in someone's mouth. The scene was so familiar, and so different.
English people, more careful as they be, hold a level of sophistication to their character, and as keen as Percy is, not one of them is as simple as simple gets. They were the same lads, as they seem, but everything felt so out of place.
From the tavern, the pub, the newspaper lying on the floor, everything felt so insignificant but significantly different.
"Anything I can get you, lad?" The bartender was asking as he carefully tucked the loaded barrel in the side of his vest. "You're new."
"Your finest, please." Mr. Jackson states.
"Sold out. Louis Roederer costs a thousand pounds, would you?"
"That'll do." Percy smiles.
"Very well, champagne it is." The man nodded. "Care for a gasper?"
"A what?"
"Ah, American." The British was saying. "Infiltrating my place, as usual. Cigar, boy. Cigar."
"Treasurer Black please."
"In the house." He grins at Percy, who was preoccupied at the moment looking at the glass doors, waiting for his client.
Client, to put it simply. Victim, however, is a much better choice of word.
For a stone cold killer, Percy thinks of himself as more empathizing than any other assassins. Sure, he's had a lot of situations in the past that stated otherwise, but to him it was gradually increasing overtime. He had killed not only a dozen of men by the time he reached thirteen, when the Chapter had asked where his loyalty lies. His father, now a deceased member, had asked his trustee to ensure the young boy meets the requirements needed for the Chapter to continue the blood of killers.
He was only a young boy.
By the evening of his 21st birthday, he closed to fifty, a birthday cake on one hand and a bloody pencil on the other. On his 26th birthday, however, things were much different.
It was the girl of his dreams on one hand, caressing him to sleep, and a blue cupcake on the other.
His champagne arrives before his call, with a pack of black cigarettes in the house.
"Thanks," He slipped the bill and nodded.
The champagne was an exquisite way to start the evening, if evening is no less two o'clock in the morning. Somehow the glass feels delicate to the touch, and on top of that, the cigarette fills his mind, making his reality non adherence.
He thinks of her, that damn woman. He thinks he wants to marry her, and to be with her in every step of the way, until he gets the reality they’ve wanted, even if it means them being against the world.
Annabeth Chase - now getting linked to another man that Percy can't compete with, he was no conman like him. He was a billionaire, with generational wealth from his ancestors, leading multi-billion dollar companies.
Percy, to be fair, was also a billionaire, but also a man of many things before he can ever say it. He dares not to say it, not unless forced to.
"I hear rumors, Christopher Hammock and you." Percy had her in bed, lingering on top and taking all the time in the world to see her, as she is, the Annabeth Chase.
"Yes." She nodded, putting her hands on the nape of his neck and pulling him closer. "To a forty year old man, who had dozens of affairs while being divorced twice."
"Do you like him?" Percy kisses her neck in return, crafting delicate art to the skin of her neck teasing her completely.
"Careful, Percy." She whispers.
"Scared of a little bite?" Percy laughs, kissing her carefully this time.
"No, just a bit scared of someone's bark." She kisses him in reassurance. "His family might be there, I'll try not to apply concealers."
He sighs, and Annabeth hears him. "You can go deeper, please."
And he was out, completely wrapped around her fingers like a yoyo, giving in to all her requests, doing her until he went deeper, sucking the life out of her breast.
"Percy…" She moans, but Percy wasn't too eager to stop. "It's not…gonna happen, god. Holy. Don't stop. Please."
Percy stops suddenly, leaving a bewildered Annabeth, lust in her eyes.
"Why did you…?"
"You're adorable, Chase." Percy smirks. And it was her turn to roll her eyes and pull his neck a lot closer, leaving Annabeth in complete awe of what he's doing.
"Not so adorable now that my hands are on your neck." She had teased. "Now kiss me, Jackson. I want you."
And for Percy, she's still just as adorable, lust filled or murder in her eyes. The moment was too intimate now to joke around, but he remembers it clearly as day. Annabeth on his side, hugging him while they talk about their day, the work, and the Chapter. It was the little things that made him fall for her, and as hard as it might be, he cannot simply bear the fact that this woman might just simply, utterly do something on impulse.
Stop and wait a sec
When you look at me like that, my darlin', what did you expect?
I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck
Or I did last time I checked
Now he imagines her, in her hotel room waiting for him to finish one quick task. He imagines her lying on her side until he comes home, wherever home may be as long as it's with her. He can see it clearly, her dressed in silk while holding a bottle of white wine, an 1811 Chateau d'Yquem, lights off, lamps on, the rain pouring on the background of her glass pane.
It didn't last long until his client arrived. A fifty year old billionaire who had his stack on his belly, a man known to terrorize every village in Libya and Pakistan, digging in resources and actively engaging in child labor and trafficking. There was mercy once in the Black, billionaires get away with everything, they can create a state of the art security that has their back day and night. With Percy however, billionaires are simply lost sheep. They were as easy to carve and just as easy to mould.
Mr. James Ian Stewart.
Blonde hair, overgrown belly, slacks too fit for his liking, came with over nine associates and bodyguards. Had he known they were coming too, Percy would have worn a different suit, black preferably. He had his swiss knife on his sleeves, and upon watching them, he gave the knife a good twist just before completing his champagne and cigarette.
"Stewart," The bartender seems exasperated. "Seems to me this place may come out as the devil's den once again. Would you like a personal room?"
"Do they bother you?"
"Don't pay one dime. Threatens to kill Mr. Jugby once."
"Mr. Jugby," The guy gestures to a corgi behind his bar stool, who was sleeping peacefully with a finding nemo toy.
"I see." Percy sighed, the puff of cigarette filling the air around him, like a thick blanket. “Do you like violence, Mr…?”
“Lancelot.”
“Lancelot.” Percy repeats. “How many men have fought here, in the same bar?”
“I lost count,” The man took out a glass to wipe the microscopic dust.
Percy nods.
“It’s a long flight,” Percy mentioned.
“Pardon?"
“Seven hours, JFK to London. First class still wasn’t so great, I haven’t slept a wink.”
Lazily, he’d taken out his jacket and smoked the last of his cigar, standing up and stretching like he had all the time in the world. In which case, he does so. He’d counted six bullets, to which at least he’s had to reload not a second later to make it. Ten men, six bullets, a knife, a dream and his lover waiting on Garston.
He made a few adjustments to his suspenders, unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt until it rolled to his elbow, careful not to wrinkle his fifty thousand dollar tux. He straightened his glasses, letting out a fog that’s been building in the middle. His eyes were cold, unlike a few minutes before, hands steady like steel, firmly fixing the single strand of hair that’s been lingering on his forehead. He checks the ring, now cold to touch, not wanting it to be lost in the midst of everything.
Percy sighs, gets up and heads near the back part of the hall, where Stewart and his men were busy laughing and feasting over some women they were with. The guards were also laughing, and Percy takes the time to assess their every move.
Not shy of a spark
The knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark
Frightened by the bite, though it's no harsher than the bark
The middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start
All of them were dressed in a black shirt, tucked with suspenders. Not one of them were equipped with a gun, as things like that are confiscated from the entrance, except he’d tipped good money to the attendee to do just so. The man was guaranteed a year of pay, so he’d been a good accomplice, letting Percy do the dirty work.
The bar owner, however…let’s just say he’ll deal with it after the work is done.
He sees Stewart before they can spot him. In the golden light, it seems like this scene could depict a 1950s film, a gloomy essence surrounding the establishment. The men were saying impressions, slangs he can’t understand as a foreigner, but the words were clear as the knife he’s had in his pocket. They were having a discussion now, he sees. A lot more melancholic than usual as the beer engulfs their bodies. A sound echoes in the circular dome, like the sound you hear underwater.
He imagines Annabeth.
He did it for her, and he’ll do it for her a hundred times more. Without remorse. Without regret.
Quietly, he slid at the back of the audience, crossing his arms while men were busy applauding a man that made his way to a small stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for Mr. Stewart!”
And they were laughing like pigs, Stewart, raising his arm and looking at the small crowd he was with. Drunken bodies, toasting, eyes too distorted to see. Percy clears his throat, and pulls out the knife.
And everything was a blur after that.
Within a few seconds he’s had Stewart by the back of his neck, threatening to cut his throat. Men were scrambling to get their gun out, drunkenly, but not one of them held a weapon. Percy was calm as he can be, without expression depicting what he feels, and he feels numb. The champagne kicked in, making his heart pump with so much vigor. The men were shouting, cursing, threatening to move forward, but he’s had the knife an inch before the throat.
“Wh-what?”
“I take it you’re Stewart.” He’d politely asked. “So nice to meet you. I’m from Chapter Black.”
The man cries. “Please, God no! Mercy! I’ll give you everything. I have a lot of money! I’ll- I’ll…”
He was clutching his arms like his life depends on it, in which case it did. Mr. Jackson hold it steady while he sees a man holding a glass, ready to throw it at him in any second.
“Don’t even try.” He cleared his throat.
‘Please, I-I didn’t do anything.”
“A hundred fifty children are dead because of you.” Percy whispers. “Hundred fifty more than it should be. Taking away their funds, beating mothers to death, and having the guts to throw a charity for their situation. You don’t deserve mercy.”
“I…I know you.”
“You do.” Percy agrees, looking at the men. “I killed your brother, and your father, and the man before him.”
“You…”
“I’m sorry!’ He cries so desperately.
“ Do you believe in God, James?”
The man was pleading like a little boy with ice cream, his hands cold with dread. One of the men was rushing to get a gun from the entrance, but Percy was faster. He looked at James Stewart as the man begs and begs. His bodyguards can’t do anything but look and raise their arms, pleading for their patron’s life. This scene looks familiar, Percy notices. Blonde hair, overgrown belly, crying, pleading for their life…
Stewart’s eyes were closing.
“Ye-yes I-I do…” He stutters.
“Say hello to him for me.”
He slits his throat.
I'm going back to 505
If it's a seven hour flight or a forty-five minute drive
The body was kneeling on the ground until it collapsed completely, blood surging from the thin line of his throat, some of it covering his hand, and the tables everywhere, including the shirts of his guard, who in no way could defend him at the time. He sighs, pulling out his gun, and shooting the one at the entrance in the head, just before it shoots him. The bullet of his handgun, a Taurus Gx4 impaling the head just as easy as a shooting dart.
No sooner, men were tackling him. Blood everywhere, the body on the floor making him almost hurling back and losing his balance, but Percy was much faster. His bullets were raining fire, head to head, bodies clashing on the floor. One by one, they fell as easily as they got up. Two men, however, had a grip on him as he reloaded, almost knocking him off with a punch on his jaw, lips cracking on impact, blood flowing on the side of his mouth.
Percy coughs, swallowing his blood. He had the nerve to smile.
The man was beyond confused.
“What the fuck! What the actual fuck! You are out of your mind!” The man screams while another kicks his chest to the ground, and he feels as if one of his ribs were fractured, but that didn’t stop him. Percy lies there for a second, sighing, regaining his senses as his head was hit hard enough to let loose of focus.
Percy pulls out his gun and shoots them both in the head.
“You didn’t think I was reloading.” He sighs as he looks at the ceiling, screams echoing the bar as other people are scrambling to get out, until only the owner is left, clutching the bar stool for dear life. He lays there for a few minutes more, breathing in and out, careful not to puncture his ribs more than they already are. He double checks for the ring, and finds it in place. He sighs.
He saw stars. Literal stars on the small compact glass on the center of the ceiling. The cassiopeia, Orion, Big dipper, he names it well. She taught him so well. It’s been months, he thinks. He hasn’t seen her, and her gorgeous smile, her perfect body, her sharp mind, her, in all her glory. Her as she is. Her .
He was hers . Completely, utterly.
It didn’t take long as emotions were pouring in, the champagne forgotten, the gun lying on the floor. He took off his glasses filled with blood and kept it in his pocket, blood everywhere. He took a napkin on the table and wiped away his blood, filling his pocket with stains. He stands up, stretches, and heaves a big sigh of disappointment.
“Do I still get a cigar for free?” He asks the bartender.
“O-on the house.”
He smiles and leaves to find the bathroom, where he washes his face and his hand filled with dried blood and scarred knuckles. He goes in again, and made his way to the bar.
“For your trouble.”
He slips a grand amount of cash in the counter, trading it with a piece of black cigar.
In my imagination, you're waitin' lyin' on your side
With your hands between your thighs
It took him forty five minutes, no less no more, to find the small district. It was a little after five A.M., but the night seems to still be darker than usual. Garston, Liverpool, a small town near Manchester sits quietly as rain keeps pouring down on his stolen sedan car. The only landmark he’s quite fond of was Monty’s cafe and the Recreation Ground, and from there on he’s had to search for the actual street it has been on. The streetlights were having a pattern of turning on and off for a few seconds, the cold air making it too difficult to see beyond twenty feet as the rain worsened.
He passes Garston skatepark and reaches King street, which was far dimmer than what he imagined it to be. At the first corner was Saunby Close, where she was waiting in a neat apartment her friend had asked her to use for discretion. She didn’t feel happy by the way she had called him, but still, she’d asked him to come.
Seven hour long flight, bar fights and forty five minutes later and he was there in the middle of the compound, carrying the weight of the flowers in one hand and the ring in the other until he found his lover waiting for him in the small room. It lays low unlike other hotel buildings, and it’s made of red brick with an open gable clay tile roof. Some of the apartments were lit, televisions flickering dark and bright against the glass windows. One room hears a woman shouting and plates crashing, and the other seems abandoned.
He looks at the apartment in front of him.
Apartment 505 .
His damn clothes were damp in the rain, hair soaking wet and face having a slight blood on the side, with a slightly reddish eye with bruises. He didn’t look his best, he admits. Having to see a beautiful girl and looking like he’s a hobo is not something he does on the usual level, but for now, the only important thing is Annabeth.
Only Annabeth.
Annabeth Chase opens the door for him, and he nearly crumbles to his knees.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
And there she was in her red slit silk dress, looking like a beautiful actress, a queen bee, and an angel all at once. He was hers just by the way she looks at him, the way her blonde curls look in the backlight, the way it smooths down the front of her shoulders. He was hers by the way she bites her lips with worry, the way she gazes at him like he’s every man in the world. Percy cannot find comfort unless it was her, he thinks. So madly in love, he’d fly seven more hours and drive for forty five minutes more, take on ten more men, and live to fight fifty five more.
“Percy,” She says. “Oh god, are you okay?”
“Hi,” Percy speaks softly, smiling. “I brought you flowers.”
Annabeth couldn’t help but look at him bemusingly. Hands on his waist, eyes looking at his swollen lips. “What happened to your lips?”
“I was reloading.” He coughs slightly. “Lucky shot.”
“Did you…do it?” Annabeth asked.
“Anything for you.”
She kisses him senseless, in the middle of the doorway, flowers still on his hand and the ring almost forgotten in his pocket. Percy thinks he’s in heaven, or better yet, in a different universe, he feels like this situation puts him on the gates of heaven, with Annabeth on his arms as they kiss with burning passion. He smiles, and Annabeth stops.
“Let me look at that for you, is that okay?” Annabeth looks worried, and just as soon as she said that, his facade dissipates on thin air, hugging hair and trying to breathe in, smelling the lemon on her hair that Percy cannot have enough of. He thinks this is where his home should be, in the middle of nowhere, with Annabeth, in apartment 505 - a place he barely even knew. He couldn’t care less.
“I’m fine, it’s okay Chase.” He whispers in his hair, letting a sigh escape his breath.
“No you’re not. Clearly not.” She had asked. “What happened?”
“I slit his throat. Told him to say hi to god. Doubt he’s getting there. It was me showing mercy.”
Annabeth didn’t look bothered by what he said, as if he’s been doing these quite a lot before, which he does. After all, he was their killer, a stone cold killing machine that’s supposedly the one that shows no mercy, the one who feels no emotion once doing what has to be done. It was the way the world works in his world, ever since he was a child he was trained to be this way, again and again, until every bit of innocence left him.
But Annabeth.
Annabeth was the only one that showed no fear of him. Annabeth was the only one who saw him as an innocent man, in need of getting taken care of, in need of support she’s giving him with. The one who, after everything he’s done, is still worthy of every bit of affection that the world has to offer. Percy was no sheep, he’s sure of that, but after the crime done for the past years, he’s thought of himself more as a monster than anything else.
“You did what you had to do,” Annabeth kissed him. “After every sexual abuse he’s paid millions to cover, and every child trafficking he did, he deserved it Percy. Alright?”
“I know.” Percy answers, softening on her touch. “I…paid a good amount for the casualty at the bar. My fingerprints…”
“I’ll take care of it, you have to rest.” Annabeth shushed him, taking him to bed and letting him lay on her side, his head on her chest. Percy thinks there’s nothing else in the world he has loved more than he loves this moment. She kisses his forehead, and let him rest for minutes before they had the chance to speak again, but when they do, it seems as though fate took his heart and crushed it right in front of him.
Annabeth looks at him with love, something she’s always not been afraid to show, but tonight, things seems different.
“What’s bothering you? He had asked.
She couldn’t look him in the eyes.
“Annabeth.”
“It’s nothing, alright?”
But it wasn’t, and Percy knew it.
“Is it because of the Black?”
And it was as if a string had plucked his inside, a sharp knife reverberating on his side, feeling as if every bit of dread suddenly struck him like a thousand watts. He feels it first before it was said, and from the look of her eyes he had known.
He knew.
And she knew he knew.
“I’m getting married.”
But I crumble completely when you cry
It seems like once again you've had to greet me with goodbye
I'm always just about to go and spoil a surprise
Take my hands off of your eyes too soon
The words hit him faster than a bullet does, and Percy almost crumbles to her touch as he lets the world spin for a minute, trying to register the words she said before anything else. The ring suddenly feels heavy in his pocket, and he feels his throat dry with anger, with worry, with everything else. He wishes for it to stop.
“Percy,” Her tears were visible on her cheeks, but Percy can only care for what he feels at the moment. He feels shame, he feels anger. “Listen to me.”
“Stop.” Percy holds back a few of his tears, not letting Annabeth see his moment of weakness. “Don’t…Don’t say that.”
Percy was in denial. He figures this is the love of his life. No man but him should be with Annabeth Chase, and she shouldn’t be with anyone she never once loved. Nothing should be forced on her unwillingly, and he sees, for the first time in his life, Chapter Black, as caring as they were, couldn’t have cared for each and every one of them as they display individuals as pawns that have to be sacrificed, again, and again, and again. There was no mercy in Black, and he realizes now that those exact words also speak for them.
Annabeth looks softer, more fragile, and as much as he wants her at this very moment, his disappointment was overpowering his actions and words. She’s getting married, and Percy feels his heart sink every time he registers the words she let out.
I’m getting married.
Percy took the ring in his pocket, diamond etched in 24 karat gold, the purest one has to get, and carefully opened his palm for Annabeth Chase to see. He couldn’t see her expression, but he clutches his palm within a second, gripping on the band with frustration.
“Percy, I-”
“Don’t.” Percy accepts the reality for maturity, realizing they were both victims of the organization, knowing they couldn’t stop until it was said so. It was what things should be, as fucked up it may seem to be. “Don’t say sorry, It’s okay. Don’t say it.”
“I love you.” Annabeth whispers. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Do you get it? It’s only you. It’s only you, Percy.”
“Why does it have to be you?” Percy looks at the ground, unable to look up, his fractured bone hurting more than it did before. He didn’t know if it was the feeling of pain, or just his bones breaking at this point. Annabeth looked too beautiful, but all he feels is dread. Nothing but dread. “Why couldn’t it be…anyone?”
“The things we do…for justice. It’s a pledge of ours to follow.”
Percy holds her hand once more, and kisses her until he can taste the feel of her lipsticks on his mouth once more, cherry. Annabeth kisses back harder, breaking the building tension and biting his lip and kissing him senseless once more. She can taste the blood of his lips, but it didn’t stop her from kissing him so.
“If everything fails…” Annabeth says. “I’ll look for you, do you understand?”
Percy nods, a tear making its way down his cheeks. The moment should have been intimate, seeing the glimpse of sunlight after the hard pouring rain stopped shortly, glass windows drying just to see the essence of the outside, unlike the dimly lit building that looks like it hasn’t been lived in since 2007. Percy felt his heartbreak clearly just as he’ll remember this day, It didn’t take long until someone knocked on her room, and Annabeth stopped to look at him while he had his eyes on her.
Percy’s heart broke even more.
“I love you,” She quietly mutters, opening the door. “Goodbye, Percy.”
I'm going back to 505
If it's a seven hour flight or a forty-five minute drive
In my imagination, you're waitin' lyin' on your side
With your hands between your thighs
…and a smile
Percy closes the door behind him, smoking the black cigarette on his hand, preparing himself for the cold air and fog that might hit him in the face, a hand in the pocket of his red suit, clutching the ring on his finger. He takes it out and observes it for not a minute, before letting another tear shed as he throws it to the ground, kicking the dirt on his feet deep enough to hide the ring, and smoking another puff of cigarette.
His flight leaves in an hour.
‘I’ll come back for you.”
(He never did.)