Chapter Text
Annabeth is no stranger to being left alone. To being - neglected.
(Somewhere, where she feels no shame, the words come easy. Abuse. That is exactly what her father has done to her.)
(The words don't come as easy, here.)
Damian isn't like her at all. Damian has a mother, and according to Talia, a father as well. He has people who love him, her included.
But he has always been a horrible liar - he has always had trouble wanting, needing. Telling her that. Keeping things from her. Even in the early days, he kept quiet, unnatural stillness for a toddler. He only ever cried out, moved, was when he saw his mother. He was always vocal about that. But he never uses his words to tell her that he wants something, even though she sees the longing in his gaze.
Annabeth sees, too.
She sees the scars on his arms and his legs and the singular one arcing across his eyebrow, from the top of his eyelid to his mid-forehead. She sees how he stills at the sight of his mother, like he's afraid of her. And no child should be afraid of their parents -
- scared to tell Helen anything, because she doesn't listen -
- no. Not even demigods.
He trains, she knows, harder than anyone else. He collapses more often than not, finding himself in her arms despite protesting against it all the time. So when he falls asleep, she sighs, and just stands, trying to move him to his bed, because no one has ever really explained how Thalia reacted to seeing Talia that night, and Damian -
Damian yelps. He yelps. The normally silent boy makes a sound like an injured wolf, jerking awake and spilling out of her arms, fabric twisting and bunching up.
She's young. Turning eight next month.
But oh gods, does she still at the sight of the yellow-green bruise on his side with perfect clarity suddenly rushing over her.
She didn't want to believe it, but all the signs showed -
Damian hastily pulls the fabric down again. He eyes her warily, like a viper waiting for the prey to relax so it can strike. He holds himself like a fighter, like instinct, and are Talia's training sessions truly that intense? He's two years old.
Two years old with so many scars and a bruise that looks like the world map on his skin.
"Damian," Annabeth begins slowly, and he turns away, spins on his heel and moves towards the bathroom with long steps. Well, as long as they can be, since he's two. "Dami!" she stands, makes after him. He backs up. Annabeth takes a deep breath, calms herself.
"Dami, please. I...I'm not angry, I just want to know where you got the bruise." The fight to keep her voice level is hard, but he comes out victorious, and Dami's shoulders relax slightly. Just a tad. The clothes, fashioned by Silena, are slightly loose, giving enough room to grow, and look big on his small frame, still with baby fat clinging to his cheeks. He's not vocal, in English, but he makes an obvious effort.
"T - train. Ing." The sound is all wrong, and he's obviously displeased, but Annabeth cuts in before he tries again.
"Training. With Talia? With your mom?"
He nods carefully, still with that wary look in his eyes. "Mo - ther. Mama. 'um."
Annabeth fights for another deep breath. "Dami, let's go get that checked, okay?"
He tilts his head.
"Doctor," Annabeth tries. "Bruise. Better."
He shakes his head.
"Damian, you're injured," stresses Annabeth. "Just...let Lee put a salve over it. It'll feel better."
He shakes his head again, staring at the wall. "Have to. taealam kayfiat tahamil al'alam."
"What does that mean?"
He wordlessly does another head shake, facing the wall. Doesn't face her at all, and Annabeth is frustrated.
"Dami, I'm trying to help you. Please, you...if you're getting injured, you should tell me."
"My fault. Not fast."
"Dami, no."
The emotion in her voice makes him startle a little and jerk. She continues. "It's not...it's not your fault somebody hit you!"
"Not fast," he repeats. "Enough. I - too sl - ow."
And his eyes are getting watery.
"Dami?"
(Some things they don't know about Damian.
He listens.
To all of them.
And he's heard Thalia's tale, has had time to figure it out for himself.
Too slow.)
He sniffles, turning back to the wall.
"Oh, Dami," Annabeth murmurs behind him, and she doesn't understand, but she understands enough. Her arms encircle the small one's torso, careful not to aggravate the injury. "It's okay. You're plenty fast."
He shakes his little head again, and Annabeth just pins his arms against his sides as she hugs him, letting wave after wave of comfort wash over the small child.
A few minutes pass, broken only by the sobs and sniffles of the young one.
When they separate, he does a little hiccup-y thing again. "Sorry. Shouldn't cry."
"Cry as much as you want."
He makes a little face at that, which melts. "Don't like. Showing."
Injuries or emotion? Annabeth wonders, but it doesn't matter because she's pulling him in again.
"It's okay, noctua," she murmurs against his shirt. "Sleep."
She will have a talk with Talia about this.