Archive of Our Own ^beta

Percy’s hands were stained with ichor. Bogged down with grief and pain. He wished it wasn’t physical pain. The battle was over, things were winding down but the ache in his bones remained. Making itself known every time he stood too quickly or tried to run without measuring his steps. It pulled at his joints. Slowing him. Each time it did, panic gripped his core. 

You’re not moving fast enough. They’re going to get you and Annabeth. They’re going to kill you. Run, run faster. Faster. Faster. Faster. 

But he couldn’t no matter how hard he tried. The ache flared up from his joints, snaking their way into his muscles. He couldn’t collapse. Tartarus would swallow him up. Anything could tear him apart as he lay defenseless. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stand. His limbs weren’t responding. 

A small, weak sound made its way up his throat. One he hadn’t heard himself make in years. Through all the wars, all the loss, the sound hadn’t made its appearance again. But here, now, after it was all over it crawled its way up his throat. Making sure to tell him how helpless he was. To drag him back to those times on top of everything else. 

Percy was fading in and out of reality. 

He was at camp; the sun was making a sharp arch across the lake, nearly blinding him with light. It was loud with new campers running amuck, unaware to the hurt of the older campers. 

He was in Tartarus. Annabeth was screaming and there was sweat clinging to their skin. Poison was overtaking them. Pins and needles pricked on his body. His wounds were open and gaping, chest concave from starvation. Throat closing from thirst, from screaming. His sword was in his hand but he was stuck on the ground. He couldn’t defend them. Annabeth was still hurt. With an injury that bad he didn’t know how long she could hold her own without backup. Percy knew he couldn’t last long by himself. They were wounded and if one of them didn’t fight they were both going to die there. 

He pushed himself up. His arms gave out again. Flopping him onto the ground. Pain racked through his body. He needed to get up. He needed to live. He promised he’d make it to the door, and promised to get Annabeth home safe. 

Breaths were stuttered pants to his constricting lungs, he wasn’t really sure if any of it was working. This was hyperventilating then? Percy found he didn’t like it very much. 

A shadow cut across the ground, nearing him. He may not be able to hold his own weight but he’d be damned if he didn’t try to fight back. 

A sharp stabbing came through his left arm from movement. A gasp leaving him, just barely silenced from a scream. He dropped his sword from both hands, clutching the arm to his chest. The stabbing only continued, from small jabs to sharp cutting. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t look, couldn’t force his eyes open. But he swore it was a claw, it was teeth, a monster had found him. It was chewing him apart. 

He hoped Annabeth got away. He hoped she was safe. 

But knowing her, she wasn’t gone. She wouldn’t leave him behind, just like he wouldn’t. The silence meant one of three things; she was dead, she had been knocked unconscious, or she was hiding in the shadows waiting for the right moment to strike. 

Gods he hoped it was the last one. No—no he wished it wasn’t any of them. She needed to leave him while she still had a chance to leave. 

“Percy,” Annabeth's voice cut through his haze. He still didn’t open his eyes. He knew what he’d see. They were in hell together. Annabeth's cheek was sliced open and crusted with blood. Her braids were coated in dirt and Tartarus muck he couldn’t begin to name. She was beautiful and she was deadly and he was scared she might be dying. It was so much easier to keep his eyes closed. 

Something was pulling him, likely the monster. A shudder ran down his spine. The pain once contained raced down his limbs. Burning him. This was it. He was going to die without a fight. He’d promised himself so long ago that he wouldn’t die without a fight. 

“I need you to come back to me. We’re out. We’re safe. We’re at Camp Half-Blood. We’re home,” He wanted to trust that it was Annabeth's voice but he couldn’t. There were so many horrifying things in hell. So many things that could trick him into thinking he was safe. He won’t be tricked too. Even if he couldn’t fight, he wouldn’t spend his last moments thinking the monster that was going to kill him was his lover.  

For several excruciating minutes pain spasmed through his body. He was twitching on the ground just wanting the monster to finish him off. There was no way out of this one, he just wanted to stop being played with. Those pathetic little gasps kept making their way up his throat. It only made him wither more. 

There was Annabeth’s voice in the background. Telling him that he was home. That she was there. He tried not to listen, tried not to be convinced. It was only a monster. It was only a monster. 

His head was resting on something soft. He tried not to think of that either. But it kept him from hitting his head on the ground with the spasms, he was grateful for that. 

There was the scuffing of feet near him and voices were overlapping each other. Percy was fairly sure he was fading in and out of consciousness. 

“Get him on the stretcher and take him to the infirmary now!” Someone was shouting louder than the rest. “Travis, Conner, clear a path so the campers don’t see. Percy would skin us if we let the kids get scared. Clarisse get Kayla from the shooting range. I'm going to need her help. Annabeth. Annabeth listen to me, stay with him. Don’t let go of his hand, it seems to be grounding him better than we can. Nico tell Chiron and Dionysus we have a problem.” 

He was lifted off the ground, his head rising from the softness, and placed onto something else. The burning in his limbs was beginning to settle, but only just. Something was gripping his hand. Percy couldn’t find it in himself to let go. 

When Percy woke he was in a hospital bed. 

He blinked, getting his bearings. An IV was stuck in his left arm, another machine beeping with his heart rate. Leftover medical supplies littered the counters of the room. Ambrosia and nectar measured out. A bottle of mortal pain pills. There were folded bandages and a sling hanging off the upper cupboard. 

The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone. There was a pricking on the back of his neck to tell him that much. In the dark he could make out the lumpy shapes of people curled into chairs. 

His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he started to make them out. Find names for the lumps. 

Annabeth was closest to him, leaning forward so her head was leaning on the edge of his hospital bed, her hand resting mere inches from his. She looked peaceful like that. All the worry lines eased from her face, the permanent stress scrunch of her brows lax. Percy had seen Annabeth a dozen different ways; injured and clinging to each other, a hopeful preteen, a best friend, a lover, someone who had been betrayed, someone who was hurting and broken as the years unfolded. But this Annabeth seemed the closest to her truth; she was both young and old. It showed in her stress free expression of sleep. It showed in the scars that marred her skin and the matching gray streak in her hair. She could have easily covered it up when she wore long braids, but she chose to do a patch in the front gray like his own, keeping it true to how her natural hair was. 

He resisted the urge to press a kiss to her forehead and bring her to his chest. They’d been sleeping like that for weeks now. Since they’d gotten out of Tartarus. The ground was glass there, meaning when they had to sleep on the ground, one of them would cut their backs open on the shards. Percy had made sure Annabeth never slept on the ground. Her body curled atop his, his arms encompassing her so she didn’t fall if he shifted in his sleep. Percy knew his back was covered in dozens of tiny scars from this but he didn’t care. Not if it meant keeping Annabeth from feeling that pain. 

Instead, he surveyed the rest of the room. Will sat slumped on the couch against the wall, for visitors of the patient. Nico was next to him, back firmly stuck to the wall. There was a wide berth between the two. Percy knew they were dating, he knew most people would find it odd that they didn’t curl into each other when they slept. But Percy knew more than most. Knew Nico hated most touches, especially when he was vulnerable. Knew Nico had nightmares for Tartarus that left him punching the nearest object before he could open his eyes. He knew Will was more than willing to respect that for his boyfriend, or anyone really. 

A small smile unfolded as he looked at the two. 

Conner had a blanket wrapped around his shoulder and was slumped to the floor while Travis took a stool, his back to the door like he was guarding the room from intruders. Clarrisse was clutching her spear in sleep, sitting up as she dozed. Ready for a fight at a moment's notice. He wondered if it was a child-of-Aries-thing or a Clarrisse-thing. 

He tried to recall what happened. The afternoon came back in bits till he got the full picture. He’d had a flashback after the pain had started. Annabet had tried to coax him out of it. 

He grimaced at the bandages on his arm and the IV pole. He’d injured himself during the flashback. He’d worried them. An old voice bubble up—

You shouldn’t have done that. You’re just a burden to them. You’re supposed to be there for them, not the other way around. What are you going to do when they get tired of you? They’ll just leave you. 

He blinked, hard. Forcing himself to look at the people sprawled in the room. They stayed through the night for him. They’d made sure the campers didn’t see him breaking down. They wouldn’t leave him, no matter what happened. They had followed him into battles, into war—and sometimes that was hard to accept. 

With one final look he shut his eyes, drifting into sleep again. 

When he woke for the final time the sun was cutting through the windows and the pain from the day before had ceased entirely. There was exhaustion still. Even with sleep to stay inside him. Since Tartarus it was like sleep was never enough. Plagued with nightmares, waking up more tired than when he started. 

“Hey, you’re finally awake,” Will was organizing supplies in the cabinets. His white medical coat was rumbled from sleep and his hair equally tousled. Annabeth, Clarrisse, Travis, and Conner were nowhere to be seen. 

Percy searched the room for exits, escapes. He’d like to say that it was a habit he picked up after Tartarus, after the wars, after the quests. But truthfully he knew it started long before he knew he was a demigod. When he was a kid, it was better to be safe than sorry. 

He clocked the only remaining people in the room were him, Will, and Nico. Who was sitting atop the counter cross legged sorting out pills for Will to put away. His stomach sank. Annabeth wasn’t here.  

“What happened?” He groaned trying to sit up. 

Will’s smile fell in an instant. He kind of froze in place, fidgeting hands falling to his sides. In its place slotted War-Medic-Will, a name pinned by Chris while he watched Will keep the life from leaving demigods’ eyes in the Titan War. Will’s face was calm, unsmiling but not grimincing. He was a steady rock, an immovable force. Devoid of all emotions. He was uncaring for himself, only focusing on the patient he was about to lose. It was unnerving. Percy unconsciously reached out of Annabeth’s hand coming up empty. 

“Do you need anything? Anyone? Nico can leave or I can get Annabeth and Grover.” 

“Just tell me what’s going on, Will.” 

“Percy,” Will’s eyes darted to him. The air suffocatingly serious. “This is patient-doctor confidentiality. I need your consent to have anyone else in the room—whether that means we go get someone to support you or someone needs to leave. I need a verbal answer.” 

Percy halted. This was really fucking serious then. This episode wasn’t just a panic attack from Tartarus. It was worse. It was worse. He swallowed thickly. Looking at Nico. 

Nico raised his head, shaking it slightly. His bangs fell into his face, they were getting long. The scars on Nico’s arms were raised and red, a stark contrast to his skin. But they were there. After months of living in long sleeved shirts and coats. He’d finally started the shift to short sleeves. Maybe seeing Annabeth and Percy’s scars had helped. Neither of them ever shied aways from the marks. They wore short sleeves when they pleased, even when they got odd looks. Maybe Nico found confidence in himself, it was impossible to say. But at least he wasn’t suffering through the heat. 

He recognized the look on his face. A question, otherwise seeming impassive to anyone who didn’t know him. Tartarus had shown them all some shit, made them live through it—Nico wouldn’t be offended if Percy wanted to hear this alone. 

He nodded slightly, voice suddenly hoarse with emotion. “Yeah, just us Will.” 

Without another word Nico leaped off the counter and walked out, slowing slightly to call back. “I’ll find Annabeth and Grover in case you want to see them after.” 

And then there were two. 

“I believe you’ve developed a type of chronic pain called complex regional pain syndrome in your left arm. It happens after nerve damage or surgery and as we know you haven’t had a surgery recently. None of us realized till you had a flashback, Percy, do you remember what happened?” 

“I was in Tartarus and I couldn’t fight back, same as always Will.” He tried to keep the bite out of his words, he really did. But it didn't work. They were still sharp. 

Will took it in stride, “CRPS can cause limited movement in the area. As well as other physical symptoms. Most of which we think have been kept away because you’re taking ambrosia regularly for other injuries. Once that stops I think we’ll see those develop too. 

“Percy this is a form of chronic pain. It might stop after three months of regular treatment or it could continue for the rest of your life. We just don’t know.” 

Will went on to explain the symptoms in excruciating detail, the treatment options, the timeline. Percy thought he was going to throw up. He already had the scars, had the mental shit, but now the pain wouldn’t go away. It would stay with him long after this was all finally over. It would never truly go away. Not now. 

His left arm too. It could have been monsters. Dozens of injuries he had over the years. But deep down Percy knew the cause, even after he was long dead he found a way to torture him. 

Gabe had tugged on Percy’s arms. To toss him around, to shove him into his room. When they were in public, he wanted to pull off the ‘fatherly’ aspet. But he was rough about it, bruises left encircling where Gabe’s hands gripped his skin. Soreness where the muscle was pulled. Only twice had Gabe managed to pull it out of socket, but both were a long and horrible process to get back in. 

The wars are over, the pain should stop. He was dead, he shouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. 

Nothing was fair. 

The ground was covered in glass shards. She’d tried to get Percy to let her sleep on the ground too, to let her sleep with the bits digging into her skin. To anyone else it would have sounded insane. But Percy only gave her a sad look, pointing to her still injured ankle and reminding her that he wasn’t the one walking on an injury constantly. That, in all practicality, having both glass shards and a bad leg would slow them down. Each of them having one would level the playing field. She didn’t like it—she hated it in fact, but accepted it. There were bigger problems out there. The fate of the world for instance. Sleeping arrangements should have taken low priority. 

Sometimes Annabeth wished things like that didn’t have to take the back burner. She wished the things that were at the most stakes were sleeping arrangements and where they should order takeout. What movie they should watch and her high school diploma. Not the fate of the world, not whether they were going to bleed out. Not the fact that monsters were hunting them constantly. Not the looming fear the most demigods didn’t make it to twenty and were practically non-existent by thirty. 

Covered in blood and gore. Their ribs protruding from their sides from starvation and arguing on who slept on glass. Annabeth realized in that moment, they were all their own Greek tragedies. There was no changing that fact. 

That had been a month ago. 

Now, they slept in Percy’s childhood bed. It was a twin and the sheets were deep blue. They kept the curtains slightly open so they could see the streetlight to remind them of where they were. It illuminated peeling postering on the wall, faded with age. Some were for bands, others were polaroids tacked up. There was a slightly crooked self covered in shells. While Percy used Riptide the most, other swords and knives were scattered around the room in case Sally needed them. Or a demigod on a quest needed somewhere to stay. It was all very like Percy, but in a way it was painful to look at. Showing so visually how young they were, they were only just going into their senior year. 

Annabeth curled atop him because it had become a habit, her fingers resting over his wrist, over his pulse. The steady thrum lulling her to sleep. His other arm tossed over her body keeping her from falling if he shifted. He laid flat on his back, head nestled in her hair. It would have been a cute, couple-y moment if not for the horror behind their position. If not for the fact that nightmares plagued them if they slept alone. 

Percy would jump up in the night thinking Annabeth was cursed and blind. Or she had fallen into the glass and was torn up. Annabeth would wake thinking he was dead, unable to feel his heartbeat, or his pulse. This was best for everyone.  

They curled up in the bed, fitted into each other as though they were sleeping on glass instead of a mattress. 

Nightmares were a constant struggle. Between clinging to each other like one was dying or jumping up ready to fight. 

Tonight was no different. By the time she let her eyes slide closed, nightmares spurred across her mind. In bloody, horrifying accuracy. As though she was back there- fighting for a chance to keep breathing. 

Green sludge swirled around them, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t escape. It withered, smoke rising where it ate on the ground. The Goddess stood at the center of it all. 

They were going to die. Everyone she loved was going to die. 

It was all too much at once. The world had never left her shoulders since she was thirteen. It rested there, teetering. Reminding her that she was a demigod. That no matter how many wars she fought in and how many battles she won, the odds were still that she’d die before she turned twenty.

Percy moved quickly, in a flash the liquid changed. Pushing back to The Goddess surrounding her. Choking her. Spindling in a way that no one thought possible. And it wasn’t. It wasn’t possible in any way. But neither was existing as a half god. Neither was leading the lives they did. 

Neither was accepting the fact that they were both going to die before they reached twenty. Because people like Percy Jackson did not die that young, they lived fully and forever like the Gods. It was people like Annabeth that died so early, people like her who threw themselves into battle so many times over she was cracking under the pressure of the sky. 

The poison was seeping so thickly in the air and she was choking on it. She was choking on it again. Somehow Percy was saving her and choking her and oh gods she realized how much she wanted to live. 

The fear turned in her gut. It ran up her throat, infecting each vein and nerve within her body, “Percy stop, please stop.” 

She was screaming and she was whispering. Was she talking at all? Was she? Was she? 

They were going to die. They were going to break like the mortal twigs that they were and that would be the end of it. There was nothing left here. 

Something shook her violently. She sprung up, tossing whoever it was over her shoulder and pinning them with her forearm. Legs braced on either side of the body so they couldn’t move, arm pressing on their windpipe. Breathing was impossible. 

“Annabeth…” The voice rasped, “Wise Girl. It was just a dream I promise. We’re at my apartment in New York. It’s over, we’re alive. We’re okay. We’re okay. It’s over.” 

He repeated the assurances even when running out of air. Till she was sure it was really Percy. Her Percy, who stopped choking the goddess when she’d asked. Her Percy. 

She moved her forearm off his throat. Falling into his embrace. Muttering apologizes he kept saying weren’t necessary. It wasn’t the first time one of them had jumped up, ready to kill anything that came near. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—I swear on the River Styx I didn’t want to,” There was that fear laced in there. Not at Percy but for herself. She could have hurt him. She could have—she could have killed him. The knowledge chilled her to the bone. It wasn’t just a joke before sparring, a laughable tease exchanged between both partners. It was true and it terrified her. 

“Shh, you need to breathe. Just breathe, it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” It was a lie, but coming from Percy’s mouth it seemed like a promise. 

Eventually, they settled back into bed and in the morning Percy pretended the hand-shaped bruises around his throat weren’t from her. Annabeth pretended it didn’t make her hate herself just a little bit more.   

Her ankle gave out. It wasn’t a dramatic thing. A simple pop of bone out of the socket, rolled sideways along the break. She hadn’t cried out in pain or given any indication. But Percy noticed anyway. Urging them out of the apartment to his car and back to camp. Back to the infirmary that had become so familiar to them. 

He’d slung an arm around her shoulder, practically carrying her to Will’s office. 

It was a place that was becoming far too familiar to them over the years. Once, not so long ago, it had been Micheal Yews’ office. Things had hardly changed from that time—charts still lined the walls along with a coat rack Will hung his white coat on. The shelves were always full of medicine of varying degrees. The windows set up high, letting light in but making sure no one could look into the office itself. The bed was still crinkled with sanitary paper, though it was often transformed into a bed when demigods had to stay overnight. Plush chairs were pushed in the corners behind the counters and a chair on wheels sat in front of another. 

They sat together on the bed, hands intertwined as Will went through with his check. Testing her reflexes. Rolling the joints. Finally, he straightened, looking at them both with the air of profession. More confident in his analysis than his words made it seem. 

“After the break your ankle never had proper time to heal. By the time it did, it healed incorrectly. Causing it to heal in a twisted position. You have a couple options here. We could re-break the bone and set it so it heals correctly which has a good success rate and should diminish symptoms like limping and back, knee, or hip pain it may be causing.” 

She gaped at that. Ready to argue with any means necessary. She didn’t think she could handle her broken ankle again. Not to go out fighting. For the memories it would bring back. 

Will continued as though he sensed the argument on her tongue. He probably did, “That’s the mortal version anyway. We can put you under anesthesia and perform the surgery at camp. Once you wake up you can take ambrosia and nectar and it should be fixed within a few hours. I can’t say it’ll be perfect, you may still need to use a cane to help you get around occasionally, but it will help with the pain it’s causing.” 

“It’s not causing any pain.” 

Will gave his don’t bullshit me face in return. 

“Will,” She tried to reason with him. Tried to make him understand why asking something like that was impossible for her. “I can’t fight if I have to constantly lug a cane around, that’s practically asking for a monster to come after me. It’s a vulnerability I can’t afford.” 

“As I understood it, you and Percy were retired, yes? Then there should be no need for the worry. You both know better than I do that low level monsters aren’t going to pick a fight they don’t think they can win. The big bads usually only come up in quests. You likely won’t be fighting one in the streets because it happened to stumble across you. Thirdly, a cane isn’t guaranteed and even if it was, it’d only be for long walking distances. There’s always the possibility you may never need it or you may need it till you regain muscle there. It’s all up to the surgery.” 

She shut her eyes, taking a deep breath. It was like giving up another part of herself. Letting it float away in order to survive. Sometimes the only things she had was her fire and her plan—and they were going to take one of them from her. One of them was already slipping out of control. Her fight, the fire that kept her alive after she’d run away. That kept her warm on those cold nights in back alleys. Avoiding both monsters and men, predators in their own right. The fire she’d fine tuned when she got to camp. Training and training and training because it was all she had. She had to fight, she had to go on a quest. Anything else was unthinkable in her young mind. 

Now, after all these years, her fight might be taken for good. Crushed under heel after two long wars and too many quests to count. 

Percy caught her eye, squeezing her hand he said to Will, “We need to go.” 

Will nodded, getting out of their way as Percy helped her walk to his cabin. Years ago, they would have been questioned for their abrupt leave. Made to explain each detail of why she couldn’t answer then and there. But now the things the oldest campers did was rarely questioned. None of them were doing alright but there was no way to make it better. They were stuck, here, in the time after the wars, learning how to be human again. 

She shut the door of the Poseidon cabin. Still cluttered as though they’d never left. There were clothes on the floor leading to the bathroom and a mix of comic books and architecture textbooks stacked by the bed Percy favored. The water fountain gurgled on in its ever present stream. Lighting the cabin in a soft blue. 

They curled onto the bed, just holding each other for a while. Breathing in each other. Summer was turning to fall, their senior year was starting soon. Or Percy’s senior year, 

Annabeth hadn’t gone to anything approximate to a real school since before she ran away and she wasn’t planning on starting now. She’d grown up in the school lessons Chiron or the other campers taught. They were versions of mortal explanations but mythology always made their way in. Her schooling had always seemed like less of school and more a jumbled bunch of activities. She’d have math in the mornings followed by hand-to-hand combat class. Science and mythology courses. A dash of English and literature studies here and there, though it was often overrode by something like archery or pegasus riding. No camper electively wanted to feel stupid when they couldn’t read English correctly, or spend time analyzing textbooks for grammar and punctuation when they likely wouldn’t ever hold a job.  

They were getting older. It was impossible to believe but they were seventeen. They were one year away from adulthood, a feat most demigods didn’t get to achieve. 

Finally as Percy cradled her close he said, “I think you should do it. Go through with the surgery.” 

“But a cane—” 

“You’ll need one no matter what and if you need to you can beat the shit out of someone with it. Just bash their head in and walk away.”  

She curled her body closer, admitting softly, “I don’t want to feel defenseless again.” 

“I can stay in the room with you the whole time. I promise I won’t leave, no matter what.” 

“I don’t need a knight in shining armor.” 

“Then let me borrow your suit of armor and your sword for a little while, Wise Girl, just until you get better. Then I can be the damsel in distress again.” 

“Promise me you’ll wear a dress?” 

“Of course.” 

She laughed lightly in a way she hadn’t been able to conjure for months. Think of the memories it brought back. Percy had worn dresses a handful of times over the years. 

Once, when Grover and her were visiting the apartment in New York. They’d ransacked Sally’s closet, with her permission, and Percy wore a blue dress he’d found. At the time it was far too big and sort of hung off him. 

Another time he’d lost a bet. Another couple were out of spite, trying to get a new camper to realize their closed-mindedness wouldn’t last long in a place like Camp Halfblood. A few times it was just for fun. She liked the fact that in a place like Camp, most ‘normal’ roles were dismissed or forgotten about. Most campers came and were raised here until they died—a boy wearing a dress was the least of their problems; when it was more likely than not, at least one Godly relative was doing the same on Olympus.  

Ultimately her favorite time was on a date months before he got kidnapped. It was Percy’s homecoming but neither really wanted to go so they’d went to get dinner instead. Annabeth had worn a black tux she’d borrowed from the Aphrodite cabin and Percy had come in a blue dress. It had made for a fun night and some severely confused waiters. 

After a few more minutes, Percy admitted his own truth, “After my flashback-thing the other day, Will ran some tests. I don’t know actually but he found out I have chronic pain. Some fancy kind too, in my arm around the joints.” 

She hummed under her breath. It was an unspoken agreement, an understanding rather, that they wouldn’t pity the other. Percy didn’t coddle her over her ankle, he offered solutions so she wouldn’t hurt herself worse than she already was. Encouraging her to get it fixed before it stopped working completely. In turn she understood that Percy needed support, needed to be held and not told that it was okay because it wasn’t. He just wanted someone near and she was all too happy to provide that. 

She waited a baited breath for him to go on. Having been around him so much that she knew all his small ticks. Hands tapping against his leg in a quicker rhyme than before—stimming as he got nervous. As the truth came close to the surface. 

Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. Coming up and coating their surface, making the sea foam green impossible to look at straight on. 

Annabeth held his eyes, held his hand. Rubbing the one that wasn’t stimming with her thumb in reassurance. A subtle ‘blink and you miss it’ peck over the top. 

They curled up next to each other in the bed. Letting their eyes close and fall into a mid afternoon nap. They’d miss dinner and sleep through breakfast the next morning but neither really cared, they’d gone without food for a long time in Tartarus this was nothing. It seemed like, as long as they held each other they could chase away the demons. Percy would run ahead to get them to safety without the need for a cane like Annabeth had to. Annabeth would lag behind, slicing through the monsters that followed them, using all the strength in her arms that Percy could no longer control. 

It was the closest thing to safety a demigod could get. 

Sometimes he wished he was a normal kid. Wished that his biggest problems could be an exam and college acceptance letters. His was a heavy burden to bear but if it wasn’t worn by him then it’d have to be sought on by some other unfortunate demigod and he wouldn’t allow that. Still sometimes the selfish part of him begged him to see a future he could have had. Where he didn’t have any scars and lived with his Mom full time instead of going in between her apartment and the war torn camp where he trained new demigods. He wondered what he would be like without all the wars clinging to his skin. Would he be as dark and tired by some other force? 

But there were moments—fleeting things—that made it worth it. Things Percy clung to with all his might, the people he couldn’t let slip from his grasp. Annabeth and Grover, his first two friends. The people who made things worth it when he was on the brink of giving up. 

Percy flexed his arm in the mirror, watching the fitted black compression band move around his elbow. The nylon-like exterior chafing against his skin, rubbing old wounds long since turned to scars. 

It was subtle enough, mostly hidden under his baggy shirt sleeves. Long sleeves would cover it entirely, even the bulkiest part of it wouldn’t make a dent in the fabric. The more obvious part came from his left hand. Half glove fitted around his wrist were similar, he had been told, to the compression gloves knitters wore to protect their hands from arthritis. Percy thought it looked more like a wrist splint than anything else, like he’d broken the bone. 

The image was fairly concerning, all put together. His old clothes mixed with his newer body. Scars raised on his exposed skin, a gauntness clinging to the space between his ribs, to his cheeks. 

Are you happy now, Gabe? Just had to get that permanent damage in before you croaked, huh? 

More than that, there was a hollowness to him. A pit where his organs should be, all wide and exposed land like the fields of Asphodel. 

Something tugged at him from behind. Wrapped around his torso, tugging him backwards with it. He scrambled for his pants pocket, hands dancing over his thigh, just missing the pocket. Smoshed into his side, softly, nothing like an attack should be. 

He blinked, image refocusing in the mirror. Blond braids dripped down from his side. The front two light gray, nearly unnoticeable as they cascaded together. Her face squished into his side, but there was only one person with blond and gray braids. Warm arms tugging him close to her, wrapped together. He slid his arm around her back, rubbing between her shoulder blades absently. She always got a knot there. 

“Long day?” 

She groaned, pillowing herself further into his shirt. 

“Is that a yes?” 

Annabeth hooked her chin around his side, not quite letting it rise upright, not quite muffled in his side, “Remind me to never have children.” 

“I thought you liked kids,” There was a teasing lightness in his tone. His hand came up, around the back of her neck that was strained with her rather hunched position when she sat in front of a computer. 

“I lied. I hate them. I will never, ever have those monsters.” 

“What if I birth them from my head?” 

“Don’t,” She sent him a withering glare. Or as withering as it could be, all things considered, which for Annabeth was still quite frightening. “You dare. I’ll leave you, I swear I will.” 

He brushed her hair over her shoulders. Wooden beads clinking together as they fell, each one gifted to her from a different cabin. Engraved with a design much like their necklaces, “Not even if there was a little Percy running around?” 

“Especially if there was a mini Percy running around,” But the teasing was made clear. A line neither had to speak about to know when to draw it. The insecurity of being left behind running far too deep between the two of them. 

It wasn’t like Percy had never thought of having a family. One of those families with two parents and two kids and a dog. The white picket fence lifestyle that seemed so far away it felt like a fever dream. But there had never been time to dream of soft futures, not when the present was so demanding, not when the people were so war torn. In the end, it was easier not to think of a future, it’s unlikely he’d live to twenty. Yet here he was, eighteen, two years away from an impossible age. Five years away from the age Luke died at. 

Still, the idea of him dying young outweighed the idea of a family. Even if he lived in New Rome, even if he thought he was safe, there was no way to be sure. No way to know if the Gods would drag him into another war, another battle, another quest. No way to know if the next fight would be his last one. It was easier this way, to just have to worry about other demigods. Because they understood that each breath might be their last; children abandoned by their dead parents did not. 

If anyone proved that it was Percy himself. Hating his Father for years in his youth, getting excited when Gabe came. Thinking he might fill the place of Dad all the other kids talked about. But the man was nothing close to the Dad-figure they all talked about. He brought nothing good into their lives, yet he kept Percy alive. 

Having children was synonymous to leaving them, for a demigod. There was no way to guarantee what happened to them after Percy and Annabeth were gone. The Gods dragging them to finish their parents’ old fights. Dragging them into new wars. 

It was better for them all if they never had a family. 

“Really, are you okay?” Concern leaked into his tone like an oil spill. Rubbing the everlasting knots from her back and neck. The tension leaked from her shoulders as he did so. Finger pads rough with callouses touching skin rough with scars. What a pair they were. What an awful, scarred pair they were. 

She paused for a long moment, lips pursed. Bitting slightly at the side in thought. This was a question they avoided, mostly. Until Will and Chiron closed them in the infirmary and demanded they answer after their residential injuries came out, “Yeah, yeah I’m alright. Just the new campers, they get all excited over the weapons room, the wars, the quests…” She laughed bitterly, lightly in a tone that meant it wasn’t funny in the slightest but she was laughing anyway. “I forgot what it was like to be excited for things like that, the fucking glory they told us quests were.” 

Percy hummed, cradling her side now. Drawing them in a half hug or not a hug at all. More hanging off each other, connected with each other. A quiet reminder that the other was there, “Flashbacks?” 

“Not this time.” 

“Who has the hellions now?” 

Annabeth snorted, a bit of mirth coming back, “Clarisse.” 

“Well…” 

“They’re not dead,” She filled in, a full smile back. Or as full as it had been since Tartarus. 

“Are we sure about that? Like a hundred percent sure. Willing to bet your laptop sure,” It was nice. This back and forth like they hadn’t seen the depths of hell. These quiet moments that he lived for.  

“Probably not dead,” She amended. 

The mirror held notes about nearly everything. Being a cabin with no one else, besides Tyson’s occasional visits, it had become an easy spot to decompress. An easy place to make his own. Notes in expo-marker lined the sides of the mirror, almost like framing. Messy, scratched handwriting Greek letters. Little drawings of fish in one corner, spanning up to a notes underlined and circled. 

G-man & Wise Girl Ταξίδι στην παραλία: Montauk 

A beach trip, Montauk. Those seemed like things of the past. Things that couldn’t exist here, not after he’d felt blades against his skin. Not after he knew what blood felt like slipping between his fingers. Slick, red, unable to grip anything. Unable to see anything besides the shimmer screaming death. 

“How would you feel if we moved the Montauk trip up a few days?” 

“To when?” Annabeth didn’t look up at him as he guided them into the main room of the cabin. Taking most of her weight with the cane resting against the wall. She didn’t need it most days, not after the surgery and ambrosia. But sometimes it still faltered when she walked. Sometimes it still ached. 

“Grover gets in tomorrow.”  

She smiled playfully. A smile from Before. Before the war, before Tartarus. Before all the Gods took from them. Something reminiscent of being twelve and stupid and still hopeful in the Gods’ quests as something more than busy work and favors that left them near dead, “You miss him.” 

She didn’t have to ask it as a question. She knew. She knew when he held Grover tightly in his arms and made him promise to Iris Message every day. When he passed over a sword Tyson had crafted at his request, telling Grover to protect himself. More than that, to protect the people he was entrusted by Pan. 

She knew when Percy hesitantly brought up the empathy link after his memories came back. Not quite believing something like that could be real. Hera had to have messed with his mind in some way, like she had to Piper and Leo and Jason. Put Grover in as a figment of his imagination, as someone too good to be in Percy’s life. To be Percy’s friend. 

Yet he was real. The empathy link forged as a promise as strong as the River Styx. If Percy were to die, Grover would die with him. They both knew that, of course. But the idea of someone connecting themselves to him so completely, when Percy went on deadly quests on the regular, was an impossible thought. If Grover were to die, Percy would go with him. There was nothing less impressive about the feat…just that, Percy thought he might die if any more of his friends ended up in Elysium before he croaked too. 

He jostled her shoulder, “Hey, you do too.” 

“Yes, my environmentalist best friend and my environmentalist boyfriend back together. How great.” A dry delivery but the smile she couldn’t quite hide said it all. 

“We’ll convert you one day. Mark my words, Annabeth Chase.” 

 She did care, they all knew it, but it wasn’t as prominent as Percy and Grover. Once, when they were fourteen, they found a plastic water bottle on the beach dropped by the group of adults in front of them. Percy hefted it up, yelling about the poor fish families they were killing. Middle finger extended, with his free hand giving it to Grover. Who slowly put it in his mouth, crunching the plastic between his teeth so they could see. Annabeth laughed at their sides, reminding them that according to most city layouts a recycling bin was just up the steps of the pier. No reason to have to make the poor, poor boy with crutches eat their trash. 

They were horrified, it was wonderful. 

Needless to say, there was a years-long bet going around camp to see if Grover or Percy convinced her to chain herself to a tree in protest. They almost had, once. With Rachel. It was a long story. 

Annabeth hummed, plopping on their bed. He didn’t know when it became theirs and not his . But at some point in the last year—or the last few months, or Hades maybe the last few years—it had become theirs. Pushed in the corner of the cabin as far away from the door as it could be. Books and comics were stacked high on the floor (Books because it took Annabeth a long time to get through them too, and she was determined to just figure out that fucking word before they went to sleep. Comics because the large print and rounded letters were always a bit easier to read. A bit more like Greek, even if the letters still got mixed up.) They had industrial sized water bottles on the bedside table and a lamp that couldn’t be thrown, courtesy of Tyson, mounted on it too. The wall was cushioned slightly, so when one of them slept pushed up against it, it wouldn’t give them sorer muscles. 

Percy knew if he opened the top drawer he’d find more than their socks. Hidden, tucked away, was scar cream and icy-hot for aches. In the corner were folded up braces and a stack of ambrosia waiting for them. 

“Hey,” She tapped the compression sleeve, “finally wore it, I see.” 

He nodded, biting his lip just slightly. Just enough to feel it. He didn’t want to tell her that he never wanted it pointed out. Didn’t want to shout and scream and ask just to be treated normal again. Normal—fuck how impossible could that be? 

He took a deep, ragged breath and kept from clenching his fits. Because that only made his elbow flare up in pain. It only reminded him about the fabric wrapped tightly around his wrist. Only another example of how broken and useless and—and— different he was from the boy who had to be dragged into Camp all those years ago. He’s more useless now than he was back then. With blood on his scalp and a Minotar horn clenched tightly to his chest. With golden dust coating his arms and hand instead of the thick gold ichor Percy knew so well now. So, so well. 

Demigods were never supposed to touch ichor. The blood of the Gods. The mixture of something holy, holy, holy that Percy was born into. Something mystical and grand and far too big for him to comprehend even now. When he’d seen giants walk the earth. When he’d fought wars against angry titans. 

He dealt with the mystical everyday, but ichor was supposed to be something bigger than that. It was refined to golden dust of monster blood and guts and organs. But that was only a lower form of it. Only a bit of Godliness. 

He wondered if when he died he’d disperse into golden flakes. He wondered if he was too useless for even that. If he would die as a mortal, as most demigods did, among the fallen. With a body to send off with coins and a prayer. 

“Perce?” 

He was a million miles away from that voice. A hand clamped around his elbow brace; trying to hide the little black from showing or to support the barely-there ache, he didn’t know. 

He wondered if he would die as most demigods did: with blood spewed across their bodies and the clatter of a weapon falling from their hand. With bruises and injuries and blood dripping from every laceration. And when he fell his body would turn pale and ashy with death. His body would bloat and swell and rot. Proving, maybe, that he was alive, that he was still human no matter how many people looked at him like they looked at the Gods. Like he was something special, something that could guide them. 

And instead, he was an eighteen-year-old boy with an arm covered in braces and a bedroom that he shared with his girlfriend not for comfort, but to ward off even worse nightmares.  

He couldn’t breathe. Of course he couldn’t. There was no need to breathe when he was dead, dying. When he was just a boy—just a man , because somehow in that time Percy had grown into what was supposed to be an adult. Something that was never supposed to happen. Something he didn’t know how to handle—and he was dying. Again and again and again. In a volcano or in a war, it didn’t matter. Each time someone fell in his place, each time it should be Percy falling with the clatter of a bloodied sword and quiet gasp of air. 

“Percy,” The voice demanded. Rough and commanding of a war leader. He needed to get himself together. To tell them to tell Annabeth that he loved her. Gods, he loved her more than anything. But this was okay, this was all okay. Because it was always supposed to happen. They’d been preparing for this moment since they were fourteen. 

“I need you to listen to me. We’re in Posiden’s Cabin at Camp Half-Blood. We’re next to our bed, here, here, hold this. Yeah? It’s the blanket your Mom gave me for Winter Solace last year. Listen, Percy, the water’s just a few feet away and it’s loud as all Hades, all the time. It’s okay. We’re okay. I promise.”

Or before that, maybe, when they were twelve and so sure one of them would be taken by Hades. Or killed by the chimera. Or crushed by Aries’ wrath. 

He was long overdue for his death. His useless, useless death of his fucked up body. 

It was a matter of time until the aches caught up to him. A matter of time until they made him falter, until they’d be the death of him. 

Would he survive if there wasn’t a visible weakness to exploit? He’d gotten good at hiding his openings over the years. Gotten good at making sure no one could see where his mistakes were, where they could exploit and eventually overpower him. 

Luke had known, at one point. Had memorized Percy’s moves—or Percy had memorized his moves. Luke had been his teacher, after all. His foundations were all the same as Luke’s. His fighting style had only developed over the years. Over the years that he fought Luke and his lackeys. 

They’d won in the end, so maybe it didn’t matter if Luke knew that Percy usually stepped with his right foot first. Or that his arm had always hurt him, just a bit. If he swept at his right leg, he’d trip him and take out his throat. If he pinned his arm, he was fucked. 

But Luke was dead and those secrets died with him and Percy was dying too. Somehow. Somehow. 

The blood was heavy across his body. Drenched, soaked up by his shirt. But it did nothing to fix him. To help him. 

“Hey, man,” Another voice said softly. Probably trying to comfort him before he fully died. Trying to take away the pain from memories that weren’t there. Did—did Hera mess with his head again? Was that why he couldn’t remember when all that blood splattered over him? “It’s uh, it’s good to see you again! I’m in Chicago right now, this group of centaurs we ran into were headed this way so we…took a retour. I don’t know. Some of the younger council members could use a break. We’re been traveling almost non-stop for months. I mean there’s just so much damage humans did in a few years. And—and I love it, I love doing it but sometimes…” 

The voice trailed on, telling him about travels to places just outside of Percy’s memory. Of the adventures they had with a whirly group of centaurs from Oregon to Chiago. Of the peculiarity of Alaska. A land outside of the Gods, yet it was still affected by pollution and climate change that Pan left in his wake. How magic was different there. How they should go on a trip sometime, just backpacking, nothing special. Somewhere no quest or mission could touch them, a true, real break. 

“Grover?” Percy’s voice broke. Slowly, slowly he’d started to see the room around him. His room, that never really changed since he’d moved in that first summer. 

“Yeah, bud,” Grover’s tears that gathered in his eyes were hastily blinked away. A watery smile gracing him, a smile he hadn’t seen in months. 

The energy pulsed down the empathy link and Percy remembered that he was alive. It was a ridiculous thing, to realize that he was alive only after feeling the tug of emotions. After he’d spoken, after he’d seen the room around him. But, then, Grover was alive, so Percy had to be too. 

The waves crashing against Montauk’s shore was always a strange comfort. There was a wariness to it now. Of the sheer power of the ocean, of the depths of it that Percy—Son of the Sea—could barely comprehend. The sheer size of it, the societies of monsters and mythical creatures mortals passed by everyday. The fucking marinana trench that he promised himself he’d attempt to swim one day. 

And there was the comfort of sea salt in his hair and wet sand beneath his feet and that calling for home . 

His home wasn’t out there, he knew. His home was here, at Camp, with Mom and Paul. In the barely mortal life that Percy maintained on the side. Like an extra job next to the wars. 

Full time now that he was retired. Fuck that. 

A slew of swears came from behind him. Percy’s head jerked up to see Grover struggling to walk across the sand and stones without slipping and twisting his hoof. Grover always hated the sandy terrain of the beach, saying it was rough on hooves that wanted to grip onto mountain passes and forests. That Pan may be the God of the Wild, now passed on to Grover, but he was never the God of the sea. The beach was the odd space in between. A place that he cared for, because pollution still existed in all its terrible filth. But it wasn’t technically his domain. 

“G-man,” Percy stumbled, running up and tackling him in a hug. Grover gripped him tightly, the two falling over the beach in a half-wrestle half-hug. Percy got a hoof to the chest and Grover got an elbow to the face. And they were together. And he was okay and he was home and—and— 

“I’m third-wheeling, already? Really?” 

A breathy laugh rattled out his throat. The kind that he thought he’d left behind with the wars and the pain. Long dead. His chest ached where Grover had hit it. A good ache, though. The kind that came from stitches in his side and sitting for too long. Not like the kinds that radiated around his joints. 

Grover sat up, shaking his head. Or, more accurately, shaking the sand from his hair. Flakes of it getting caught in his long curls, making it look like dandruff against the darkness. He gestured her over, “Come on, make us the threesome again.” 

“Dude… that does not mean what you think it means,” Percy’s chest was still light, metaphorically speaking. Honestly it’d probably bruise, but the physical isn’t the point. 

“Oh, I know what it means,” Grover nodded.  

“I—do you?” Despite it all, Annabeth settled next to them. Half-criss-crossing her legs. Her bad leg sticking straight out, away from them. So she didn’t have to bend her ankle to make the criss-cross fit right. 

“A hundred percent.” 

“That’s not reassuring.” 

“Says you.”

He watched them bicker with heavy, tired eyes. Neither him nor Annabeth had gotten much sleep the night before. After Percy’s panic-flashback, they’d thrown themselves for a loop in nightmares. It seemed that every time Annabeth was awake, Percy was asleep and vice versa. 

Finally, they’d stuck to old habits developed in their youth. Annabeth takes a watch for a few hours, then Percy. A way for them to sleep. The only way for them to sleep. Knowing that someone was watching their back, even if it was an otherwise empty, locked room. In a room that was supposed to be safe. 

“You doin’ okay?” Grover nudged his knee and Percy blinked back into reality. 

“Fine, fine. Spaced out is all.” 

“Flashback?” Annabeth asked hurriedly, her eyes scanning him. Looking for any signs of panic. For shortness of breath or sweat stains or bloodshot eyes. For the scent of fear that clung to them so potently, he was surprised they weren’t swarmed by monsters. 

He shook his head, smiling softly, “Nope. Just thinking.” 

“Gods that’s almost worse,” She muttered jokingly. It wasn’t that she thought he was dumb. It was that most of his ideas usually resulted in him sacrificing himself for his friends. Or running into danger head-first without explaining the plan to anyone else. Or making up the second half of the plan in the heat of battle because it helped him stay focused on the logistics of soldier formations. Something that otherwise bored him to tears. 

He squeezed her hand in return. “I’m not planning to do anything stupid.” 

“You sure about that, Seaweed Brain?” 

“Positive, Wise Girl.” 

They lapsed into silence, or as silent as the three of them could get. Annabeth and Grover continued talking in quiet voices, another habit they’d picked up from quests. Despite Montauk being empty, just for them. Percy focused on the water lapping on the shores, drawing it closer and pushing it further away. Practice—or it used to be. Now it was just a reminder to breathe. 

In, and the waves came closer. Out, and he pushed them away. 

“We’d follow you,” Grover interrupted himself. Eyes intense, battle-stricken in a way he’d been hiding from Annabeth all these years. In a way Percy only knew about it because of their empathy link, and even then, the feeling was distracted. Faint, trying to be snuffed out and hidden in the back of his mind. “Any plan or—or quest or mission you had. We’d follow you.” 

“I know,” Because he did. Because it was impossible to think that these two people would ever betray him. Impossible to imagine them ever abandoning him, as Percy had thought of at least once, for everyone else. 

For the first time in a long while, Percy thought he might be okay.