Chapter Text
Annabeth fumed into her empty glass as the drunk stranger tried to lay a hand on her shoulder and missed. She should have never come out to drink tonight. One of her employees, a young lawyer named Malcom, had invited them out to celebrate a successful deal with a major company to build a new headquarters in their state. At first she refused, saying something along the lines of her usual excuses (needing to get home, not in the mood, having more work to do, etc.), but many of the employees had pressured her.
Annabeth was more than fine pretending to be human, much more than most gods. She didn't have to flaunt around her superiority, or have people wait on her hand and foot. She was more than willing to work on her own, even if that meant having to conform to human social norms that seemed as unstable as the seasons.
But now, she was regretting even hiring Malcom. The drunk human at her shoulder was now prattling on about how he'd just gotten a boat and would be willing to invite her for the first test drive on the long island sound. Annabeth wanted to gag.
"So, so I," he continued, but a strange look passed over his face, then one of panic. "Bathroom," he muttered quickly, before darting to the corner of the bar, only making it about half way before vomiting. Out of the corner of Annabeth's perephieral vision, she saw another, yet still just as annoying, face slide into the seat next to her. He hardly was able to control his laughter.
"Did you really have to use the food poisoning trick on him?" Annabeth asked, still not turning to him, instead watching the chaotic mess that unfolded as people tried to walk around the drunk man.
"Oh sorry, Princess. I didn't know you were enjoying his company." His familiar voice dripped with sarcasam.
"It stinks in here." She snapped, turning around in her seat so that the two were face to face. "And I know you're not a drinker, so why exactly are you here?"
Percy's smirk faded into something more serious, but the emotion was unreadable.
"I…" he turned away sheepishly and looked at the wall. "Can I buy you a drink? To make up for the smell?"
She paused. Annabeth had no idea what he way playing at. They hardly talked anymore. They used to see each other every solstace, laced with heavy avoidance and mutual pleasantries, then Percy stopped attending. Then it turned into just seeing each other when their friends got together and they were both invited by proxy. But as time passed, women started to become more accepted in the work place and Annabeth threw herself into her work, which left years between the last conversation.
So, why now? Why was he making the effort to talk to her? He didn't seem like he wanted anything. But there was something about him that was nervous, but she couldn't tell what.
"Only one," she said eventually. Annabeth may be a goddess but after a handful of drinks she tended to become more loose lipped. And around Percy that was just a disaster waiting to happen.
But he beamed at her, rivialing Helios. A blush crept through her. Damn this man.
Annabeth ordered herself a rum and coke while Percy ordered the first thing he could find with blue in the name. They sat in silence while their drinks slowly drained. The silence was driving her crazy. She had to say something, had to ask.
"Why are you here Percy?" She asked.
Percy looked like he'd gotten caught for a moment. He took another swig of his drink. "Apollo wanted me to deliver a message. No idea why, just that he told me to tell you 'wear long sleeves tonight.'"
Her face scrunched up. "What does that even mean?"
Percy shrugged. "Honestly, half the time I have no idea what he's talking about."
"Weird." Annabeth said.
"Yeah," Percy agreed. He quickly chugged the rest of his drink and left a twenty on the table from his jacket. "But if anything happens."
He didn't finish, but the meaning was implied. Why did he expect her to think he still cared? He obviously didn't. He definitely didn't care to begin with. He probably didn't even lov—
"I'll see you around, Percy." Annabeth didn't look over her shoulder to watch him leave. She'd done enough of that for more than one life time.
—Ω—
She left not long after Percy. It was only around 10 or so but she disappeared before anyone could stop or question her.
She'd been living in her apartment ever since the Pantheons had moved over to the Americas in the early 1920s. She was one of the first gods to arrive when humans began to industrialize. Both the Rockefeller center and the Empire State Building were some of her handy works, along with most, if not all, of the planning that went into New York City.
Annabeth's house in comparison was not grand. Everything was old and used and it was sparsely furnished. Not in a modern way, in an empty just-moved-in way. It was located in the heart of lower manhattan, purposefully away from Long Island where Percy lived. If Annabeth had a choice she'd be in somewhere in Redwood City in California. Far away from Percy and as visually close to Athens as she could get here. But she was the architect to Olympus, so she had to move with the city, which meant living at the base of the mountain and leaving just before the mountain did.
It would never be Athens. The Parthenons they build are fakes. No historical forts would replicate the palace she grew up in. And the redwoods in California would never be the woods where she learned to fly for the first time.
Annabeth shrugged off her jacket and unbuttoned her dress shirt. Her brown wings speckled with white stretched out in the empty space of the room. There was a benefit to keeping the room with little to no decoration. She didn't have to worry about knocking anything over when she got home.
Her mind didn't stop working the whole way home, trying to puzzle together what any of that had ment. "Wear sleeves tonight," she muttered to herself. What was that supposed to mean? If any other immortal were to tell her to, she would shrug it off as winter fashion advice, but it was from Apollo — the freaking god of prophecy!
Although, he'd gotten Percy to deliver the message. Why couldn't he just tell her himself?
She was reaching into her pajama drawer when she pulled out a tank top. All of her sleep shirts had no sleeves and were opened backed so that she could sleep without her wings being stuffed under her shirt. But, with what Apollo had said, was this what he was refering to?
Annabeth pushed the tank top back into her drawer and grabbed a sweatshirt out of her closet. She awkwardly crawled into bed with her wings half tucked inside of her sweatshirt. It should have taken hours to fall asleep, with her mind not wanting to clear, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, the room was quickly fading out of view as her eyes shut.
—Ω—
Annabeth's dreams made no sense. Which was odd, because normally gods didn't dream. Normally any dreams were just memories of their immortal lives, but this time the memories were contantly changing, and she was always falling in them. She would be back in Ancient Greece then the floor would collapse underneath her, and then into the 1570's in Italy, and then into 1860's Paris. She finally woke up after falling through the Willamsburg Bridge in the late 2000's.
The most disturbing thing was when she woke up, she wasn't in her bedroom. It was a infirmary ward, dark at night with light filtering softly through the partialy closed curtians. Annabeth looked down at her own arms. The sleeves on her sweatshirt had been pushed up, exposing her forearms which were bandaged tightly from her wrists up to her elbows. Just what had she done to wind up like this? Where was she? She'd gone to sleep in her bed. No one except for people she had invited in would have had access to her house (thanks to the protecitve wards placed by Hazel). But none of that stopped the fact that she was here — where ever she was now — with no idea how she got here.
The door to the room creaked open. Annabeth threw her head back agaisnt the pillow and pretended to be asleep.
"Two. In one night?" A young girl asked.
"I'm afraid so." An older man said. His voice was familiar, but Annabeth couldn't place it, but she heard the soft wirr of a motorized wheel chair.
"But, why are they here?" The girl asked. Annabeth heard a cabinet being open and riffled through. Was she looking for medical suplies?
"I have not received word from Olympus, but given the current situation, I would assume a quest has been demaded from the gods. For better or for worse."
"Well, I'm assuming it would be for better, right?"
Foot steps approached Annabeth but then faded as the girl walked past her. Annabeth saw waist length silky black hair, tied loosely into a ponytail. She walked towards another bed. Annabeth couldn't see who was in it, just that they were unconstious… and also drooling in their sleep. In her hands, the girl was holding a jar of what looked like nectar, and carefully opened the top before pouring a few drops into the other patient's open mouth.
No reaction, but the girl poured a few more drops. "Did you ever train these two?" She asked.
"Yes. Although, Ancient Athens often had reservations about how much training the nobel women should have, so unfortunatly my teaching only extended to music lessons and medicines with Annabeth. But Perseus was one of, if not the best, swordsman I've ever trained — not too much, Silena. We don't want them to burn up."
"But, I thought they were gods."
"No," Chiron sighed. "I'm afraid not anymore."
Annabeth forgot how to breath for a moment. She heard the soft foot steps of the girl walking out closely followed by Chiron shutting the door behind them.
Slowly, Annabeth undid the bandages on her arms. The wounds were covered in blood, not Ichor. She sat up and reached a hand carefully to her back, like she was proding a wound. Nothing. Just the soft cotten of the sweatshirt she'd put on just before she fell asleep. Her wings had been taken.
In the darkness of the infirmary, Annabeth began to cry.