Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

the key sticks in the lock.

it always does — something about the way the doorframe’s warped just slightly, swollen from years of new york city heat and humidity. percy presses his shoulder into the frame and jostles the key with a practiced twist, and finally, with a reluctant groan, the door creaks open.

he lets out a small breath. “still got it.”

behind him, annabeth steps over the threshold like she’s walking into something sacred. the air inside is thick with heat and stillness, as if the whole apartment has been holding its breath while sally’s been away. golden afternoon light pours in through the blinds, cutting the dust-heavy room into stripes — long bands of warmth and shadow laid out over the couch, the scuffed wooden floor, the stack of old books on the coffee table.

it smells like dust and detergent and faintly like the minty soap his mom likes to use. everything’s quiet. too quiet for the city.

annabeth stands in the middle of the living room, looking around slowly, as if expecting the walls to say something. like they’ll remember.

percy closes the door behind them and drops his backpack by the coat rack. his voice is soft when he says, “it’s weird, right? when it’s this empty.”

she doesn’t answer right away. just drifts toward the kitchen, trailing her fingers along the countertop. the tiles are warm under her sandals. sunlight catches in the flyaways of her hair and makes them glow.

“it feels…” she trails off, frowning faintly. “like the air’s been holding onto things. like time’s just been… suspended.”

he nods. he knows what she means.

the apartment looks the same as always — the framed pictures still a little crooked on the hallway walls, the faint ring from a coffee mug still on the edge of the dining table. but there’s something about the quiet that makes everything louder. the silence buzzes behind his ears. he’s never been in this space without his mom moving around, humming under her breath, or paul grading papers in the next room. never with annabeth standing here, her arms crossed, her eyes distant.

he heads into the kitchen and opens the freezer. “i’ve got… one frozen pizza and three questionable waffles.”

“pizza,” annabeth says without missing a beat. “but i’m not eating it unless you promise not to burn it this time.”

he smirks. “no promises.”

she snorts, and the sound makes something flutter in his chest. it’s been hours since he heard her laugh.

the oven clicks to life when he turns the dial, and the little kitchen slowly fills with a warmth that mixes with the already thick air. the windows are cracked, but there’s no breeze. just the city simmering outside, distant and muted. he sets the pizza on a battered baking tray and slides it into the oven, brushing off some crumbs from the counter with the side of his hand.

annabeth opens a cabinet and pulls out two mismatched plates, wiping dust off the rims with a dish towel. she leans back against the counter beside him, watching the timer tick down.

“this place always felt… more real than anywhere else,” she says quietly. “i don’t know why.”

he doesn’t know what to say to that. so he just nods.

when the pizza’s done — slightly too crisp at the edges, the cheese bubbled unevenly — they carry their plates through the living room and out the window onto the fire escape. the metal under their feet is warm, a little rusted, groaning faintly with their weight. they sit with their backs against the brick wall, legs stretched out in front of them, the city unfolding far below.

the sun is setting slow and syrupy, casting the buildings in long golden shadows. light filters through the cracks in the fire escape, cutting lines across their ankles and the chipped plates balanced on their knees.

annabeth eats in quiet bites, one hand curled loosely around her knee. her hair’s tucked behind her ear. her shoulders are sun-kissed and bare in the late light, and she looks both young and older than she should be, all at once.

percy tries not to stare. he fails.

“what do you think it’ll be like?” she asks softly after a while. “after.”

he swallows a too-hot bite and shrugs. “i try not to think that far.”

“i know.”

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. just heavy. full of all the things they haven’t said and might never say.

when they finish eating, he takes the plates back inside and rinses them in the sink. the water runs warm over his fingers. he doesn’t turn on the overhead light — the golden blue of dusk is enough to fill the room now, thick and soft.

he finds annabeth curled on the couch when he returns, one leg tucked under her, flipping through a small stack of old dvds from the cabinet under the tv. she pulls out a case with a torn spine and a picture of audrey hepburn in a black dress and pearl necklace.

“too romantic?” she asks with a faint grin.

“nah,” he says. “you know i like the classics.”

the dvd skips once, twice, before the picture settles. they watch the opening credits with the lights off, the screen flickering across their faces in gentle pulses.

they don’t talk much. the movie fills the space between them with old jazz music and soft black-and-white shadows. percy watches her more than the screen — the way her head tips when she’s focused, the way her hand keeps adjusting the blanket over her knees. the way her body slowly sinks deeper into the cushions as the minutes pass.

it’s about halfway through when her head dips against the pillow. her eyes flutter closed, lashes low against her cheeks. her breathing slows. the blanket shifts as her chest rises and falls, steady and slow.

he watches her for a long moment, something soft and aching blooming in his chest.

then, as quietly as he can, he rises, pulls a heavier blanket from the closet, and drapes it over her. his fingers hesitate, just for a second, near the edge of her shoulder. he doesn’t touch her. just lets the weight of the blanket settle and steps back.

he leaves the tv on low — more for comfort than anything — and pads down the hall to his room, heart beating a little strange in his chest.

he strips off his jeans, changes into an old t-shirt, and climbs into bed, pulling the fan chain once. it hums softly to life, stirring the air just enough.

he lies there for a while, half-asleep, not quite dreaming.

until something shifts.

a whisper of movement, soft and slow. the creak of the hallway floorboard. then the light sound of bare feet brushing the wooden floor.

he blinks into the dark.

and there she is. wrapped in the blanket he left her with, hair mussed from sleep, eyes shadowed but open.

“hey,” she says, barely audible. “i couldn’t sleep.”

he scoots over instinctively. “yeah,” he says. “me either.”

she crosses the room slowly, careful not to trip on the edge of the blanket, and slides into the bed beside him — not under the covers, just on top, still wrapped up like she’s trying not to let the quiet unravel.

they lie there, side by side, not touching, not speaking, for a long time.

the fan spins above them. somewhere far off, a car honks. the city hums like it’s underwater.

“you awake?” she whispers after a long while.

“yeah,” he says, just as soft.

she shifts a little, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. “thanks for letting me come.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“i know. still.”

he turns his head toward her. the shadows catch in the lines of her face, her eyes soft and half-lidded. he can barely make her out in the dark, but he doesn’t need to see her to know how she’s looking at him.

his voice is low when he says, “you’re my best friend, annabeth.”

she doesn’t respond right away.

but he hears her inhale, slow and shaky.

“i know,” she whispers.

a pause.

“you’re mine, too.”

the air stills. time stretches.

he doesn’t reach for her. doesn’t touch her.

but he lies awake for a long time, feeling the warmth of her so close, and knowing that this, whatever it is, is something he’ll never forget.

and slowly, eventually, lulled by the fan, by her breath, by the soft hush of the city — they both fall asleep.

Chapter Text

percy woke slowly.

the light was soft, golden, filtered through the dust caught in his blinds, and the air felt warm, too warm, like summer had settled into the sheets with them. the room smelled faintly of her — like campfire smoke and sun-warmed cotton, like the shampoo she always used — something vaguely floral he could never name but always recognized.

there was a breath against his neck.

he blinked once, then again, and turned his head slightly to find annabeth there. curled close, her knees bent toward his, one arm loosely tucked under her head. his blanket was half draped across her shoulders. her face was soft in sleep, freckles across her nose barely visible in the morning light.

he stilled completely.

she was close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of her chest. close enough that a single shift of his hand would brush against her wrist. close enough that it was suddenly hard to think about anything else — the war, camp, even the strange way she must have ended up here.

his room was still and quiet, the hum of the fan in the window the only sound in the world.

then, quietly, she stirred. she blinked blearily, pushing her hair back and looking at him with a kind of sleepy confusion that melted, almost immediately, into something else.

“i didn’t mean to…” she started, then trailed off.

he shook his head. “it’s okay.”

a pause.

“i think you sleepwalked,” he offered, voice still rough from sleep.

annabeth groaned into the pillow. “you’re making that up.”

“you sleepwalked right into my bed. just climbed in like you owned the place.”

she narrowed her eyes at him. “you still drool when you sleep.”

his face flushed immediately, and he groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. “not fair. that’s low.”

“you’re lucky i didn’t say it earlier,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching with a soft wince. “i woke up around three and considered it.”

he peeked out from beneath the blanket, hair sticking up in all directions. “you were awake?”

“for a minute. forgot where i was.”

he didn’t say anything to that. just watched her as she rubbed her eyes and stood, adjusting the sleeves of his sweatshirt like she’d been wearing it for years.

they moved slowly through the morning. the apartment was still quiet, still soft with sunlight and dust, still holding that feeling that the world outside hadn’t quite started yet.

they brushed their teeth in silence, taking turns at the sink. she found one of his old hair ties on the bathroom counter and twisted her curls into a messy knot. he reheated coffee in the microwave and they drank it standing in the kitchen, barefoot, too tired to speak.

neither of them said they should leave. not yet.

they lingered — rinsing dishes that didn’t need rinsing, folding the blanket she’d used, standing by the open window and watching the traffic down below like it might give them a reason to stay.

by the time they finally left, it was almost noon. the sun was high, the pavement too hot. the car felt like an oven when they climbed in, and percy winced as he threw his jacket over the steering wheel to keep it from burning his hands.

they drove with the windows down.

it was the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy. the kind that came easy when there was nothing left to say, and still everything left unspoken. annabeth sat with one leg pulled up into the seat, hair blowing in the wind, his sweatshirt pushed up to her elbows.

twenty minutes outside the city, they passed a diner off the side of the highway — cracked yellow sign, peeling paint, a neon “open” flickering in the window. percy pulled in without thinking. neither of them protested.

inside, it smelled like grease and syrup. the booths were sticky but sunlit, and the air conditioning was just enough to keep them from melting.

they sat in the corner. annabeth ordered pancakes and bacon. percy asked for eggs and toast, then changed it to waffles when he saw the look she gave him.

the waitress was probably in her sixties, gray hair pulled back tight. she called them sweetheart without blinking and brought their drinks with a bowl of jam packets neither of them had asked for.

for a while, they just ate.

then, softly, between bites, annabeth asked, “did you ever… do anything normal? before all of this?”

percy glanced up. “normal?”

“like — i don’t know. before you knew about the gods. before camp.”

he blinked. swallowed. “i mean… kinda? i went to school. hung out with grover. watched cartoons. fought some bullies.”

“what cartoons?”

he shrugged, then grinned. “saturday mornings, i always watched ‘zig & sharko.’”

“never heard of it.”

“good. it was awful. i loved it.”

she smiled, one cheek full of pancake.

“you?”

she chewed slowly. swallowed. “i used to read in the library near my school. before i ran away. they had this little kids’ room with bean bags. i’d stay there until they closed.”

he looked at her then, not saying anything.

she glanced away, fingers playing with her straw wrapper. “sometimes i think about it. like, that version of me. who didn’t know anything yet.”

he nodded once. “i think about that too.”

a soft pause.

then the waitress returned with a slice of pie they hadn’t ordered, cherry with a scoop of vanilla on the side.

“on the house,” she said. “you two are sweet.”

they said nothing.

after the check was paid and the pie was gone, they walked out into the sun, both squinting against the light. percy unlocked the car, and annabeth tossed herself into the passenger seat with a tired sigh.

“i’m not going back to camp until you turn on the a/c,” she said.

“it’s broken.”

“i hate you.”

“that’s fair.”

but she was smiling when she said it, hair stuck to her forehead, arms folded against her chest as she rolled the window down again.

the drive the rest of the way was quieter. slower. the sun shifted, lower now, and the trees grew thicker the closer they got to long island. the scent of pine hit him before the car even passed the hill.

he stopped just at the edge of the boundary.

annabeth unbuckled her seatbelt but didn’t open the door. not yet.

“thanks,” she said.

he looked over at her. “for what?”

“last night. the pizza. the movie. letting me steal your bed.”

he smiled. “anytime.”

a pause.

she opened the door, slid out, and stood for a second, backlit by the trees. she didn’t say goodbye. didn’t look back.

but she lingered.

just for a second.

then she turned and started walking, curls bouncing with each step, sweatshirt sleeves too long over her hands.

percy watched until she was gone.