Archive of Our Own

Despite having prised all her windows open and the half broken AC unit spitting the occasional stream of cool air, the city’s heatwave had firmly infiltrated Annabeth’s apartment. When she had first moved into her one bed in Manhattan, she’d been so stoked. Previously she had been stuck sharing a studio in Astoria with two girls from college that she only kind of liked (it was super illegal mind you and also a super inconvenience given they shared one bathroom), and on reflection she wondered if it was desperation to get her own space that ignored all the classic apartment red flags. Her current landlord was an asshole, her rent was extortionate, and her neighbours cat was always pissing on her doormat- but none of that really mattered much to her, this apartment was freedom . 

Right now she had a record spinning, her frayed denim shorts on, and three beers nestled in her crappy fridge. Life was good . This morning she had sent in a story to her editor: a short album review that probably wouldn’t make it to print but her stepmom could still read it online. As a rule her favourite stories to cover were concerts: free tickets and free drinks- wasn’t that the dream? Writhing bodies, thumbing bass, and sticky floors were some of the sweetest things life has to offer. 

When she was a lot younger and only a little dumber, Annabeth and her friend Piper would blow off their last classes of the day, change out their uniforms for something a little less age appropriate, and sneak into whatever dingy San Francisco dive bar didn’t look too closely at ID’s. They would listen to anything ; as long as the music was live and the people were dancing they’d be found jamming to folk singing lesbians, old and wrinkled jazz singers with cool nicknames, and (Annabeth’s favourite) heavy rock played by hot people in dark clothing. It was around that time Annaneth figured she had to make this her life, and with her tragic lack of musical ability it wasn’t looking like she could join a band. So, music journalism it was. Her last concert piece had flown painfully under the radar so she probably wouldn't be assigned one for a while- but with heat like this maybe that was a blessing. Summer concerts could go one of two ways: the first tasted like cigarettes she’d quit a long time ago and felt like the euphoric rush of bare skin and tied up hair, the other was all pungent B.O. and drunk guys getting into fights. 

She should probably put a shirt on soon if she wanted to get to the bar before they quit serving food, but hanging out in just shorts and a bra offered her pits a nice breeze that at this moment felt invaluable. Her nice, classic New York windows had a little trouble staying open on their own so in the meantime she had jammed a bunch of her books under the frame, mostly old textbooks and second hand finds that weren’t nice vintage but instead that peeling and crappy kind of vintage. Her neighbour was smoking pot again but at least he wasn’t playing the drums, still, even just the smell of weed gave her itchy eyes nowadays. Idly she rubbed them, yesterday's mascara transferring onto her fingertips- she probably should put on a little make up. Piper had been harping on about her starting to date again, and her tired eyes and crusty lips probably didn’t scream fuckable. 

Her last relationship had ended a couple of months ago, with an attractive financial analyst who also taught judo at Annabeth’s gym. Reyna was nice and the sex was pretty good, but the other girl had been a little too rigid for Annabeth’s taste. She had hated that the blonde got up to write at 3am when inspiration struck, could be a little mean about the people that worked in Annabeth’s office, and although she never said it outright- she hated concerts. The two that Annabeth had managed to wrangle her to had been awkward and a little dull. Reyna could be fun and cool but preferred to keep herself private, Annabeth on the other hand was a deeply emotional person, who cried easily at movies, danced stupidly at concerts, and enjoyed laughing loudly in restaurants. They ended things amicably and still nodded politely to each other at their gym, but Annabeth always got the feeling Reyna judged her a little. A few years and a handful of epiphanies ago, Annabeth would have let this judgment smart at her. Perhaps she would have started looking for jobs at less offbeat publications or have felt the need to start writing for the financial  or politics columns- something more grown up and serious . But the current Annabeth had long since left that needy people pleaser behind her-  it just so happened to be around about when she realised dating boys twice her age was stupid. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Her reminiscing was cut short by insistent rapping, rapping at her apartment door. For a moment she figured she ought to throw on a t-shirt or cardigan or something at the top of her laundry basket (no in unit laundry- fuck her landlord) but the idea pained her a little and she figured her white sports bra could pass as some kind of crop top. In all likelihood it was a friend of her neighbours or a lost delivery driver who had gotten the wrong door, given that Annabeth didn’t know anyone in the building despite having lived there for a year. 

She cracked open the door and standing on her cheap front door mat was the most handsome guy she had ever seen. As a general rule, New York was full of hot people and you had to very quickly come to terms with the fact there were always at least ten people within your vicinity who might re awake an old eating disorder, have you googling skin lasers or something equally as stupid. Hot guys were in abundance: indie guys, gym guys, finance guys etc. etc. Eventually you start to get savvy to the artificial handsomeness and after a few lacklustre dates Annabeth’s tastes had become more refined. She liked dates with unusual prettiness and unexpected faces- no more botox and hair plugs and trendy tattoos. The guy in front of her had that unpretentiously alternative look, his jeans with rips that hadn’t come already styled, a faded Beastie Boys t-shirt that probably used to be black. Even his old sneakers were worn, like he actually spent his days wandering around the city instead of buying them pre-yellowed from Yeezy. His face took her breath away, sharp and angular with a million freckles that crowded his pretty green eyes. She sort of recognised him but in her heat addled brain she couldn’t place exactly where from. 

‘Uh,’ she said lamely, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Are you Annabeth Chase?’ he asked with firm determination. She had never heard her own name said with that much intensity.

‘Who’s asking?’ she asked warily- this was New York, there was every chance his pretty face was hiding a sicko brain that wanted to maim and wear her skin on his. 

‘I’m Percy Jackson,’ he stated, looking at her as if to assess her reaction. Something clicked in her brain- the concert she had reviewed a few weeks back. She could see it now- in the light of day he looked a little gaunt and tired despite the fire behind his eyes, but under the strobes and coloured lights he had been ethereal. Percy Jackson was a fine young bassist who she was pretty sure would be one of the greats, he had been an otherworldly creature on stage and had reminded her of a young Kim Gordon with the heavy metal influence of Cliff Burton. She had written all of this in her review, as well as a glowing praise of their original songs and the elastic voice of the band’s lead singer Hazel Levesque.

‘Oh sure- from Starfish right?’ she asked, already knowing the answer but still confused as to why he was on her doorstep. The review had been good, although none of her reporting was ever massively negative as she had a lot of respect for people who had the guts to go out and make their art. The worst she’d had was a few follow up emails in the past from artists' agents who weren’t happy that she’d gone for a more sardonic angle, but this was the first time anyone had stormed up to her home. 

‘That’s me,’ he smiled, eyes a little less intense now, ‘Are you a reporter for The New Yorker?’

‘More of a frequent freelance collaborator,’ she replied idly, empty stomach overtaking both the cute boy and the confusion of his appearance. Ribs or a burger, she thought,That’s what I'll have for dinner. In lieu of a reply he liberated his beat up phone from his jeans and tapped twice before presenting the screen to her.

‘Did you write this?’ he asked. She looked and sure enough it was her article. The bold title glared back at her, Starfish: On the precipice of love and greatness. Not her best title, but she thought it captured her feelings about the band succinctly. They had caught her attention after a song had slipped onto her Spotify daily mix, a dark and feral track that was sort of about love but more about almost being in love. She had hopped out of the shower half way through her curly girl routine just to save it before it got lost in the algorithmic void, afterwards she had peddled through their short but accomplished discography as she wandered through midtown. It was as she was crying in The Strand to track three on their second extended project, ‘Sally’, she decided that Starfish were going to be the next big thing. That had made it into her article too.

‘Yes- why, did I spell your name wrong or something?’ she asked wrly, knowing she hadn’t. In her personal life she was pretty laid back, made friends easily, and was generally a bit impulsive. In her work however? She was meticulous. She had decided pretty early on that if it was her ambition to be a writer, she better make sure she was the best at it. 

‘No, but it was you that wrote that our album was ‘weird and textured’, you called my lyrics 'nihilistic but tender ’, that our ‘humour combined with attention to big emotions recalls early Fall Out Boy’?’

‘Sound’s obnoxiously like something I would write,’ she replied nonchalantly, ‘Hey, not that I’m not enjoying this, but could you give me five minutes to grab a shirt and my bag then feel free to carry on with whatever this is as you walk me to dinner.’

‘Uh, sure,’ he said, a little stunned. 

Sue her, he was cute. He might still yell at her, she wasn’t totally sure what his deal was, and maybe she should be worried that this stranger found her address- but she had been dreaming about dinner all afternoon. She was absolutely one of those New Yorker’s who never cooked (her stove was actually full of her winter sweaters at the moment). Why would she when the choice was between burnt homemade nachos (always burnt, no matter what she did) or one of the delightfully delicious restaurants surrounding her? Tonight she planned to head to her local Irish Bar, where the drinks were Manhattan cheap and food was served on a paper plate. Perfection. 

She grabbed the only clean blouse left in her dresser, a dressier white thing she was sure had originally belonged to Piper. Carefully, she knocked back the needle of her record player and tucked the disc back into its sleeve- Bruce Springsteen, Tunnel of Love. A contemporary critic for Playboy, Robert Christgau, called it ‘convincing, original stuff’, and she had always liked that dry approach to journalism. Her dad had said the album was about love, not just the good bits. That always stuck with her. Spare parts/ and broken hearts/ keep the world turnin’ around. 

She slipped on her nicer butter yellow summer sandals that had just enough of a heel to feel flirty but not enough to have her tumbling after a few beers. She swiped on some tinted lip balm and stuffed her Red Sox cap over her braided hair and heat fluffy bangs (the hat was a New York suicide mission but she still had some hometown pride). Finally she grabbed her bag and sunglasses, took a deep breath. Annabeth cracked open the door, half expecting the handsome boy to be a figment of her imagination- a mirage from the heatwave and her own dry spell. Still there, hunched to her door frame and fanning his worn t-shirt to circulate some air. 

‘You ready?’ she said, locking her door.

‘Sure! Nice keychains by the way,’ he said. She had a few, mostly picked up from museums and trips, some of them cheap plastic, the others clinking enamel. 

‘Thank’s, I got this one at the MET the other week,’ she dangled the little guitar, ‘Although your’s is probably cooler.’

‘Way too heavy to attach to my keys,’ he shot back, shoulder knocking with hers as they descended her stairs.

‘You’d never lose them though,’ she replied matter of factly. He let out a strangled laugh, thick and high like he hadn’t meant to. Her favourite kind.

‘You’re funny.’

‘I try.’

‘No seriously, the part in your article had us all cracking up,’ he began, igniting his phone and scrolling through her paragraphs, ‘if ‘ We Shop for Waterbeds' is the band's hysterical and surreal ode to mundane commitment, then ‘ I Play Dodgeball with Cannibals’ is their absurd tribute to the self cannibalising feeling of falling in love. I think it’s also a bit about hating your dad .’

‘I don’t know that it’s that funny,’ she smiled, feeling a bit like there was some cosmic joke she was missing. Percy Jackson’s laugh felt a lot like that.

‘It’s just- you’re the only person to ever suss that out,’ he admitted, ‘Our friend Leo keeps us up to date on fan theories and discussions about our songs but for some reason people seem to be pretty dense about Cannibals - but not you.’

‘I mean, it is my job,’ she half deflected, stopping in front of the bar and tugging the heavy door open. Seeing this, Percy jumped in to help, jamming his foot in front of it so she could pass.

‘Bar or booth?’ she asked. When alone she favoured the bar, liking the infrequent small talk and the vantage it gave her of the giant plasma assembled in the corner. It could be a little competitive and noisy once football season was under way but Annabeth had always liked to get a little lost in the chaos.

‘Booth,’ he replied quickly, ‘Grab one and I’ll get us some drinks- you wanted dinner right?’

‘Leave it to me- Lonnie usually gives me a discount on food on account of our shared taste in locally unpopular sports teams,’ she replied, removing her cap now she was in doors. 

‘If you’re sure- I’ll have a coke and whatever’s meaty and greasiest,’ he smiled, stuffing a handful of cash into her hand. Given that her rent was due to be spiked soon and the fact she knew Starfish had just signed with a major alternative label, she took the cash without feigning protest. 

‘A man after my own heart,’ she replied before peeling off to the bar, ‘Hey Lonnie.’

‘Hey kid,’ replied the bartender. Lonnie Armstorng was a southie who had come to the city thirty years ago on a work trip and stayed because he fell in love. He was old, foulmouthed, had about three hairs left on his head but to Annabeth he was a little slice of home. He didn’t look up from the pint he was pulling but he shifted his head familiarly.

‘Two coke’s please,’ she began, ‘Two house burgers as well, I’ll be over by the booths.’

Lonnie grabbed their drinks and slid them across the bar, a trail of condensation following the glass bottles as he did.

‘For you and the pretty boy over there?’ he whistled sarcastically, ‘C’mon kid you gotta go for someone with a little more meat on their bones. My niece for example- hell of a girl, a lawyer, and sturdy too, I can set you up any time.’

‘Not on a date Lon,’ she chided, ‘I’m not sure what I'm doing, but if I don't see a burger in front of me in the next fifteen minutes, I swear you’re gonna have to call that niece of your’s up just to lessen my manslaughter chargers.’

Lonnie gives her a deep and barking laugh in return, taking the money and turning to his regulars to ping some made up baseball statistics.

 She found Percy easily, a dark blur against the green leather seats. He had mercifully picked the seats closest to the air con and was admiring a signed black and white photo of Babe Ruth. 

‘I didn't know Ruth played for the Red Sox,’ he remarked, straightening the crooked frame.

‘Yeah, he was our pitcher before he started slugging for the Yankees,’ she replied, sliding his drink over and pretending it didn’t fluster her the way his throat contracted as he drank.

‘You into baseball?’ he asked, his eyes looking at her with unfounded intensity. 

‘It’s the great American pastime,’ she snarked, ‘But I’m more into eating hot dogs on plastic seats when the weather’s nice, you?’

‘More into basketball I guess but generally sports and I don’t mix,’ he said lightly. It suddenly struck Annabeth how calm she felt, her knees knocking with his under the booth and engaging in mindless small talk. From across the table she could look at him properly: the acne scarring on his cheek, the thick calluses on his palms and fingers, the necklace partially hidden under his frayed collar. She couldn’t believe it was possible, but she found him even more handsome. 

‘Too musically inclined?’

‘I work out!’ he defended, ‘It’s actually a great way to get through new albums.’

‘Well now you’ve got to tell me what you’re listening to, it’s cruel of you not to.’

‘C’mon I’m supposed to be asking you the questions.’

‘Throw me a bone then I’ll discuss whatever was important enough for you to track down my address.’

He had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

‘Cover The Mirrors , Ben Kweller,’ he admitted, ‘Not the best for cardio but whenever the studio sends us to a stupidly fancy spa retreat I’ve been blasting it in the pool.’

‘Heavy,’ was all she could say. Her favourite track was ‘Dollar Store’, which she’d had on rotation since it was released early as a single. A song not really about grief but not about much else either. 

‘Before I say anything else, I just want you to know I’m not a creepy stalker or anything,’ he declared.

‘That’s exactly something a creepy stalker would say,’ she replied and a smile pricking at her lips from the withering stare he sent her.

‘I’m friends with your neighbour alright, your mail got mixed up and I guess he remembered your name whenever I was bugging over the review,’ he clarified.

‘Which neighbour, the stoner drummer or the one in the MLM?’ she asked.

‘He’s called Frank, he drums for a few metal bands in the city and he’s Hazel's boyfriend.’

‘No kidding,’ she said, trying to picture the 6' 6 giant of a guy and his massive drummer's arms with the very small glittering songbird from Starfish. Hazel had been a waifish powerhouse commanding her stage whilst dripped in jewels and draped in gold, her size juxtaposed by her big eyes, big hair, and bigger voice. If Annabeth had to guess what sirens might sound like, the closest she’d get was the anxious and haunting hypnosis of Hazel Levesque. 

‘He’s real sweet on her, has been since we were all in the same battle of the band’s circuit in high school,’ Percy supplied, nodding over her shoulder. The smell hit her before the sight did, two greasy burgers and an actually decent portion of fries were heading their way, the paper plates already grease speckled and sagging. 

‘She liked your review too,’ he said, digging in, ‘Goddamn this is good!’

‘Their trick is they never clean the grill, Lonnie told me that on Christmas eve when he’d had too much whiskey.’

Sesame bun, kind of burnt patty, that real plasticy american cheese, and a pathetic add on of salad and sauce- Nirvana . She tucked in with gusto. 

‘Well it’s a good job I've never let a health code violation get in between me and a good meal,’ he smiled big and wide at her, lettuce caught in his teeth and ketchup on the corner of his mouth, ‘Before my friend Grover became vegan, our after school spot was literally some guy cooking hotdogs under the hood of his car.’

‘Hey, if it’s cheap and doesn’t give you food poisoning then there’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘Well I wouldn’t strictly say that,’ Percy teased.

‘Before we get to the my IBS is worse than yours debate, I gotta know why you hunted me down Jackson,’ she cut to the chase.  

‘Cutting straight to it Chase,’ he said with an obnoxious smirk, the expression scrunched his crooked nose and coaxed out dimples she wanted to stick her thumbs into. Or maybe her tongue. 

‘Can’t blame a girl for being curious.’

‘I guess it’s not everyday you get a handsome young musician knocking at your door,’ he smouldered.

‘Handsome ?’ she replied, attempting to hide her flush behind her burger. 

‘Well, in your article you called me enigmatic and striking, so logically I assumed you found me handsome,’ he said with a wicked smile. 

‘Well you were wearing more makeup then,’ she tried to deflect, not wanting to admit she found this tired zombie Percy just as charming as the smokey creature on the stage. 

‘Nuh-uh !’ he replied indignantly, half way through chewing. ‘It was only eyeliner and glitter! Besides, it enhanced my handsomeness, it did not fake it.’

‘Whatever you say,’ she teased, knocking her heel against the hard wooden floor out of habit, ‘Beauty’s not really my area of expertise anyhow.’

‘Well, I find you very pretty,’ he replied earnestly. It was a little jarring actually, most of the people she’d dated had either been shy about their feelings or aloof due to their own issues (see the dating older guys thing). What had taken her past partner's month to dance around, Percy Jackson said as easy as stating the weather. 

‘Oh,’ she replied shyly, ‘Is that why you decided to hassle me today?’ 

‘If I'd known how pretty you were then I’d have done it a helluva lot sooner. But no, unsurprisingly it was the article.’

‘Between you and me, I wrote half of it in my notes app in the venue’s bathroom, it sort of just fell out of me.’

‘There it is again!’ he exclaimed, much to her confusion.

‘Huh?’ she articulated, about half way through another bite of burger. She felt the grease slip down her chin.

‘It’s like you reach into my brain and say the shit I didn’t even know I wanted to say! Or you listen to my songs on the frequency I write them- not the way everyone else does. It’s freaky .’

‘If it makes you feel any better, that’s sort of how I felt listening to your music for the first time. I walked around Bryant Park totally hypnotised until I finished your EP. It was like you’d unravelled me and written about every thought I’ve ever had.‘Sally’ made me want to eat my phone,’ she admitted.

Another Springsteen lyric sprang to mind- It’s like someone took a knife baby, edgy and dull/ And cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull. At the time she had felt exactly that- that Starfish had made a big messy cut and began unspooling the fleshy bits of her brain, touching and reading all the parts of herself she kept private.

Percy dunked a fry into ketchup absentmindedly, destroying it before tossing it into his mouth. Annabeth got a flash of a gold molar and sharp canine. 

‘It’s just,’ he began, taking a deep breath, ‘It was like you’d cracked open my head and were pulling out my thoughts,’ he took in her wide expression and sighed, ‘I guess it’s just the first time I really felt seen by the press.’

‘I’m the press now?’ she smiled, but he didn’t return it. In fact he looked frustrated, like she didn’t get what he was trying to say. 

‘Yes- no! It’s more like-’ he began, tone frantic.

‘Jackson,’ she cut him off, ‘I get it- Pizza with Tears made me think you’d straight up read my diary. And for the record I heard it before it trended on Tiktok.’

He had the decency to look sheepish. ‘Well that wasn’t all bad- forget about the death of the author and whatever you want to say about artistic integrity- that shit paid my rent for months.’

Now they were laughing, their knees knocking underneath the booth and a flush blooming across her chest. Maybe it was the city heat or something else- but she felt magic in the air tonight.

‘Hey I’ll cheers to that,’ she said, offering up her half drunk coke. Merrily he knocked his glass to hers. She took a deep quenching drink in hopes it would chase away the heat of the day and the heat of his gaze. 

Later, after their plates were clean and Lonnie had patted Percy’s shoulders a little too firmly, they spilled themselves into the street. The air was still thick and warm; the sun was not quite set. They were heading back to her place- in passing she had mentioned owning the record pressing of Nirvana’s live cover of The Man Who Sold The World. Percy had frozen when he heard this- before choking down the rest of his food, throwing some notes down on the table before all but marching back to her apartment. He hadn’t waited for an invitation, but she hadn’t protested either (a small part of her was wishing she’d put on some cuter underwear though). 

‘People laugh but songs do lose a bit of their soul when you listen to them through phone speakers,’ he told her whilst getting too comfortable on her thrifted sofa. His head had sunk into the back cushion and his feet were kicked up on her beat up coffee table. She was right beside him, shoulder to shoulder as they stared up at her ceiling, the record quiet for a second before that lilting riff kicked in. She’d always found the song a bit sexy, not lyrically but something in the rhythm really got her going. 

‘Yeah but what’s a girl to do when she wants to romanticise the train home- shitty Spotify quality is an annoyingly necessary evil,’ she replied.

‘Heathen,’ he shot back with another easy grin. She couldn’t help but notice his lips, a little chapped but the prettiest pink she’d ever seen. Annabeth imagined them catching with hers, all rough and satisfying. Before she knew what was happening, she had lent in- and so had he. His hand had come to cup her face, gently with a thumb swiping her cheek. It was a good kiss. One that stoked a fire in her stomach and had her hauling herself onto his lap. Percy groaned in appreciation, hands slipping to her back and under her shirt, before sinking tentatively to her denim covered ass. She tossed her blouse somewhere into her apartment- although nothing beyond the sofa really existed to her right now. Annabeth was still wearing the boring white sports bra that was stretched thin across her chest, Percy’s light touches pebbling her nipples and offering a modest hint of her barbell piercings. She wished she had bothered to fish out one of her lacier scraps of lingerie, maybe the black set that looked pretty when she had a tan. 

‘This okay?’ she asked him, scratching her nails through his hair and adjusting her hips. It had been a while since she’d gotten to second base with a guy, she had to stop herself from trying to cup the breasts he didn’t have.

‘More than okay,’ he said, between pressing kisses to her neck, ‘Like- so okay it makes all the other times I've said okay feel like a lie.’

She laughed, feeling pretty okay herself. This was nice: she had met a cute guy, ate some good food, and talked about music with someone who seemed to get her. She wasn’t expecting much, he was a musician on the precipice of fame and she was a journalist who could never shine like he would. That was fine, she could probably have sex with this force of a guy, who thought she was funny and liked crappy burgers and seemed like he wouldn’t care much about her post dinner bloat without being too heartbroken when he inevitably didn’t call. She had dated musicians before- she knew the drill. Still, as she looked at the tattoo’s that graced his arms and the sparkle that didn’t seem to leave his green eyes, Annabeth couldn’t help but feel a little wistful.

Leaning back in, they met for another kiss, the music softly dancing around the apartment as they made out like horny teenagers. She was a horny woman thank-you very much. Distantly she heard a door slam, probably one of her neighbours getting home. She thought nothing of it, too lost in the tight grip on her waist and the music working its way through her soul. Percy was in the midst of tugging off his own shirt when the drumming started.

tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, CRASH!

Percy, whose head was still covered by his half removed t-shirt, startled underneath her, his hips bucking up in surprise. Annabeth, who had chosen to take advantage of his lack of visibility to fix her hair, was usurped from her cosy spot and somehow crashed face first onto her hardwood floor. 

‘Fuck!’ she cried out, her hand shooting up to cup her bleeding nose, only to recoil at the feeling that it was off centre by a few millimeters. The now shirtless Percy clambered down to help, offering his sweaty t-shirt to mop up the blood and gently tipping back her head.

‘I’m going to kill Frank,’ he hissed, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all good,’ she pacified, noting her white bra was now stained a bright red, ‘The pain’s about a four but the view’s a solid ten out of ten.’

‘Flirt,’ he smiled. She wasn’t lying. Although he had that long and angular skater’s frame, Percy Jackson was quietly muscular. She took in the bare sight of him for as long as she could, committing it to memory since she figured there was no way he’d want a second date (was there really even a first one?) after watching her bleed out on his t-shirt. Real sexy Chase, she thought, you’ve always known how to woo the fellas.

They sat for a minute in silence, him quietly dabbing her gushing nose as she scrambled for something cool to say. She came up empty. The pain in her nose and embarrassment from her fall had totally killed the vibe- marked poignantly by the record spinning to an end, just the friction of the soundless needle and Frank’s obnoxious drumming filling the warm air.

‘Uh, not to disappoint but I’ve probably got to head to urgent care so they can re-set my nose,’ she said with audible disappointment, ‘And unless you’ve got a thing for black eyes, I’m probably not going to look very enticing.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ he moved to brush a blood soaked curl from her face, ‘I can’t imagine there are many scenarios that I wouldn’t find you very attractive in.’

‘Oh really?’ she furrowed her brows, ‘Well in that case, we can wipe the blood from my tits, wait for my vision to get a little less blurry and get back to it cowboy!’

‘Wait, is your vision really blurry,’ he replied, ignoring her attempt to be funny.

‘Which one of you said that?’ she joked.

‘Well at least the concussion hasn’t dimmed that winning personality of yours,’ he said, offering a hand to haul her up, ‘We should get you to a doctor.’

She grabbed a hoodie from out of her oven and threw him a sweater that belonged to Reyna. She hadn’t fought for it during their break-up, it was just some company merch from an account she’d worked on whilst they were dating- some spa her sister repped. It was a deep purple and looked gorgeous against the bassist's skin. 

‘Sorry about your shirt,’ she said as she watched him blurrily lock up, ‘And I’m sorry this is how your night ended- not exactly rock and roll.’

‘Being rock and roll is over rated,’ he assured her, throwing an arm around her waist as they descended the stairs, ‘Believe it or not- I’m kind of boring.’

She didn’t believe that. In fact she believed that Percy could admit to being a trainspotting recluse and she’d still find him to be the most interesting person she’d ever met.

‘Well, this has at least got to go on some sort of all time disaster hook up list,’ she tried to joke.

‘Nah- I’d say this is still a good one,’ he smiled his thousand watt smile at her, ‘Although I’d prefer the word date.’

‘Nuh-uh’ she replied, ‘If it were a date I’d have done my hair way nicer- not to mention I’d have bothered to put on a little more deodorant.’

‘Well I guess I’ll just have to ask you out properly then,’ he said easily, opening the door for her like a gentleman and offering his arm after she’d crossed the threshold. 

Sure, he might be full of it and lose her number the moment she turned her back, hell- she probably wouldn’t blame him. But right now, the sun was setting and giving the world that golden colour that felt like something special could happen. It lit up his skin and gave his black hair a warm brown hue- so handsome it almost made her forget her throbbing nose. So she looped her arm through his and let him take the lead.