Work Text:
Dinner in the Hunt was always lively, but tonight the atmosphere practically shimmered with laughter that clung to the trees like fireflies.
The long wooden table stretched beneath a grove of ancient pines whose branches arched overhead in a natural canopy. Lanterns hung from them like trapped starlight, giving off a gentle glow that flickered across polished weapons and half finished plates. The wind carried the combined scents of roasted venison, pine needles crushed beneath their boots, and an almost tangible ribbon of moonlight, weaving between the moving bodies of hunters settling into their places.
They had just returned from a battle against a nest of stymphalian birds, a messy and loud affair. The adrenaline of combat still hummed faintly through the camp, not in a tense way, but in the warm relief that follows a well executed mission. The hunters were proud and hungry, and open with their amusement than usual, victory tended to soften even their sharpest edges.
Percy felt the remnants of that battle too, though not in his triumphant muscles and his quickened blood. He felt it at his back, specifically, the ache on the small of his back where a beak roughly the size of a javelin had jabbed him with far too much enthusiasm.
He sat stiffly on the wooden bench, trying to look natural, as though every movement didn’t send a small jolt of pain shooting up his back, his left arm hung awkwardly, and every time he breathed too deeply, he tensed, he tried to hide it, but Artemis, sitting beside him in her effortless grace and perfect posture, caught the subtle flinch.
She always noticed.
Always.
“Sit straight,” she murmured without looking directly at him, slicing her bread with the kind of precise elegance that could have bisected a gorgon’s neck, her movements were fluid, unrushed, but sharp with awareness, every small gesture radiating millennia of discipline.
Percy tried to obey, but his spine protested halfway, and he winced, he lowered himself back down with the defeated sound of a man who had made a life of charging into danger but could not take one comfortable breath at dinner, “I can’t,” he hissed under his breath, leaning toward her as if closeness might somehow cushion the pain, “I have bird beak imprinted on my internal organs.”
Artemis did not lift her silver eyes from her plate, but there was an unmistakable twitch in the angle of her wrist, perhaps annoyance, perhaps concern, maybe a bit of both, before she responded in a tone that balanced between scolding and absolute disbelief, “You have the Curse,” she reminded him, her voice was low, authoritative enough to quiet a nearby conversation, “A stymphalian bird should not be able to harm you.”
Percy pressed his fingers gingerly to the bruise, wincing again, the bruise throbbed in pulse with his heartbeat, he was almost positive he would feel the imprint of the beak in his sleep, “It hit the spot.”
Artemis paused during her slice, silver eyes suddenly widened, “The spot?”
“It curved around,” he insisted, gesturing wildly as he imitated the way he stroked during the battle, not that she needed the demonstration, “Like it knew.”
Finally, Artemis turned her gaze toward him, slowly and deliberately, silver eyes sharpening like polished blades honing in on a target, Percy felt the weight of that look settle across his shoulders like moonlight pressed into solid form, “It did not know,” she said flatly, with the faintest edge of agitation, “You positioned yourself foolishly.”
Percy raised a brow, incredulity tugging at the edges of his expression, she knew exactly where he had been standing, she had seen it, she had reacted because of it, and yet here they were.
“You mean,” he said, leaning slightly closer, ignoring the way his back protested, “When I stood between you and the monster that dove out of nowhere?”
Something within her eye twitched, the tiniest and sharpest flicker, for a goddess that could hide every emotion behind tiny bit of composure, the twitch was practically a scream, “Yes,” she said, each letter clipped and precise, “That.”
Around them, conversation dipped, spoons paused, bows stilled, the hunters, who pretended not to be eavesdropping, were absolutely listening, their ears were tilted toward the couple with the same focus they gave to stalking monsters.
He sighed, a long breath that puffed, pushed a loose dark curl out of his eyes and muttered with the kind of stubborn sincerity that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count, “Artemis, I wasn’t going to let it stab you.”
Across from him, Artemis sat with perfect posture, her silver cloak catching the warm orange glow of the lanterns like a mirror of the moon itself, she wasn’t angry, not truly, but her eyes blazed with the unmistakable sharpness of someone who had been handed a fear she never wanted to touch, her voice cut through the wind, crisp and precise, “You’re immortal adjacent with a singular mortal weakness,” she said sharply, her fingers tightened momentarily around the stem of her cup before releasing it with controlled grace, “And yet, yet, you decided to place that weakness between me and a monster.”
He could feel the amused and horrified stares of a dozen hunters prickling across his skin, “Okay,” he admitted, raising both hands in a halfhearted surrender, “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It was bad,” her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the faintest crease forming between her brows.
He shrugged helplessly as he spoke, “Bad is relative.”
“No,” her voice lowered, not in volume but in density, as though she had condensed an entire sky into a single word, “Bad is bad.”
A few seats down, Thalia, lounging with a confidence only a veteran hunter could manage, snorted, the sound was loud in the tense quiet, “You two sound like you’re married.”
The table went instantly silent.
Utterly silent.
Artemis turned her head with the slowness of a goddess that had ended wars with a look, with that look to be certain, her silver eyes settled on her lieutenant.
Thalia raised both hands in surrender, palms outward, expression caught somewhere between apology and mischief, “With all due respect, my lady.”
A ripple of whispers, soft as rustling pine needles, ran through the hunters, some were cautious, others boldly amused, this was dangerous entertainment. They adored their goddess, every breath, every heartbeat, but teasing her was like warming one’s hands near a living flame, delightful until, very suddenly, not.
Percy rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, “Well, uh, technically we’re not.”
“We’re not discussing this,” Artemis snapped, her tone cutting enough to slice the tension in two, but her reaction only fed the wildfire, the hunters, emboldened by the scent of forbidden topics, leaned closer like a small army of gossip fueled wolves.
A young hunter whispered loudly enough for the entire table to hear, “I think it’s sweet.”
Another murmured back, “He threw himself in front of our lady, romantic, if foolish.”
Percy felt his eyes twitch, his already blushed face took even a darker tone, “I’m right here, you know.”
“Yes,” a hunter called back, her grin visible even in the dim light, “That’s the problem.”
Thalia leaned on her elbow, enjoying every second, “So, Kelp Head, how’s the rib, soft, squishy, mortal?”
“Thalia,” Artemis warned, her voice held the kind of pressure that could collapse mountains if she willed it.
Percy smirked, leaning back just enough to look casual but not enough to provoke Artemis into smiting him, “It’s fine, I bruise gracefully.”
“You do,” Artemis muttered, almost under her breath, the whisper carried a strange tenderness.
Her gaze slid back to her lieutenant, not wrathful but edged with a divine do not test me further, Thalia, wisely, began staring intently into her soup as if it contained answers to the secret of the world, but the other hunters had tasted blood, figuratively, and there wasn’t going back now.
One leaned forward, elbows on the table, “Percy, do you plan to shield our lady every time something flies her way?”
“Of course he does,” another chimed in, wearing a grin that nearly split her face, “He worships the ground she walks on.”
“I do not,” he protested, although even he knew it was not the truth.
“He does,” Artemis corrected calmly, lifting her cup with the practiced ease of someone that had survived millennia of battles and still managed to drink elegantly.
Percy whipped to look at he, “I do?”
She shrugged, a tiny, devastating motion, “You do.”
Percy opened his mouth, then closed it when there wasn’t any coherent argument left, after a beat he muttered, “Okay, maybe a little.”
Laughter rippled through the tent, warm and bright, rustling like leaves in a moonlit wind, Artemis let out a long, measured breath and gave the Hunt a look that could have made lesser beings shake. Instead, the hunters straightened their backs as if preparing for inspection, but her eyes betrayed her, amusement and reluctant.
“Percy,” the youngest recruit asked carefully, leaning forward with wide eyes, “Is it true you once took a spear to the chest to save her?”
Percy scratched his cheek, “Which time?”
A chorus of gasps and stifled laughter erupted, Artemis pinched the bridge of her nose, pressing two fingers into her brow as though holding back a migraine, “Percy.”
“What,” he said defensively, “I’m being honest.”
“Too honest.”
Thalia smirked as the others giggled, “I think it’s refreshing. Men lying is the norm. This one simply overshares.”
“He oversacrifices,” Artemis said sharply, but beneath the reprimand was something different, thin as frost on winter branches, the shift was subtle but Percy heard it instantly, like a taut string vibrating in the air, the table gradually quieted, sensing the change.
Artemis set down her cup, the soft clink was far too delicate for the weight of the emotion beneath it, “You do not die easily, but you can die, and I,” she paused, hesitation flickering across her face like a passing cloud across the moon, “I would prefer that not occur,” his heart softened, but before he could even open his mouth she shook her head, eyes flicking downward, shuttering the edges of her confession, “Finish your meal.”
But he didn’t, instead, he nudged her knee gently beneath the table, he felt her tense in surprise, Artemis was almost never caught off guard, but after a moment, subtle as the shift between phases of the moon, her foot nudged back, a small, deliberate motion, a secret.
Hunters noticed, they absolutely noticed.
One whispered, far too loudly, “They’re doing it again.”
Another stage, whispered dramatically, “Secret tent flirting.”
“While fully clothed at dinner.”
“Scandalous.”
Thalia barked a laugh, enjoying this way too much, “They will write ballads about you at this rate.”
Artemis snapped her fingers, three lanterns extinguished instantly, plunging half the tent into shadow, her auburn curls and silver eyes shined bright, it was not punishment, merely a divine be quiet, then she commanded, “Eat.”
Every hunter obeyed instantly, chairs scraped, bowls lifted, spoons resumed motion with comical urgency, every Hunter, except him, Percy leaned closer, voice low enough for only her, “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
Her movements stopped, completely, even the breeze outside seemed to hesitate, the hunters that sat close to them were petrified as well, spoons suspended, eyes darting between their goddess and the audacious mortal, then, with slow deliberation, Artemis set down her knife and fork, her voice was a whisper edged with divine restraint, “Perseus, step outside the tent with me. Now.”
A wave of gasps rolled through the tent, whispers followed like a chorus of mischievous spirits, Thalia muttered just loud enough, “Rest in peace, Kelp Head.”
Percy swallowed hard, pulse tripping over itself, but as Artemis rose and strode toward outside, her auburn curls catching fire in the lantern glow, he noticed something strange, her steps were too light, her shoulders too tight, and her heartbeat, oh, he knew that rhythm, was racing.
Not anger.
Something else.
He followed her out of the tent, past the last lanterns spilling honey colored light, into the dim woods where moonlight filtered down in dappled, shifting patches, cool night wind curled around them, carrying pine resin and distant starlight.
“Artemis,” he began nervously, he really did not mean to take it that far, “If this is about the flirting, I apologise,” he winced and rubbed his neck as he spoke, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You did not embarrass me,” she crossed her arms, although her stance was not defensive, “You disarmed me.”
Percy blinked, he hadn’t expected that, “Is that worse?”
“In some ways,” she looked away, the glow of the moon settling along the line of her jaw, her voice softened, dropping to a whisper that trembled for the briefest, “When I saw that bird strike your weak point during the battle,” she swallowed, and even the forest seemed to lean closer, “I felt fear,” his breath caught to her words, it wasn’t something she admitted often, “Not mortal fear,” she spoke, voice now low and ancient, “The older kind. The kind that comes with losing something you should not have let yourself love.”
He stepped closer, closing the last inch of distance the way he always did, with quiet certainty, “You shall not lose me.”
“You cannot promise that,” her eyes fluttered shut, “If only you could just listen and allow me to grant you immortality.”
“But I can promise I won’t stop trying to stay alive,” he said softly, earnestly, as he looked at her eyes, “And that when I protect you, it’s because I want to. Not because I think you’re helpless.”
Artemis let out a long, trembling breath, then, with a slowness that made his chest ache, she raised her hand and placed her palm against his cheek, her skin was warm, gentler than moonlight should ever be, and her voice became almost too soft to hear, “You risk much for me.”
“You risk much letting me,” he murmured, a small, fragile smile touched her lips, scarce as a lunar eclipse.
Precious.
From the camp behind them, a hunter stage whispered, “Are they kissing yet?”
Her eye twitched, Percy barely stifled a laugh, she leaned in anyway and kissed him, slow, soft, a moment suspended between heartbeats beneath the leaves, when she pulled back, her forehead lingering near his, she murmured, “Let them write their ballads.”
He grinned, dazed and delighted, “So we’re giving them material?”
Her smile sharpened into something sly, ancient, and utterly radiant, “Just enough.”
And together, fingers intertwined, hearts steadying in sync, they walked back toward the glow of camp.
At peace.
Hand in hand, exactly as the hunters suspected.