Chapter Text
Annabeth stops sparring halfway through.
It’s not dramatic. No sudden injury, no argument, no declaration. One day she’s in the arena, circling opponents with that sharp, calculating look in her eyes- and the next, she’s not.
Percy notices because Percy always notices when Annabeth changes patterns.
“You’re skipping training?” he asks, incredulous, as he watches her perched on the arena railing instead of inside it.
“I’m training,” she says without looking at him.
Below them, Clarisse barrels into a Hermes camper, knocking him flat in seconds. Annabeth’s gaze tracks the movement like a hawk: every shift of weight, every angle of impact.
Percy frowns. “You’re…watching.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Annabeth finally glances at him, one eyebrow raised. “Isn’t it?”
At first, Percy thinks she’s just taking a break.
Except she doesn’t go back.
Days pass. Then a week. Athena cabin follows her lead like it’s instinct, fewer of them step into the ring. More of them linger at the edges, whispering to each other, pointing things out Percy can’t quite catch.
They’re not idle.
They’re studying.
“Watch his shoulders,” Annabeth murmurs one afternoon.
Percy squints. “What about them?”
“He telegraphs his strikes,” she says. “Half a second before he swings, his right shoulder tightens.”
Percy stares harder. Sure enough…
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Good. Now watch his opponent.”
The Apollo camper ducks too late. Gets clipped. Stumbles.
“Why didn’t he dodge earlier?” Percy asks.
Annabeth hums. “Because he’s watching the weapon, not the body.”
She hops down from the railing in one smooth motion.
“Come on,” she says.
Percy expects a sparring match.
Instead, Annabeth steps close, too close, and taps two fingers lightly against the inside of his elbow.
His arm goes numb.
“What the-?” Percy jerks back, shaking his hand. “Annabeth!”
“Median nerve,” she says calmly. “Temporary disruption.”
“That didn’t feel temporary!”
“It’ll pass in a minute.”
Percy flexes his fingers, glaring. “You could’ve warned me!”
“I did,” she says. “You just weren’t paying attention.”
It becomes a pattern.
Annabeth never stays in the arena for long. She’ll step in, demonstrate something small, something precise, and step back out again.
A tap to the wrist that sends a sword clattering to the ground.
A shift of stance that turns a larger opponent off balance.
A strike-quick, controlled, to the side of the neck that leaves someone dazed but unharmed.
“Pressure points,” Percy mutters one evening, watching her work. “That’s what this is.”
Annabeth nods. “Every body has weaknesses. You don’t need brute force if you know where to apply pressure.”
Clarisse, nursing her arm nearby, snorts. “Or you could just hit harder.”
Annabeth smiles slightly. “Or I could end a fight in three seconds instead of thirty.”
Clarisse opens her mouth. Closes it. Scowls.
“Show me,” she demands.
It takes Annabeth less than ten.
Not ten minutes.
Ten seconds.
Clarisse charges, because of course she does, and Annabeth doesn’t meet her head-on. She pivots. Steps inside Clarisse’s guard.
Tap. Tap. Press.
Clarisse freezes mid-motion.
Her sword drops.
For a moment, she just…stands there.
“…What did you do?” she grinds out.
“Nothing permanent,” Annabeth says. “Relax. It’ll wear off.”
Percy stares.
“Annabeth,” he says slowly, “that’s terrifying.”
Annabeth shrugs. “It’s efficient.”
Later, Percy finds her back on the railing, watching again.
“You’re not going to spar anymore, are you?” he says.
Annabeth tilts her head. “I already have.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” she insists. “Sparring teaches you through mistakes. You get hit, you learn.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t like getting hit.”
Percy laughs. “Fair.”
Annabeth gestures to the arena. “This way, I learn from everyone’s mistakes. Not just my own.”
Percy watches the chaos below: clashing swords, shouted challenges, messy, unpredictable movement.
Then he looks at Annabeth: calm, focused, absorbing everything.
“…You’re cheating,” he says.
Annabeth smiles, sharp and satisfied.
“I’m strategizing.”
A week later, Percy spars her anyway.
Because he’s Percy, and he has to try.
He lasts twelve seconds.
Afterward, flat on his back and staring up at the sky, Percy groans, “You didn’t even break a sweat.”
Annabeth offers him a hand, hauling him up.
“I told you,” she says. “I’ve already done the hard part.”
Percy winces, rubbing his shoulder. “Which is?”
She glances back at the arena, where other campers are still fighting, still learning the slow way.
“Watching,” she says.