Chapter Text
Nico can’t really recall the last time he really slept. It must have been an accidental standing nap resting on Reyna’s shoulder while she discussed something with either Frank or Hazel just a few hours after the end of the battle, while Percy and Jason had been out frantically searching for any sign that Leo might still be alive. Nico had privately discussed the entire deal with Hazel, had mentioned to her that it had felt odd, that Leo had definitely died, but that he couldn’t actually sense his soul anywhere in the Underworld.
But he’s too tired to complain when Will comes up to where he’s standing by Thalia’s tree. He’s almost dead on his feet, feeling less alive than when he was trapped in that cursed bronze jar, subsisting on nothing more than those wretched pomegranate seeds.
“You owe me three days in the infirmary,” Will tells him firmly. “It wouldn’t hurt if we got a sunlamp aimed at you, either. When was the last time you ate anything containing actual nutrients?”
Thinking is harder than it really ought to be. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the realisation that he almost died for the nth time. Maybe it’s the fact that he either killed or contributed to the death of two demigods in less than a week.
“The Hunters of Artemis probably gave me a protein bar,” he eventually decides on. “You should ask my sister about that. She’d know. She was there.”
Will scratches at his cheek, a flake of dried blood being crushed under his nail. That cannot possibly be hygienic. “And that would be…?”
Nico turns around and stares down into the valley. It’s so bright that looking for anyone— especially someone probably wearing gleaming golden armour —is a bit of a chore. Luckily he has a few tricks up the sleeves of his horrific and torn-apart tropical shirt. It’s not a good look (nor particularly comfortable), but it’s done its job.
He seeks out Reyna’s soul (a dazzlingly electric purple colour) and tugs at it. She knows. She’ll come.
And sure enough, it’s only a few minutes before he sees Reyna walking up the hill. To his surprise, she’s dressed in something that almost looks casual. A purple shirt with SPQR XII written across it and jeans that look like they used to belong to Annabeth (if the Greek text written with a sharpie all over the thighs is any indication). She calls out to him, “You’re okay, right, Nico?”
Nico shrugs in a way that doesn’t aggravate the scratches Lycaon had left behind on him. Not that he ever really gets a reprieve from the warm, pulsating ache. Someone should probably have a look at them. That might be smart.
Maybe. At this rate it looks like he doesn’t have much of a choice.
“Will wanted information about my, uh, food intake the past few weeks. I can’t really … remember it.”
Reyna’s gaze softens almost imperceptibly and she turns to face Will. “You’re the medic Chiron mentioned, right? Head of the infirmary? Legacy of Apollo?”
“Eh, son of Apollo, yeah,” Will says. “Why — oh, yeah, you Romans have multiple generations of demigods. How — sorry, yeah. I’m bringing Death Kid here in for a three-day stay in the infirmary to fix, well, everything. I just need to get an idea of his recent eating and sleeping habits.”
“It’s easier to just let him do his thing,” Nico mutters under his breath. “Compared to how manic he was during the battle of Manhattan, he’s calm now.”
Will looks at him then in a you seriously recognise me from that long ago kind of way and Nico stares at the ground. If he thought he had enough blood in his body, he’d probably be blushing by now. Damn the very concept of social interactions to the depths of Hades.
“Well,” Reyna says. “Admittedly, transporting the Athena Parthenos across half the world didn’t really prompt us to eat as well as we really should have. But Nico really did not eat a lot. He had a few pastries in Portugal, before Lycaon appeared. After the jump across the Atlantic he slept for thirty-six hours straight and—” Reyna massages her head. “I’ll admit that at that point sleep deprivation started to get to me. Orion captured us, briefly, but I’m certain Nico ate something before that, given to him either by my sister or the leader of the Hunters of Diana. Then — I think that was the last time, unless you’ve eaten anything since we got here.”
Nico shakes his head. It’s difficult to come back from the death-trance inducing pomegranate seeds. Every time he’s tried to eat, he feels the oppressive jar again. Water is fine, that one piece of ambrosia Thalia had offered him had almost been rejected outright by his body (he doesn’t want to eat divine food ever again). Coke, too, hadn’t been horrible. That might be the only reason why he’s still standing, honestly. But it sucks, because he’s hungry, all the damned time.
“Right,” Will says. “Just a week and a half ago you were in Portugal. That’s kind of an insane thing to think about — wait, did you say Lycaon. The first werewolf? You didn’t get bitten, did you?”
“Just scratched,” Nico confirms. “It was strategic. Before you get mad, I couldn’t have gotten out of that situation with less injuries.”
Will Solace raises an eyebrow. “And in which way exactly would getting shredded by a werewolf be considered an appropriate battle strategy?”
“Our only silver weapon was a knife,” Reyna volunteers. “Nico used the shadow generated by stabbing him in the chest to shadow travel us out of Portugal to the middle of the Atlantic and then to San Juan. It was all his power, I just provided him with a destination.”
“Right,” Will says (he must really like that word), sounding like he might be reaching the limits of his sanity. “Anything else you want to add to that list? Blood curse?”
“Good question,” Nico mutters. That had been something Persephone had threatened a few times before they saw eye-to-eye. “No, I don’t think so.”
Will claps his hands together. “Alright. To the infirmary with you. Thank you for the help, praetor.”
“No worries, son of Apollo,” Reyna says, sounding as regal as always. Nico almost wants to grimace — Reyna only speaks that way when she’s uncomfortable. He’s come to realise that she’s uncomfortable a lot of the time. “We’ll stay here at Camp Half-Blood for another few days. If you need my assistance, Nico knows how to get hold of me.”
Then she gracefully spins around on her heel and walks back down the hill towards the Roman encampment by the beach.
“Come on,” Will says. “We can walk and talk. How did the praetor know you were with me? Telepathy isn’t a part of Hades’ — or Pluto’s — skill set right? Does it have something to do with her godly ancestor?”
“Reyna’s mother is Bellona,” Nico says, shaking out his hands in a failed attempt to get feeling back into them. “She has no real Greek equivalent. Maybe Enyo, but even then, not really. She’s a goddess of war and conquest.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question, though,” Will points out.
“It answered one of them,” Nico huffs. “I was getting to it. But you’re right. No telepathy. For that you’d have to look at Athena, Hera or Hypnos. Or Koios, but he’s a titan. No, essentially I can sense souls in the Overworld, but not where they are. So I just tugged at hers a little. Hazel might be able to do it, too. I haven’t actually tested it.”
“Fascinating,” Will says. “Hazel is your sister, right? Daughter of Pluto?”
Nico nods. “She’s one of the Seven. And dating the other praetor of Camp Jupiter.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to tell me about it. You’re stuck here for three days after all,” Will says, holding the door to the infirmary open for him. “Welcome to my domain, Death Prince.”
His memories of the infirmary are blurry, but he must have been here at least once before, during his initial tour of Camp Half-Blood all those years ago.
“Since you’ll be spending a lot of time sleeping— no, I’m not arguing with you about that —you’ll be spending your time in here.”
Will gestures to what isn’t quite a room. It’s got three walls, sure, but the last wall is a partition curtain. “Since there are so few of us healers, it makes little sense to have separate rooms. It would make our job harder. And since we can have a bit of divine influence on our side, not a lot of people spend long enough with an injury to warrant longer stays.”
“It’s fine,” Nico says, pushing the curtain to the side and stepping inside. It’s a spartan room; a bed with collapsible rails, a stool, a table on wheels, a set of drawers and a porcelain wash basin on a stand. No sink. The window has curtains, but they won’t keep the sun out. All in all, it’s far nicer than most of the places Nico have stayed at since … since Westover Hall, probably.
“Great!” Will chirps. “The first thing we’ll do is that I’ll quickly look you over and we’ll make a battle plan. Then you’ll take a shower— no offence, but you really need one —and then we’ll go from there. Capiche?”
“Capisco,” Nico says reflexively before remembering something. “I — don’t actually have a change of clothes. I lost my bag in—” he doesn’t continue, unable to even speak the name of that place.
“No wonder you’re still wearing that horrendous shirt, then,” Will says. “Sure. We have spares in almost every size. Any idea on size?”
Nico can’t really recall the last time he went shopping, never mind actually checking which size he was. “No, sorry.”
Will waves a hand at him and vanishes behind the partition curtains. “No, you’re not the first one. A camp shirt and sweatpants should fit well enough. One moment.”
Indeed, he’s back within a moment with a pile of clothes. “There’s a private bathroom at the other end of the infirmary. Anything you could need is there. Except razors. If you need one you’ll have to get one from one of us and hand it back to the same person afterwards. Infirmary policy, sorry.”
Nico starts a little at the pile of clothes suddenly being deposited in his hands. “No — no, that’s fine.”
Will smiles. “Great. Place the clothes on the bed and we’ll get an idea of what we’re working with. Basic information first. I have a file here from when you first arrived, but it’s pretty outdated. It literally only has your name, a guess on your age and a next of kin. One Bianca di Angelo.”
“She died only a few days after that file was made,” Nico says flatly. “She joined the Hunters of Artemis and went on a quest.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Will says, but unlike most people, he actually sounds sincere about it. “We might as well start over. You’re certainly not ten years old anymore. I have a new form here just in case. Your full name?”
“Niccolò Matteo di Angelo,” Nico mutters, studying his hands. His nails are so brittle, not to mention filthy. “Should be an accent over the last o. Pointing left. Towards the rest of Niccolò.”
“Got it,” Will says. “Your old file just says Nico. Any reason for that?”
“I don’t think I knew my full name back then,” Nico says, staring out the window. “I was dipped in the Lethe when I was nine or so. Some memories are coming back, but most of them are completely gone. I think dad was the one to tell me about my name.”
“Huh, okay, we’ll keep an eye on that, in case it causes problems,” Will says absently. “You’re not my first amnesia victim. Reminds me that I need to talk to Percy. Do you know when the memories started coming back?”
Glass shards dig into him again, the burning taste of the Phlegethon in his throat. Even just thinking about it hurts. “Sometime during the quest,” he says evasively. “I had bigger problems than realising I remembered my childhood home.”
“Don’t worry about it, it was just a personal curiosity,” Will says, waving a hand around. “Your amnesia is different to Jason’s, is all. Jason was my first amnesia patient — you know Jason, right? Thalia’s brother?”
Nico nods.
“Okay — do you know how old you are? Birthday?”
“January 28th,” Nico says. “Hang on, I have to count. I think I’m fourteen now, turning fifteen. Or thirteen, turning fourteen. But I’m not sure. I could probably ask dad. Or Mr D, he can tell that kind of stuff.”
“It’s really cool how well you seem to know your father,” Will notes. “You’ve met him, then.”
Nico stares at him. “Yeah? I’ve lived with him on and off since I … since I left camp the first time around. I know that’s not the typical experience, but children of Hades have always been treated differently.” His stare turns stony. “I think we’ve earned our dad’s affections considering we’re not welcome anywhere else.”
“Oh, definitely,” Will agrees. “I think most demigods would kill to be in your spot, though. I haven’t even met dad.”
“He’s not all that much,” Nico mutters. “Almost killed me before I even got to camp. Were you here when the sun chariot crashed into the Long Island Sound?”
Will nods. “It was my first winter here. He was already gone by the time I managed to get out of the infirmary and down to the beach. But back on track. No, don’t beat yourself up about it, we’ve all got ADHD here. Conversations just work like this around here. Now, your birth year?”
“1932,” Nico says automatically. “Venice, Italy.”
Will chokes. Got him. Nico grins. It hurts his face. “What?” He says innocently.
He doesn’t know what it is about Will that makes him so talkative. He remembers Will briefly from right after the battle of Manhattan because he’d been the one medic from Apollo (or at all, outside of Percy and maybe Annabeth) that had actually gone to check up on him. But it’s nice. He does feel on edge still, though. And he would do almost anything for a glass of water.
“You’re pulling my leg, right?” Will asks, staring at him in slight desperation. “I mean, not that you don’t look really good for being a geriatric patient — you might be the oldest demigod alive with that birth date. Unless you’re joking.”
“I really don’t think I am,” Nico says, entirely seriously. “I remember seeing Mussolini holding a speech. And last time I checked, he’s really, really dead and stuck in the Fields of Punishment. Here’s the thing, when I think about it, my brain tells me two separate dates — October 31st 1924 or January 28th 1932. I think the first date is wrong because I remember a birthday party I had and it snowed. Plus, I know I visited the Palace of Diocletian in 1938, when I was six. I started at Westover when I was ten. That’s what they told me. My 11th birthday was in the Underworld. So…” He counts on his finger. “In any case I think I’m thirteen. Almost fourteen. Unless I started at Westover when I was eleven. I really don’t know.”
“Got it, gramps, your memory is failing you in your old age,” Will says with a grin. Nico fights the urge to hit him. “Next up is height, weight, blood glucose, A1C, blood pressure and your temperature. And a list of injuries. Then you can shower.”
It doesn’t take long for them to determine that while Nico’s a pretty normal height for his age, he weighs far too little. (“We’ll have to be careful about that, make sure you don’t get re-feeding syndrome. You were starved, right?” “What’s that?” “I’ll tell you later. Trust me, you don’t want to know. It’ll make you not want to eat.”)
It’s refreshing that Will doesn’t seem to judge him for the state of his body, what with the visible bones, pallid skin tone and more bruises and wounds than clear skin.
“You’re really in luck compared to mortals, you know,” Will says. “Most of the things I’ll be checking for now can be invasive. Blood draws and all that. I’ll have to touch you and I’ll get all the information I need. Better and faster than a normal doctor, that’s for sure.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Nico says, trying to ignore how Will’s warm skin is touching his own. “Last time I went to a real doctor was in ‘37 to get cleared to move to Washington. Do you need those to move now? Proof of recovery cards?”
“For illnesses?” Will asks, taking one of Nico’s hands in his own and manipulating the finger and wrist joints. “Nah, I think we have vaccination record cards now. Same thing, really. Were you sick as a kid?”
“Just the normal stuff, I think,” Nico says. Then he thinks better of it. “I don’t know what would count as normal now.”
“Would you happen to know the names of any? English or Latin works. We probably have to get you vaccinated, unless you were vaccinated at any point?”
Nico shakes his head to the second question. “I had … pertosse? The cough. It was really common. Also polio, but mild. Bianca had tuberculosis, I don’t know if I did.”
“Demigods tend to be resilient to mortal illnesses, those diseases are all pretty bad.” Will sticks a thermometer in his mouth. “Whooping cough, polio, tuberculosis, got it. All of those have vaccines now. If you need to be vaccinated, we’re not doing that before you’ve gained some weight. Having ichor in your blood doesn’t prevent you from feeling the side effects of the jabs. The thermometer is just an extra precaution, by the way. When I’m this tired I sometimes get it wrong.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Nico finds himself asking once the thermometer is out. “No offence, Solace, you look dead on your feet. Pun not intended.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get a nap in once the sun goes down or something,” Will says easily. “It’s far calmer now than it was so I might actually have the time. Now, two more questions. And then the injury list. Who’s your next of kin?”
“Hazel,” Nico replies, shaking out his hands again. Screw the pain or infection or fading away being his worst symptoms, he could really do without the tingles in his hands. “Reyna as a second. I doubt dad would be too happy if you tried to contact him. He likes me enough, I think, but he’s also kind of a recluse. Not a big fan of demigods.”
“Got it,” Will says. “Yeah, sorry, I don’t want to have to talk to your father if I don’t have to. Okay, last question. Languages you speak and approximate degree of fluency.”
“Greek and Latin fluently,” Nico answers. “Duh. Italian. English. I can’t read either well, though. The letters float.”
“That’s the dyslexia,” Will says like Nico has any idea what that means. Same with that random jumble of letters earlier. The way he talks about it so casually implies that it’s just a Thing everyone knows of, but Nico hasn’t been around any demigod communities consistently enough to pick up the terminology. “That’s why Latin and Greek comes easier for you, it’s what your brain is wired for. So, you’re quadrilingual. That’s cool.”
Nico doesn’t respond. He hasn’t talked this much in days, weeks, possibly months. He feels wrung out and very ready for a shower. He is filthy.
“Major injuries, then,” Will says, snapping his fingers at a safe distance from his face. “Hey, Gloomy, you still with me?”
“Yeah,” Nico says but he doesn’t feel wholly convinced. “Go on.”
Will squints at him and reaches out to feel his cheek. “You’re low. Kayla!”
A second later, a girl with green and ginger hair pokes her head past the partition curtain. “Will?”
“Get me some dextrose tablets, please,” Will requests. “Seems the lack of eating has finally caught up to you. I’ll give you some sugar now to get you through the shower, but then you’ll have to eat something. Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow. If you eat too much too fast you’ll just get sicker.”
The girl — Kayla — comes back with a package that looks oddly similar to Hubba Bubba chewing gum and hands it to Will. “We’re running low on these, too.”
Will sighs, but he doesn’t sound surprised. “We’re low on everything right now. Write it on the list. I’ll hand it to Chiron by the end of the week and we’ll get it ordered.”
Something like guilt curls in Nico’s stomach. “You don’t have to…”
Will stares at him. “Don’t even start with that. You need these.” He hands Nico two of the tablets. “Remove the plastic and chew them thoroughly before you swallow. They should get your blood sugar back up within a few minutes.”
He doesn’t have anything to lose by not obeying. They’re an odd sort of sweet, with an artificial flavour of— “Is that lemon?”
“Yup,” Will says. “They come in more flavours, but lemon seems to be the universally liked one. Safer than blackcurrant in any case. There’s an unflavoured version, too, but it wasn’t in stock last time we ordered ‘em.”
Nico doesn’t know what to even say to that. So he doesn’t. He obediently chews the tablets and swallow them, ignoring the burning on his tongue.
“Right,” Will says. “Do you feel up to do the last part or do you want to wait for the dextrose to kick in?”
Nico shakes out his hands again, equally much a nervous tic as it is to get blood back into them. The tingling is driving him mad. Will frowns at him but doesn’t comment. “No it’s fine. Let’s get it over with.”
“Stand up for me,” Will requests, sending the stool he’d been sitting on careening towards one end of the room with a gentle kick. “I’ll have to touch you a bit, but I’ll tell you before I do it.”
Nico stands and blinks away the black spots. It’s by far not the worst dizziness he’s had in response to suddenly being vertical, but it’s almost like everything is hitting harder now that he’s in here. And isn’t that messed up?
“Fading away is obviously our biggest concern,” Will mutters halfway to himself, circling around Nico not unlike some kind of predator. “I’d be very happy if you could avoid using your powers at least for the three days you’re here. Unintentional use or passive skills you might have inherited can be excused, but I’d like you to make an effort. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Malnutrition isn’t a quick fix, either. We’ll work on that over a longer period of time and combat symptoms as they arise. Your body is too stressed right now to really feel the side effects of it, but as you come down from the combat mindset, you will. Work with us to help make it bearable, yeah? Now,” Will pulls a pair of gloves out of a drawer. “Infected werewolf scratches, you said?”
Nico moves one of the sleeves of his shirt up and exposes his bicep to Will, who sucks air in through his clenched teeth. “Reyna stitched them up in San Juan. I don’t remember it. I might have been unconscious or…”
“...too stressed to remember it, got it,” Will finishes. “I’ll just poke at them. I need to get an idea of how best to treat them. We’ll definitely have to restitch them, which won’t be nice.”
The pulsating, warm ache of the werewolf scratches almost feels less intense as Will gently moves around the area, checking the tightness of the stitches and degree of swelling. “For being on the run from a million and a half enemies and probably lacking equipment and a sterile area, she did a really good job with these,” Will says. “Then again, by infirmary standards, they’re shit. I’ll definitely have to redo them. Don’t worry, we do that slowly and with anaesthetic in here.”
“I don’t need pain meds for stitches,” Nico says quietly. He’s not weak. “I’ve been through worse.”
“That might be so,” Will says seriously, gesturing towards the pile of clothes and removing his gloves. “But don’t you think you’ve been through enough pain? Not everything has to hurt all the time, you know. Right, the rest of you is probably bruised to Hades and back and I can’t immediately feel any more major injuries, so we’ll start with the restitching after you’ve showered. Come with me.”
The shower room Will leads him to is plain, but has everything he could possibly need. As instructed, he dumps his shirt in the trash and the rest of the clothes into the laundry.
The shower itself is nothing like he’s ever seen before; slightly sunken into the floor with both a wooden bench against one wall and something pillow-like on the floor. On the wall are multiple dials in different heights to turn on the water and adjust the temperature. Several soap dispensers (also in different heights), helpfully labelled in English, Spanish and Ancient Greek. Nico guesses that a Latin translation will be added soon.
He might be the fearless demigod son of Hades, but Nico doesn’t take too long to realise that if he showers while standing upright he will faint and hit his head. And wouldn’t that be something. Sorry father, I know I survived multiple wars and starvation and also literal hell on earth. I didn’t mean for some yellow and blue bathroom tile to be my demise.
The water stings his wounds something awful and he has to run shampoo through his hair multiple times before it even starts sudsing up. He pretends not to notice how much hair is left on his hands when he runs through through his hair.
Washing his body goes much the same way, discovering dozens of bruises in various states of healing. He can see and feel every single one of his ribs. The wounds on his upper arms open through the scrubbing and blood and gunk and pus slowly run down his arm in skinny tendril-like rivulets.
The wounds desperately need to be cleaned and restitched, which will suck indescribably much. It’s not that he’s got an issue with needles. No, it’s just that nectar and ambrosia doesn’t seem to work as well on him. And Camp Half-Blood doesn’t stock unicorn draught.
It’ll have to be a problem for later. He’s here to sleep for three days, not be pain-free.
Getting out of the shower proves harder than expected and he ends up having to sit while getting dressed. As a courtesy to whoever cleans the bathroom, he tries to remove as much of his hair as possible from the drain.
The shirt Will had gotten from him is too big, but it’s a good thing. The sweatpants fit fine and the socks have a weird rubber underside to prevent him from slipping on the linoleum flooring of the infirmary. No doubt he won’t be walking around enough to really need shoes.
Attempting to dry his hair (which might be a lost cause, it’s making the lacerations on his arms burn something awful) sucks. Multiple of his ribs are definitely bruised or fractured. Ouch.
Then, he feels it. A feeling that only a week or two ago had returned after a marked absence from the world.
Someone on the brink of dying.
As fast as he can manage, he leaves the bathroom and flags down the closest child of Apollo (they’re so damn bright, it’s not exactly hard to find them).
“I need to talk to Will,” he says, distantly noting how the girl doesn’t at all seem intimidated by his presence. “Where can I find him?”
“Desk at the end of the room,” the girl says, pointing. “He was just waiting for you to be done showering. Something about werewolf scratches?”
The feeling intensifies.
“Well,” he mutters, more to himself than to the girl. “He might have to wait a bit with getting to look at them.”
Sure enough, Will’s there at the nurse’s station, flipping through some files. “Oh hey, Nico. Had a nice shower?”
Nico gets up as close to Will as he’s comfortable with and pitches his voice down low. “I promise I haven’t actively used any of my scary underworld powers, but that Demeter girl a few metres away from us will die if you don’t get in there in the next five minutes. She’s really struggling.”
Will stares at him, blinks twice, and then he’s suddenly on his feet. “Right,” Will says, entirely calm and focused. “Grab Kayla and Malcolm for me, will you? Green haired girl and the only kid of Athena not stuck in a bed.”
“Don’t spook her,” Nico warns. “Trust me when I say that it’ll just make it worse.”
Will grins at him, but it looks a little strained. No wonder, someone’s dying. “My bedside manners are impeccable. But thank you, Nico. I’ll get on that right away.”
Then he’s off and ducks behind a partition halfway down the room.
The presence of Death hangs in the air and Nico can only hope he’s been quick enough about warning Will. There’s been enough death recently. His dad will thank him too, for a slightly reduced workload.
There’s no guarantee that the healers will be able to bring her back from the edge, not with Thanatos lingering around, but it’s worth a try.
His hair is still sopping wet and his body aches like an open wound (better to feel the pain of being corporeal than to be fading into a puddle of nothingness).
Kayla is right where he’d left her a minute ago. “Will needs you,” he says simply. “Demeter camper. You can still save her if you hurry.”
“But she was fine this morning?!” Kayla says, suddenly looking frazzled. “Can people develop sepsis this suddenly?!”
Nico doesn’t have the answer for that and Kayla doesn’t stick around long enough to get one.
Lucky for him Malcolm is all the way at the other end of the room talking to Annabeth about … something.
“Will needs you,” he says again. “Demeter girl. I think you should hurry.”
Malcolm swears under his breath in a language Nico doesn’t recognise and quickly moves past him.
The aura of Death is getting strong now and Nico’s ears are starting to ring. The sleep deprivation and presence of Death appears to be a really, really bad combination.
“You look awful, Nico,” Annabeth says, holding out a hand as if to steady him. Ah, damn it. He leans towards her and lets her take some of the weight. “I’ll take you back to your bed. Point me to where it is?”
“I can walk on my own, you know,” Nico grumbles, but he does start towards the partition curtain hiding his own little section of the infirmary. “Just so you know. This is normal.”
“I’m sure,” Annabeth says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Come on, you look like you’ll fall asleep standing up. If you’d like, I’ll help you dry your hair. You look a bit like a drowned rat, no offence.”
“Gee, thanks,” Nico says, moving behind the partition curtain and flopping down on his bed. He doesn’t have the energy in him to even attempt to be graceful about it. “As long as you don’t pull my hair, go ahead.”
“I’ll stay in front of you,” Annabeth promises, picking up the spare towel from the foot of the bed. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t do well with anyone standing behind me after … well, you know.”
“I don’t want to talk about that place. If I do I won’t sleep,” Nico says. “That’s what I’m here to do, apparently.”
Annabeth dries his hair carefully, strand by strand without tugging. “I understand,” she says, quiet enough to be gentle, loud enough for her to be heard over the rustling of the towel. “We haven’t either, not yet. Besides, I’d imagine that Percy has enough on his plate, with what you told him earlier. Don’t worry, we don’t have to talk about that either.”
The ringing in his ears get louder as the presence of Death gets even stronger (how?). His breath gets frosty and his vision spotty enough that he ends up half-way collapsing against Annabeth’s stomach.
He didn’t use to be so sensitive to the presence of humans dying, but shadow travelling so much must have put him even more in tune with the movements of the Underworld.
“Oh, gods, are you okay?” Annabeth asks, but her voice is hard to hold onto and his fingers hurt like someone has stuck a thousand electrified needles into his skin. “Do I need to get anyone?”
“No,” he manages to get out. “They’re working on it. There’s a camper on the brink of death. Let them work.”
“I’m so sorry about this,” Annabeth says and Nico doesn’t know what’s happening until Annabeth’s suddenly grabbed him by the arms (just below the werewolf scratches, thank Hades) and hoisted him properly onto the bed. “Work with me here,” she mutters, more to herself than to Nico. “Just in case, I’m putting you in the recovery position. You’re shaking really badly.”
He doesn’t have it in him to argue about it, and through the haze of the world trying to tilt upside down on him, they manage to get his legs up on the cot. Annabeth procures a blanket from who knows where, and that helps a little, too.
“You’re so cold,” Annabeth murmurs. “Is that normal for you? You Big Three kids always have something weird with you. Percy’s blood is really weird for a demigod, you know. His blood pressure fluctuates with the weather and he needs to drink so much. His skin also gets super dry when he doesn’t shower…”
It’s nice that she’s rambling, Nico thinks as he tries to breathe through the pain and the discomfort.
And then, as suddenly as anything, Death vanishes from the infirmary. Nico chokes on his breath and coughs. It’s supremely uncomfortable, agitating the wounds in his throat left behind by the river of fire.
Not that his breathing has ever been good. Over the past few years, until the Phlegethon and the toxic air of the Pit, it had started to get better. But now it feels like he’s back to square one and maybe it’s a good thing that he’s still laying in the recovery position.
As all things do, the coughing fit eventually comes to an end. He sits up and just kind of looks at Annabeth, who’s now sitting at the same stool that Will had occupied earlier.
“I’m not weak,” he grits out, mentally wincing at how raspy and awful his voice sounds.
Annabeth frowns. “Is that what you really think I think of you? Nico, I’m sorry but, what the fuck?”
Nico doesn’t look at her, content to hide his face behind his hair. It’s still dripping a little.
“Nico,” Annabeth says firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. That incudes Percy. And Jason. You’ve went through enough stuff to last you multiple lifetimes and you’re not even fourteen yet. No one could ever accuse you of being weak.”
A pause. “In fact, I think you being here in the first place is a perfect example of your strength. Here in the infirmary, I mean.”
That makes him look up.
“You could have left,” Annabeth says, and she’s not being gentle about it, but her tone sounds kind all the same. “You could have asked your dad to bring you to the Underworld and recovered there, you could have hidden yourself away in your cabin, you could have shadow travelled away or…” she trails off and the implications aren’t lost on Nico. “My point is that you’re still here. And you’re in the infirmary, having your wounds tended to. I think that’s an admirable show of strength and bravery. Especially considering how you’ve been treated every time you’ve stayed here so far. It will change now. Maybe not right away, but it will. I’ll make sure of it. I swear it on the Styx.”
Thunder booms outside.
“You shouldn’t have sworn it like that,” Nico says quietly. “The Styx isn’t kind to those who break promises made on her.”
Annabeth’s eyes turn the colour of stainless steel and her voice is deadly serious when she speaks. “I won’t break it. That’s why I promised. It will get better. Camp Half-Blood will become a place you can call home, just like the rest of us. Promise me you’ll try?”
“I won’t swear it on the Styx,” Nico says with finality. He exhales, pulls up his knees to rest his head on them, ignoring how it makes his body ache. “But I’ll try. I promised Will three days in the infirmary.”
“And you best stay beyond that, too, Mr Death,” Will’s voice says as he shoulders past the partition curtain carrying a steel tray. “Oh, hi, Annabeth. Remind me to check your ankle after this, ‘kay?”
He places the tray down on the table and turns to look at Nico. “Hey, thanks for the warning. You saved the life of that camper. There was apparently a really slow-acting poison in her system that none of us picked up on. Thanks to you we managed to draw it out. Thank you.”
“Oh — no problem,” Nico says, slightly perplexed why Will would even thank him. Why wouldn’t he say something? “It’s good you did.”
Will takes a closer look at him and frowns. “You’re not dissolving again, are you? You’re somehow even paler than you were an hour ago.”
Nico doesn’t meet his eyes, electing instead to inspect the weave of the sweatpants. “I don’t react well to the presence of capital-D Death in the overworld. I used to, but…”
“I understand,” Will says, and it sounds like he really does. “We’ll stitch you up and then you can sleep. Annabeth can stay, if you’d like her to.”
Does he want her to? On one hand Nico’s kind of tired of people. He hasn’t really had a moment to himself since before entering the Pit. Not unless he counts the time spent in the crow’s nest on the Argo II.
Then again, Annabeth’s a solid presence. If she can engage Will in conversation he won’t have to participate. He’s rapidly running out of words.
And besides that, he finds that he trusts Annabeth to keep him safe. It’s not that he distrusts Will exactly. But Annabeth has known him him — or at least known of him — for almost four years now. She saved him time and time again. His defences haven’t seemed to push her away.
“You can stay,” he decides, settling down properly on the cot in a way that grants Will easy access to his upper arm — knees bent and a pillow between his chest and his thighs.
“It’ll take a while,” Will warns. “I’m good at stitching people up and I could get it done fast if we had to, but since it’s already been closed once, I’d rather be slow and careful. Don’t worry, I’ll numb it and if you need more pain relief we’ll give you more. Work with me, yeah?”
With some help from Will Nico manages to remove the frankly awfully-coloured camp shirt and the werewolf scratches are once again exposed to the world in their swollen, possibly infected glory. Annabeth settles on the foot of the bed, cross-legged after removing her converse.
The anaesthetic barely hurts and before long Nico is able to sink away from the real world into a half-conscious state. If he focuses, the real world is right there for him to tune back into, but this is comfortable, too, this complete inability to feel his body.
He’s half collapsed over the pillow, blinking in regular intervals as Will and Annabeth discuss … something. If he sinks just a bit deeper he might able to find Clovis, but that would probably violate the kind-of promise he made to not actively use any of his powers consciously.
So instead he just float, allows his body to relax as much as it’s able to while repeatedly stabbed by a needle.
Eventually he’s gently prodded by Will’s voice. “Hey, hey, Nico, you still with us? Does it hurt?”
Nico blinks and looks up at Will. “No,” he says, tired. “Just … I don’t know. Doesn’t hurt.”
“According to Jason he did this a lot on the Argo, too,” Annabeth says and Nico looks at her, too. The one downside to allowing himself to float away is that it does just replaces his brain with saturated cotton fluff. “He’d just sit in the crow’s nest on the mast for hours, entirely still, but allegedly awake.”
Will hums. “Look at me just a sec, Nico.”
Seeing his eyes and touching his wrist doesn’t appear to give Will any answers, but the furrow in between his eyebrows isn’t there, so it’s a fair guess that whatever Will had seen can’t have been that concerning.
“I’ll do your other arm, give you some ambrosia and food and then it’s off to dreamland with you, ‘kay?”
“Ambrosia doesn’t really work on me,” Nico says, half as an afterthought. Will, who had stood up and kicked the stool around to the other side of the bed, stops. “Unicorn draught from Camp Jupiter is better. But it still works. Just, not as well. It’s fine, really.”
Will removes his gloves and throws them into the waste bin with shocking accuracy. “Right. I’ll have to talk to the praetor about that. Or one of the Roman medics. There really isn’t any reason for ambrosia to have less efficacy for you, though, unless…”
Nico lets him ramble on under his breath and instead looks at Annabeth. “If you’d like,” she offers, “I can fetch Hazel for you? She should know.”
“Hazel should know,” Nico confirms.
“Don’t forget to let me check your ankle!” Will says, noting something down on the clipboard. “Really, walking on a broken ankle for a week and then not getting it re-fractured and set properly. What were you thinking?”
Annabeth finishes tying her converse and glares at Will. “I was busy saving the world. I’m sorry, Mr Head Medic, that being in Tartarus and then going through the House of Hades before hurrying back over to the States didn’t give us the peace to heal my ankle properly.”
With that she storms out of the infirmary cursing under her breath in Ancient Greek.
Nico stares at Will. “What the hell. Why would you say that?”
Will looks absolutely horrified. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll apologise to her the moment she’s back. Sometimes I just have thoughts like that because — it’s really not malicious, I promise. It’s just … try to see it from my view, Nico, it would be the least painful option with the best outcome. I know it wasn’t feasible, I really didn’t say it judgementally. I just … by the gods, Nico, I wish that demigods weren’t in situations where they can’t be healed. That ankle will never return completely to normal, even with divine means. And that … that kind of means I failed, doesn’t it?”
By Hades. Is there such a thing as just one mentally stable and healthy demigod?
“In what world would Annabeth falling into the Pit mean you failed? Is your ego that inflated? Get over it. It happened and it’s over and done with. You can’t go back in time to fix it and you can still do something for it, clearly.”
Will tries for a smile, but it’s weak. “You’re right, ghost boy. Thanks. Now, let’s get your arm done. The other one didn’t hurt too bad, did it? Just a reminder, if you need more lidocaine, it’s there for you.”
Nico allows himself to drift again just as the anaesthetic is gently lathered onto his arm. It’s cold, he realises, but it’s counteracting the heat of the scratches well. The steady snip, snip, snip of the scissors cutting through the old sutures lets him fall down, down down.
He’s further down in his subconscious now and the misty space from earlier is replaced by something that might be his brain’s best recreation of his childhood home in Venice. Standing next to the lit fireplace is a large armchair, where his mamma used to read him childhood stories and later helped him stumble through some of Dante’s Inferno. Wooden toys litter the floor. On the dining table, a children’s embroidery project.
It’s a comforting space, this place. The real world doesn’t really exist to him here and it allows him to stay safe from his mind’s difficult depths as well as challenges of existing with a physical body in the real world.
It feels like no time has passed at all before he hears Annabeth’s voice again, muffled and kind of odd. Will says something and Annabeth says something in reply and she doesn’t sound mad anymore. Something metal clinks down on the table on his right, but Nico doesn’t allow it to bring him out of the haze.
Then, Will’s voice reaches him and Nico reluctantly looks up, sleepy. How long has it been since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep? How long has it been since he slept in a normal bed? Two months?
Will (gloveless, suturing tray gone) is smiling (though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes) and holding out a simple dark chocolate protein bar. “If you can finish that I’ll let you go back to sleep. It’s not a lot, but it’ll sustain you until dinner.”
He unwraps the plastic and takes a bite. It’s good, an interesting enough texture that he doesn’t want to be repulsed by it, but not so sweet that it’s inedible. Most of what he’s eaten since before his trip into the Pit has been sweets; quick carbs meant to keep him going more so than to actually nourish him.
“You said something about — something with food earlier,” Nico says in-between bites. He’s so exhausted, but also curious. Before … before everything had gone down, he’d been so curious, so intent on learning everything. “What was that?”
Will frowns. “Are you sure you want to know about that right now? Because no offence, if you weren’t chewing right not, I’m not sure you’d still be conscious.”
“You’ve still got like, two minutes,” Nico points out. He’s not exactly the fastest eater. “Plus, I’ve probably heard worse.”
Will shrugs. “Fair point. Basically, I’m worried about you getting some form of re-feeding syndrome. It’s a really severe electrolyte imbalance in, well, starvation victims. Which, yes, you count as one. It’s not just prisoners of war or anorexic people. If you eat too much without us interfering, your heart will stop and you’ll die painfully. Apparently there were some anecdotes some decades ago about patients’ stomachs exploding? That’s the short of it. That’s not going to happen here, so we’ll monitor you over the next few days and you’ll take a lot of supplements for your heart, just in case. How do you feel about pills?”
Nico shrugs. He can swallow them.
“Re-feeding syndrome can be pretty bad,” Annabeth adds. “But it can be treated. I … I had it, when I was seven. Right after I came to camp. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, if you’d like.”
Nico nods and finishes off the last of the protein bar.
“We’ll keep you alive,” Will says. “Promise. Now you get to take a nap. You’re dead on your feet, di Angelo.”
The barest sparks of anxiety light up in him and Will must have seen that on his face, because he quickly tacks on, “Don’t worry. We’ll wake you up for shift changes and there’ll always be someone here. You’re safe here, Nico, even if you can’t realise it yet.”
Annabeth gets up from where she’s been leaning on the wall. “Would it help if one of us stayed with you? Because it really wouldn’t be an issue.”
“No, it…” Nico stares at his hands., resiting the urge to tug at his hair. This is embarrassing. “It’s okay. I can manage. It’s fine.”
He’s done being vulnerable today, and to be quite honest, quite done with being awake. If he can manage to sink down deep enough he might be able to find Clovis and have him properly force him off to sleep.
He lays down (on his back, he’s not about to irritate the freshly stitched wounds) and closes his eyes.
Vaguely, he hears the shuffle of the partition curtain. Then he’s alone.
For a moment, he just breathes. Then, he lets the fog of his mind drag him away.