Work Text:
He could barely even begin to count the reliefs that flooded him, one after the other, ever since they've shadow traveled onto the Mediterranean grass.
First was the sun. Instant, unyielding warmth against his skin, convincing him he is whole, still. Spreading across the surface of his body until he was certain every part was still attached, solid, despite aching. Between everything, he had no time to comprehend just how scared he was he will never feel the sun on his skin. Gods, he did not want to die in darkness.
He had never tasted anything more wonderful then Leo's plain cheese sandwiches that had gotten soggy in aluminium wraps, the makeshift lunch shared by nine exhausted heroes. He looks at their faces, so unbearably young, and thinks just how scared he wasn't he wouldn't see them again, too. It would be strange, probably, to try an hug them, squeeze them all to his chest, at once, so instead he just eats his sandwich, honest to god tears up at the taste of real food.
He hadn't realised how thick the poison he was breathing was until it was replaced by the sea breeze, either.
Gods, the sea.
Fields of olive trees coated the hills, which, by the beach, turned to stone, turned into sand, met slow warm waves. If he focused, he could feel each grain of sand rolling in the push and pull of his fathers work. Here, along these coasts, he understood how the ancient greeks were more inclined to believe in the gods.
After saying their goodbyes to Reyna, Nico and Coach, his friends shuffled in practiced ease aboard the Argo, wordlessly completing chores with a sort of mindless peace. Percy's hands flew over the ropes themselves, before Jasons arm on his stopped him. His friend looked at him like he'd gone mad "Dude, we've got it. Frank and Hazel are waiting for you two in the medical wing."
Right. He glanced down at himself. The ambrosia he had been given right as they left underground has done its job, but a myriad of cuts and bruises still covered his body. His shirt was barely a shirt at this point, and he hadn't looked in the mirror for a terrifyingly unknown amount of time. Jason claps his shoulder with concerned expression, so exhaustingly delicate around Percy, the son of Poseidon cant even meet his eye. Doesn't want to be confronted with the grief in them, the worry.
Annabeth was waiting behind Jason, in soft conversation with Piper, the brunette's head leaning against Annabeth's shoulder. She had cried so much, and Percy finds within all his pain space for a pang of guilt, for leaving all their friends to worry for their seemingly hopeless quest. Sure, he'd just suffered through hell- but it couldn't have been easy, making it to the doors in time, with the weight of the world on their shoulders, either.
Percy hooked a pinky around Annabeth's. "Let's go?"
She looked up at him, a bit startled, then shook herself out of it, settling for a nod, sending a small smile to Piper as they part.
Percy smiled, genuinely, when on the way to the medical, Leo explained how they'd be sailing rather then flying around Greece. He felt that part of him, that part that was more his father than his mother, cradling the ship from under it, awaiting to bend at his will. Sometimes, the seas respect for him was terrifying. Now, the promised power surrounding him, ancient and wild and home, home as much as Montuk and the Hudson, promised protection. The fact that he could topple foes with a flick of his wrist, here, in his terrain, used to be gutting, horrifying. But now, if it meant everyone aboard this ship stayed safe, he'd let all that mortifying power he harbours snap, let it shake the mountains and the waves.
He squeezed Annabeths hand in his. Hoped she felt it too, in the summer air and steady sound of cicadas, the comfort of this home from another life. Her gaze is far away, but she squeezes back.
They dare feel normal at the infirmary, as Hazel and Frank help check both of them over for injuries. Frank pours too much rubbing alcohol over Percy's scraped knee, and he curses. A scandalised laugh rips out of Hazel, and Percy is taking the bottle from Frank muttering about murder attempts against his preator. Frank quips he outranks Percy now, and Annabeth looks at them with that look of hers, so clearly as endeared as annoyed.
When Percy trows a pack of bandages at Hazels head, Annabeth laughs, and as long as that sound's here Percy thinks, in a haze.
As long as that sound hasn't left them. As long as her smile reaches far enough to crinkle her eyes and show her teeth, as long as he gets to keep making it bubble out of her.
They're sent to get a change of clothes and shower, neither Frank nor Hazel daring to tell them how they are to go about that. And, in front of the bathroom, clutching clean clothes and toiletries, Percy realises just how badly he doesn't want her out of his sight yet. The comfort of relief from their return is losing significance, the sea air and the cicadas and the warmth of the mortal world all fading into normality.
He's miles away from his home- the place he calls home confidently and clearly. Yet, if it weren't for these homes he'd found aboard this ship, in this bay, he wonders if he'd be as steady on his legs as he is. If it weren't for his friends' voices down the hallway, if it weren't for the fatherly lull of the ship, if it werent for Annabeth and her laugh, he thinks he might wither to dust in the air, might let go of the white knuckled hold scraping at his humanity.
"I dont..." Annabeth starts out slowly, eyeing the bathroom door, and Percy tries to tell her with his eyes. Tell her that she can- should- say whatever is on her mind. Should give him any and every direction she can manage. A single word out of her is all it would take- he would run down a mountain and drop to his knees just to tie her shoelace. "I don't want to be alone."
"Yeah," He sighs "Me neither."
If, just mere weeks ago, you told Percy his heart would be beating this steady as he prepared to step into the bath along Annabeth, that he would be so calm about it, he would have told you you've lost your mind. If it was regular battle grime they were preparing to wash off, maybe it would have been different. But as they shuffle around the bathroom, undressing and moving around each other, arranging clean towels and changes of clothes, it just feels dangerously domestic- warm, and familiar, and safe, after everything, at last, he lets himself feel safe.
Under the still-shut shower head, his eyes trace down her body, as they had before, but this time, with grief behind them. They trace down angry reads and purples, grime and sweat and dust. Dust still on her skin, on his skin, dust that fell through his sword and splattered around them. Still on his skin, monster corpses.
Through the years, he had grown used to seeing her soft skin covered in grime. Her lack of reluctance towards getting her hands dirty was something he liked about her, though her beautiful in battle, blood pumping high and eyes bright, deserving of the daughter of the war goddess.
And maybe she did look like that, these past few days, determined to move forward, drag them out of that place, for the sake of them, and for the sake of this world in which they live in. But now, naked in the shower, finally alone, finally safe, the dirt and bruises make her look defeated, lost, and something in her eyes seems broken. And, gods, he will spend the rest of his life if he has to, making it whole again.
He is overcome with the urge to scrub it off, the dust still clinging to them, reveal the lovely, pale skin she holds underneath, and Annabeth understands, because of course she does. "You ready?" She says, hand hovering over the tap. He nods.
All the fading reliefs come back to him tenfold, and, water glistening against his skin, he's genuinely scared he might break down sobbing from the intensity of it all. But Annabeth's hand is on his arm and the water is warm against his skin and remaining standing is suddenly no longer a chore. It spills down him, seeping strength back into his veins, sewing his cuts shut.
He wishes more than anything that he could give this gift to Annabeth. He wonders how many offerings to his father he would have to burn for him to wash away Annabeth's bruises too.
He sees the wobble in her legs, the exhaustion catch up to her under the warmth, and he's guiding her to sit on the designated tiled seat of the huge bathtub before she has the chance to say a word, positioning her directly under the pour of water from the built in shower head above. He sits down on the bench next to her, knees pressed together.
The water starts pooling at their feet, warm and calm, like the push and pull. Annabeths head is tilted towards the descending drops. She swipes her hands down her face, lets them soak into her matted curls, and Percy reaches behind her head to gently untie the piece of fabric that was holding her hair together, tossing it to the side of the tub. He untangles it gently, spreads out the matted curls out from their ponytail. Theres tiny droplets collecting on her eyelashes as she watches him pour her shampoo generously into his hand, clumsy like a boy. The bottle was right where she left it, like she'd used it just days before. He supposes she must have.
His fingers are steady on her scalp, sneaking between strands and rubbing out the grime. He tries to imagine it came from the surface, that the dust is from the same dirt and mud they'd known all their lives. The undersides of his fingernails grow clear from the shampoo, and he imagines what washes away is mud from the dewy grass at half-blood hill. He pretends its not red, he pretends its not all so red.
She's leaning heavy into his palms, eyebrows relaxing at last, drinking in his touch. She blinks slowly, eyes closing while she breathes in, and if they were leaking tears, he couldn't tell from the water anyway. He feels those eyes glued to his face, too, to his cheek where her thumb is swiping at now-wet dust.
He's never washed hair this long before, but he supposes it didn't matter, it's state would be unusual even for her. And he prefers she doesn't see it, doesn't have to work out the blood from her hair by herself. Instead, his fingers work through her curls as hers work out the grime from his skin, until long blonde strands are shining again, soft in consistent patterns against her back. He swipes a hand down the small of her back, too, removes the dirt that pooled there, dropping from her hair. He brings them around, down her hip bones, slowly avoiding a particularly nasty cut the ambrosia still hasn't fixed, draping from her ribs to her naval. He doesn't remove his hands until his thumbs have rubbed off all the soot he can see on her torso. In turn, her own hands do the same to his shoulders, his chest, massaging down the knots in his neck in the meanwhile.
"Your turn," Her voice is small and raspy, like she hasn't used it in days rather then minutes, and Percy slides his body down, down from the bath seats and onto its floor, the water thats been collecting now reaching to his chest. He inhales deeply, the comfort of water so overwhelming after the fiery rivers and poisonous liquids he's been working with down there.
She works through his hair sowly, methodically across his scalp, from his hairline to the back of his ears, her nails scratching against his head like they do so often, back home, back in peace, when his head is in her lap, in the shade on the grass near the training grounds. Now, he's leaning back against her knees, and his right hand is reaching over across his waist, gripping onto her left ankle, rubbing circles on it with his thumb. Making sure its still there. Making sure its soft skin and hard muscle and not just bone.
He shudders at how sweet her touch is, tries to sink back into it, fall completely into her until their souls are merged and he never has to leave here, never has to leave this moment. This moment, where they've allowed themselves a night of peace.
When they climb back out of the shower, steam swimming in the air, he wraps her towel around her, too- and that might have been overkill, maybe. She could put her own towel around herself, thank you very much. But the need to cherish her, to wrap her up like a sacred antique, wins over. He doesn't put it above her chest, but around her shoulders, and she looks so uncharacteristically small as she looks up at him, he wants to hold her to his chest until its all over, until its all passed and nothing can harm her.
They could never do it without her. Not the last war, not this one, not any measly quest he's done over the years- none of it would have worked without her. They need her. But, selfishly, he thinks, does the world truly need her more than he does?- without her, the world would be in shambles. And yet, without her, he feels he would be worse than in shambles.
But as he kisses her forehead, both their bodies finally clean, finally soft- the images he sees behind his eyelids every time he blinks, of hollow cheeks and corpse costumes, get easier to handle. Because when his eyes are open, hers are the correct shade of gray. Her cheeks are rosy from the steam, and theres a stubborn curl by her temple that's already half dry and frizzing up against her forehead, and shes unmistakably alive.
•••
The initial shock had washed away, and Annabeth wasn't sure if she preferred it this way. Now, aboard the ship, where they were whole and breathing and allowed to play safe, if for a night, the weight settled on her back more firmly. Guilt, suffocating, and bitter, and bottomless, pulled at her gut. Her fingers shook while she pulled on plaid pyjama pants and one of Percy's shirts, taking them out from under her pillow, precisely where shed left them.
Amongst everything shes angry at, a part of her, stupidly, is angry at every unknowing creature, every unmoving object. Everything that keeps on being the same, unharmed, unaware. Everything that stayed precisely in the same place, like the world hadn't been turned upside down.
She has so much anger, with no where to put it, no where to keep it but on herself.
Percy doesn't get into bed immediately, and instead, after pulling a clean shirt on, sits on the edge of the bed. He sits over the covers, and he doesn't notice his hands are gripping at the mattress. She sits down next to him, turns his face gently towards her, away from where his eyes were burning holes into the floor. Watches them soften when they meet hers. His hands move to hold onto her torso, and he places another kiss on her forehead.
"Sometimes," She's swiping her fingers, still shaking, though a strand of his hair, fingertips dusting at the gray hairs that stand in bright contrast against his black curls "I wish I could read your mind."
Percy gives her a small smile, crinkles in his eyes sad "Sometimes, I think you can."
Absentmindedly, she wonders if the silver streak had gotten more visible since their return aboard the Argo II. Just days ago, it seemed to have been fading. (It's only been days.)
"I wish I didn't have to guess."
His eyebrows are furrowed and the gleam in his eyes is so sincere, so open, Annabeth thinks her knees might have buckled under her, had she not been sitting on the hard mattress. "You just have to ask, Wise Girl." He finds her hand in his hair, holds it down against his cheek. Her thumb swipes gently over the darkened skin under his eye. His eyes close as he melts into the touch.
"It's all yours anyway." He says into her palm, places a kiss to the middle of it.
At this, warmth dares spread through her. Their heads, already so close to each other, bump together, Percy's temple against her cheek.
When your boyfriend is telling you, repeatedly, how he would do anything for you, anything to keep you together, anything to protect you from harm, the only source of fear for a regular teenage girl would be that he is lying. A regular girl would worry he isnt honest. That it was too good to be true. That, maybe, he doesn't even know hes not honest. That he wont keep his promise.
But Annabeth is all but a regular girl. And Percy is all but dishonest. That doesn't frighten her. What seeps fear into her, deep into her bones and rattles her core, is that he will keep his promise. He has kept it. He's been taking hits and falling from heights for her since that day at The Arch, all those years ago. It heavy within her, the knowledge that nothing could save him where he is now, drowning in her damp hair. Not her begging, not her leaving, not her dying.
"Im sorry." Is all she can manage against his temple.
When he glances up at her, his eyes glossy, there's a kind of frustration on his face. If she hadn't known better, she'd think it was anger- but this was something different altogether. Annabeth feels herself come closer to breaking.
He's raising his head upwards "Please stop saying that." He pleads, and its so raw Annabeth can feel it in her own throat, scraping.
Completely against her will, tears threaten to spill from her eyes. Sobs and shivers are gathering, ready to pass through her, ready to leave her. Her eyes glisten. She doesn't let them spill, even when her whole body is aching for it.
"No, Annabeth, listen." His hand is trying to cup her cheek, now. She's barely letting him, shaking her head no against the sobs that threaten to wreck through her. Like shes holding it all by one thread. Like he'll snap it loose with the tenderness behind his touches. She stands up, standing a step in front of him. Sea green eyes follow her every move.
"I, you- You wouldn't have-" She swipes her hands over her dry face, shifting in place in frustration. It's not often she finds herself at a loss for words. Yet, where does she even begin to find the right ones, here?
You wouldn't have fallen, if not for me. Neither of us would have fallen had I cut the web, had I noticed it.
The weight that is crushing me now is never going to go away. The horrors we've seen are getting even harder to comprehend than they were right in front of my eyes. And you're feeling it all as well, carrying it all with me, again, heavier then the whole sky.
Holding everything I am, because of me.
Does the sound haunt you too? Metal against stone, echoing through the horrible terrain. Do you hear it too, the sound of Riptide falling? We've heard it a thousand times before, bronze on the ground. But this sound is different. Its the shape of fear.
Every time I see you holding it, I fear its going to slip again. I fear I made you lose your grip.
"It made sense, Beth. For the quest, for our chances. One person couldn't survive down there." He reasons, breaking through her spiralling thoughts. (Insanely, Annabeth thinks he might hear them.)
He's speaking softly, like there's something in the room he should not wake "Stop putting it all on yourself,"
"Percy,"
"No, you- you keep saying stuff like that, ever since we've gotten back. Thinking that. That- that I jumped in after you." He combs fingers through his hair. It falls messy against his forehead "When you know it made sense. That it was the only way. I know you know. Thats, like, your thing."
Something shifted in Annabeths reddened eyes, then. Something like a challenge- to dare oppose her on this. More tears threatened to overspill "Look me in the eye Percy."
He does, and theres so much swirling behind them she almost flatters. (She doesn't.)
"Look me in the eye and tell me," She swallows, and her voice keeps getting these annoying cracks in it, the dam within her threatening to break "That if the situation had been different. If it hadn't made sense for the quest, for The Doors. Tell me- Tell me you would have let me go."
Percy's eyebrows are downcast. His gaze grows soft, and the argument in his eyes shifts slowly into an apology.
His eyes shift into an apology, and he doesn't say anything. And somehow that's an answer in itself.
It overflows, finally. Tears spill out of Annabeth, hot and heavy and late. She tries to respond, to articulate, but she cant get words past her sobs anymore. Percy's hand is in her hair, guiding her head towards his shoulder. Her face fits like a puzzle in the nook between his neck and his shoulder, and his arms lock themselves tightly around her. Her legs are in his lap, her shoulders shake and her hands trash weakly against his torso "You fucking idiot."
"Im sorry," Is all he knows to whisper into her hair, all he knows is to hold her tighter, like they're still falling.
"You cant," she sobs, arms lightly hitting against his chest "You cant go through hell for me."
"Im sorry. I would. Im sorry Wise Girl," His hands keep combing through blonde strands, and Annabeths own slowed to a still, kunckles white, clutching at his shirt.
"You cant be willing to do that, Percy." She says weakly into his shoulder, in between sobs that grow softer.
"Im sorry. I'd do it all again, love. Im sorry."
Tomorrow, their friends will smile at them carefully, trying to hide the myriads of questions behind their eyes. They will dance around them, feeling around for how much space exactly they need to be given. And Percy and Annabeth, they will insist that it's fine. They will listen to stories of adventures they've missed, and eat the largest breakfast any demigod so far has. The weight of once more bearing the fate of the world will settle back firm onto them, chase away their grief for the sake of the quest.
Tonight, Annabeth's hands clutch at Percy's, holding one over hers, one over his chest. His hair sticks to his face from a nightmare, and their hearts beat steadily into his palms. While his breathing calms, Annabeth is still reminding him. "Still together, see? Still beating."