Archive of Our Own

A tear is only water

A sigh is only air

Whenever you feel haunted

The truth lies out there 

- Delain

New York was colder than Percy remembered for late November. 

The wind off the East River cut sharp, carrying that tang of salt beneath the smog Percy had grown up with: the kind that nipped at your ears and nose but still smelled faintly of the ocean if you stood close enough to the water. The sidewalks glittered with a thin frost that couldn't melt in the mornings. Thanksgiving break had filled the city with the familiar crowds and chatter, the holidays bringing everyone back together.

Percy had always liked this time of year, the city bracing hard for winter,- like a kid clinging to their mom’s leg on the first day of school.

Annabeth, on the other hand, likes it less. 

She insists on tugging her jacket tighter around herself, more out of habit than cold, just to show the weather her discontentment... and perhaps to also see the knowing soft smile grow on Percy’s face as he takes her hand and slips both into his pocket, like he’s totally buying her whole ‘I’m cold’ excuse. 

But don’t tell anyone that.

Anyway, they’d come back to the city for what was supposed to be a normal holiday visit: dinner with Sally and Paul, helping Percy’s dad patch up a leaky pipe in the bathroom (Percy’s job, obviously), pay camp a little visit, and enjoy a few days of pretending normalcy, as if they were just two college students on break instead of the two prophecy-worn battered demigods who had barely survived to their 18th year of age. 

So far, it had been almost boring. Almost. And she was actually glad for it. Had been loving it, really.

But that night, Annabeth wakes up to an empty bed.

At first, she thinks Percy’s in the bathroom. His side of the bed is still warm, the baby blue sheets kicked halfway to the floor like always. His room is, undeniably, a mess that apparently not even Sally Jackson has managed to tackle during their first semester at New Rome University. Annabeth finds it funny, because amidst the chaos Percy always knows where everything is. His room is just so much like him, she can’t help but love it, even if the urge to organize is always slightly there.

Realizing she’d just given in to her restless, hyperactive mind, Annabeth focuses again on the empty side of the small bed. She frowns, trying to hear the toilet flush or water running in the sink.

However, after a few minutes of silence unease creeps in, and the years have taught her to always listen to her gut. So she sits up, rubs her eyes, and turns on the tiny reading light on the bedframe Percy had bought just for her.

No sound. No light. Not even the faintest, distant creak of floorboards.

Then she jumps.

Her heart stutters from the fright, not having expected to find him so close, in the room itself. But there Percy is. Standing barefoot by the window. He’s as silent and still as one of Medusa’s statues, and the thought immediately bitters her saliva. Obviously, it’s not the case, but Annabeth still doesn’t like the comparison.

If all demigods suffer from hyperactivity and ADHD, then Percy is one of the worst cases she’s ever known. He can hardly stand somewhere, without shifting or absentmindedly twiddling his fingers, scuffing his shoes, rubbing his neck. 

“Percy?”

The moonlight catches the edges of his dark hair, painting him silver-blue. His hand is rested against the glass, fingers pressing slightly, as if caught mid-thought. His eyes are wide open, but unfocused, the green looking misty with the light.

“Percy?” She whispers again, stepping closer.

No answer.

Annabeth’s frown deepens. She shuffles to his side, also barefoot, the chill of the night settling on her bed-warm skin. When he doesn’t so much as acknowledge her, Annabeth places a hand on his shoulder.

And she jumps again.

Cold. 

Far too cold for someone who’d just been asleep.

Hades, far too cold for someone living!

“Percy, come on. What’s going on? You’re freaking me out, Seaweed Brain.”

Still nothing. He doesn’t so much as blink.

That gets her. He hasn’t blinked once, she notices. Not once. This is wrong, she can feel it. Reality is off, though it often is at these hours of the night. Could it be her? Maybe she’s dreaming?

No. She knows a dream when she has one.

Maybe he’s messing with her?

No. He wouldn’t do something like that.

Annabeth grits her teeth, her grip tightening with concern, and shakes him gently, though enough to jostle anyone awake.

That’s when his lips move, eyes still unnervingly unblinking, and Percy whispers: so faint she almost misses it.

“Almost there.”

Her throat closes up.

It’s Percy’s voice, but thinner somehow, soft and slurred, threaded with something hollow. His tone is pitched wrong, like a familiar song played in the wrong key. She knows it. She knows it because she knows his voice better than her own heartbeat.

Her chest tightens.

“Almost where?” She asks, but he doesn't reply. 

Her mind leaps for explanations. No way he’s joking, no way he’s trying to scare her like this. Percy’s pranks always come with a grin, with some spark in his eyes. These eyes are open but unseeing, wet and shiny yet somehow dull, far away. Maybe he’s dreaming, talking in his sleep. 

Sleepwalking. That has to be it. 

People’s voices changed when they were halfway under, didn’t they? That explained the eerie cadence, the strange words. She clings to the thought because it is the only rational one. Except… Well, Percy’s never sleepwalked. Not once. Not even through nightmares, not even after quests that left him bleeding and half-dead. He’s never mumbled like this before, never strung words together so clearly in his sleep.

Albeit unlikely, it could start at any time for anyone… right? It’s normal, somewhat. 

Logic says it could be normal. Her gut says nothing about this is normal.  

His feet shift slightly then, the first twitch of movement she’s seen him do, angling toward the window as if he means to step right through it. That’s also when she notices his bare feet are wet. Saltwater pools around them, darkening the floorboards beneath him. She watches the puddle grow, until it reaches the tips of her own toes. She knows it’s saltwater because the scent is strong: sharp, briny, undeniable. Percy always carries the faint tang of the sea, subtle, familiar, like wind off the shore. But this? This is different. Almost overwhelming, like he’d dragged half the Atlantic in with him. Heavier, almost suffocating, like pressing her face against seawater itself. Except… they are indoors. And dry. Obviously.

Well, mostly dry…

Annabeth’s pulse roars in her ears. She’s aware you shouldn’t wake up a sleepwalker, or perhaps that’s but a myth, (overall she hasn’t had much free time to dwell on that particular topic). It’s just that this is freaking her out. He’s freaking her out. And something tells her she needs to pull him back to her, that he’s not safe. 

So she grips his shoulder harder, shaking him again.

“Percy! Wake up! Come on!”

This time, his head jerks slightly and his eyes finally blink, slow and unfocused like he’d just surfaced from heavy anesthesia. He doesn’t jump, doesn’t scream in surprise. Instead, his whole body sways, like he isn’t used to standing upright, and as she steadies him, he brings up a hand to rub at his temple.

“Annabeth?” His voice is raw, dry, like he’d swallowed too much salt air. But it’s the right voice again. His voice.

Relief floods her so fast her knees almost buckle. Still steadying him, Annabeth gently and warily tugs him away from the window and back to the bed, where she forces him to sit down and she kneels, analysing.

“You were sleepwalking,” she breathes, pressing his damp, chilled hands between hers. “You scared me.”

Percy’s brow furrows as he looks down at the soaked bottom of his pajama pants and wet feet, confusion shadowing his face. “I did? I don’t remember.”

Annabeth brushes the hair from his damp forehead, heart still hammering against her ribs.

“Probably just a particularly freaky nightmare,” she says quietly, even though she can’t help stealing careful glances at the puddle of water on the floor by the window. “We’ve both had worse.”

He nods slowly, still dazed, and leans into her shoulder with the same exhausted trust he always does after awaking from nightmares, the same she does when it’s her having them. 

Annabeth wraps her arms around him, trying to help his skin gather some heat again, and rubs his arm. He doesn’t seem to be shivering, but the cold feeling is just too upsetting for her. She holds him until his breathing evens out, until his head grows heavier against her collarbone.

“Did I wake anyone?” He worries.

Annabeth snorts, a tiny thing only he could pull out of her in such a moment. But she shakes her head, no. “Maybe you’d sleep better after a quick shower?”

He agrees, obviously, but is fairly quick with it, for someone who can take hours in a bathtub. She watches him return to the room, willing his hair dry so it won’t bother her by accidentally wetting her pillow. He pauses, frowns at the pool of water, and wills it away as well. Annabeth feels a bit better at that. 

Still, when they finally lay back down, she doesn’t let go of his hand once.

...

The next morning, Percy wakes up looking like nothing had happened. 

Annabeth had caught herself cataloguing his every detail the moment his eyes blinked open: the color on his face, the easy rhythm of his breathing, the relaxed line of his shoulders. He looked normal. He looked maddeningly normal, in truth. Which almost made her wonder if she’d imagined it all, the strange tone in his voice, the way he’d sleepwalked.

And even if she hadn’t, people did sleepwalk, after all. It happened. A sleepwalking son of Poseidon would probably do more than the regular mortal too, say, create a whole puddle of sea in his childhood bedroom. 

Maybe she was overanalyzing, making shadows out of nothing. 

She huffs, watching him close his eyes again and smush his face into another side of the pillow. Almost insulting, considering how she’d spent the night wound tight, pulse pounding, watching him like a hawk. Percy Jackson could apparently terrify her in his sleep and still wake up drooling on the pillow, hair sticking out at every angle, as if the world had no right to bother him.

His usual lopsided grin appears over pancakes at Sally’s kitchen table, and he makes some dumb joke about dream-surfing. Even if he doesn't deserve it (okay, yes, he does, that’s just the lack of sleep talking), Annabeth still watches him for any lingering signs, but he looks fine. A little pale, maybe, but that isn’t new in November.

So she lets it slide.

They spend the day wandering the city, grabbing coffee near Battery Park, talking about school, about their friends, about anything but monsters and gods. Percy challenges her to a game: who can spot the silliest outfit in the city first. Annabeth rolls her eyes but plays along. Between a man in full cardboard armor, a woman strutting past in a neon tutu, and someone else who looks suspiciously like they’d just raided a Christmas store a bit early, it isnt a hard game to play in New York. 

“Look, that guy’s juggling bowling pins in a dinosaur suit? He’s so winning this round.”

For a while it really does feel normal, and they both laugh their asses off way too hard.

But that night, she wakes up again.

And the bed is cold. Empty.

She sits up faster this time, scanning the room, the same creeping dread curling up her spine.

Except, this time she doesn’t need to turn on the little light to know where he is. The window is wide open, and the sound of the city night leaks in shamelessly: car horns, the faraway wail of sirens, and something else. The faint clang of metal.

She bolts for the window.

There, stark against the yellow glow of the streetlamps, Percy’s standing barefoot in his pajamas on the fire escape, one hand gripping the slippery, dripping wet rail (it’s not raining), his body tilted dangerously forward. The thin, rusted platform creaks under his weight. 

Unlike last night, he’s moving. He’s moving alright. Like a toddler, a blind toddler, his movements slow and uncoordinated. His arm, the one not gripping the railing, hangs loosely at his side, fingers twitching as if reaching for something unseen. His feet shuffle cautiously, no doubt a little scraped by the metal grid beneath him, each step deliberate yet uncertain, as if he’s unsure of the ground's solidity. 

Percy’s toes find the edge of the metal floor, and for a fleeting second it seems like he might tumble right over the side.

Annabeth sees all this in about a second, (thank you, ADHD), because this time she doesn’t pause to softly call for him, no, she doesn’t hesitate.

“Percy!” Her voice calls out sharp and loud. She doesn’t even care if Sally and Paul wake up, if she wakes up Estelle. Right now, she needs to wake him.

She throws herself at him, latching onto his clothes and then his arms and middle, and immediately pulls him back. He flinches and sways back from the edge just in time, and they both stumble back.  

Her hands are shaking so badly it takes her two tries to grab his face and turn it to face hers.

“What the Hades were you doing?!” She hisses, trying to keep her voice steady, but it breaks anyway. 

It’s a fairly stupid question, for her especially, a daughter of Athena. Of course he doesn’t know what he was doing. Not even she does. But the adrenaline is still pumping, and while Annabeth’s always prided herself in her excellent thinking under pressure, she still finds the words escaping her mouth. They’re more directed to herself, in truth, because she wants to know what he was doing. She should know.

Percy looks at her, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. She can’t tell what’s sea water and what’s sweat dripping down his face and hair.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Sleeping?”

She could have slapped him upside the head, or glared, effectively the same thing. But that would be unfair. The answer was the same as before, and same as before whatever happened was not his intention. 

The cold sting of the night air clings to their skin, and Annabeth frowns. She’s cold, but particularly her bare feet. Her gaze drops- and freezes. The wind must have dispersed the scent, which is why she hasn’t remembered it sooner. Her soles are damp, slick from water dripping from the fire escape onto the ones below, like the aftermath of a huge rainstorm (or a big puddle of water with no floor to hold it). Percy’s pants are soaked up to his knees, darker where the fabric clings to his legs.

Her pulse hammers. 

Of course it’s wet. Why wouldn’t it be?

“Come on,” she says sharply, grabbing his arm. He stumbles slightly, and instinctively, she pulls him closer, guiding him back inside. The fire escape behind them seems almost too dangerous to linger near.

Percy leans against her, head leaning heavily on her shoulder, and lets out a soft groan. “Ow… my head…”

Annabeth’s arms wrap around him, holding him steady. “Shh… it’s okay,” she murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to his damp hair. It’s a telltale sign that he doesn’t even react to it, doesn’t grin or peck her back nor widens his eyes. She can feel the tension in his body, the lingering sleepy haze, and most of all that eerie cold of his skin.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she whispers, more softly now, almost to herself.

“That’s the problem,” Percy groans, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Do what again?”

Yeah, Annabeth. Do what?

Annabeth exhales, trying to calm herself. “This will either pass, or we’ll figure it out,” she reassures him, though he hadn’t shown much signs of panic. She’s probably reassuring herself. “Now dry yourself. You’re soaked.”

Dry, she gently guides him to sit on the bed, and he clings to her sleeve, tugging her down beside him. With a small sigh, he hugs her middle, letting himself melt into her warmth.

His skin is still cold as ice, but Annabeth does her best not to shy away. 

It’s her turn to warm his hands in her pockets.

“You feeling okay?”

“Head hurts a little,” he admits. Then she feels a smile against her neck, “sleepwalking sucks… and apparently I’m terrible at it.”

“You’re terrible at staying alive, yes.” She rolls her eyes. “Now shut up, Seaweed Brain, and go to sleep.” 

But she can’t help smiling back, just like last night. 

...

The morning after, Annabeth stands stiffly by Percy’s bed, watching Paul install a lock on the window.

Percy’s sitting on the edge of his bed, far too pale and quiet for her liking, running a finger absentmindedly along the rim of his coffee mug. Sally paces by the door, bouncing a babbling baby Estelle gently against her shoulder, her face drawn with quiet worry.

He gives a small, crooked grin at Sally.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he says lightly. “Annabeth tackled me before I could storm Olympus in my sleep.”

Sally arches a brow, entirely unconvinced.

“Percy…” She admonishes. Then she turns to Annabeth, because everyone knows she’s the go-to person for answers and also Sally’s personal double agent when it comes to peering into her son’s inner struggles. Percy and Sally are lucky to share the bond they have, lucky his mom can see through the mist and is honestly one of the most badass women Annabeth has ever met, but he can also be very protective of her. He’s especially become so since the pregnancy, and somehow more since Estelle was born.

It’s something Annabeth loves about him, how much he cares, but right now it places her in a very complicated position. She hates lying to Sally.

“Are you sure this isn’t Greek-mythology-related?” She asks, “I mean, it’s not that I would rather it be something like that than just regular sleepwalking, but… Some god, or curse, or-”

Percy holds up a hand, cutting her off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Mom. If it is, well… it’s not exactly surprising.” His tone is rather annoyed when he says that last part. “But we’ll handle it. We’ve handled worse, right, Annabeth?”

Annabeth’s lips twitch into the tiniest smile. She steps over, and sits by his side. “Yes. We will.”

Great.

Sally’s frown softens, though her eyes linger on Annabeth, searching for reassurance she won’t give. Annabeth simply looks back steadily, letting her silence speak for her. Percy’s shoulders slump a fraction, leaning against her side for a quick, grounding touch.

She had promised him, an hour or so ago when they woke up, not to worry his mom too much.

Thank you, Kelp Head. You really do test my patience and my heart all at once. 

Her thumb brushes along his arm, fighting the urge to say something sharp and sarcastic,- something that would make him groan and laugh at the same time. 

Honestly, you’re impossible. And somehow, completely worth it.

Paul crouches by the window, testing the new lock he’d just installed. “Well, sleepwalking isn’t that uncommon,” he says, trying to lighten up the room. “I mean, my uncle used to do it when he was stressed. Once walked right into the neighbor’s pool.”

“Great, family tradition continues.” Percy glances at her. “I hope they don’t put me in New Rome’s yearbook for it.”

Annabeth lets out a short, exasperated breath, pressing a hand gently to his back. Her thumb brushes along the tense muscles. She notices the shadows under his eyes, the way his grin tries to mask the tiredness, and the slump of his shoulders. Even with humor, he’s more drained than he lets on. He hasn’t bounced back as well this time. His body looks like it’s carrying something heavier than sleep.

Stubborn doesn’t even cover it. And here I am right beside him.

“Well,” Paul says, adjusting the lock one last time, “that should keep you safe. And if it doesn’t, we’ll figure something else out.”

Percy nudges Annabeth softly with his elbow. “See? Nothing to worry about. No more midnight adventures.”

Annabeth allows herself a small deadpan and exhales, her fingers lingering on his back.

The day that follows feels like borrowed normalcy.

They ditch the subway and wander the streets on foot, winding through parks and side streets until they land at the old skate park near Queens. Percy drops onto his board with a lopsided grin, rolling through the concrete bowls and rails like muscle memory’s the only thing keeping him upright. Annabeth chooses to sit cross-legged on the edge, sipping iced coffee and pretending not to count the number of times he stops to catch his breath. Sometimes, being observant can be a real pain in the ass.

He still moves like himself. But the spark, that usual easy energy, like the sea’s under his skin? It feels dimmer.

Maybe she’s being paranoid. It could just be sleepwalking.

Except, after everything they’d been through together, this type of anxiety has become less of a choice and more of a mandatory lifestyle whenever something shifty starts going on.

When he finally flops onto the pavement beside her, out of breath and red-cheeked, he laughs it off.

“I’m just out of shape,” he says, nudging her with his shoulder. “New Rome could really do with a skate park. Why so many libraries? Eh… No offence.”

But Annabeth isn’t so sure. The boy who’d outrun giants and gods doesn’t just get winded after an hour at the skate park.

Annabeth merely hums, lost in thought, and Percy wastes no time rubbing his sweaty face against hers. She yelps, shoving him back. “Gross! Sweaty boys are not allowed!”

He just grins, boxing her in while she squirms. Honestly, they must look deranged: two older teenagers acting like five-year-olds. But she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

They grab some boba after, trading sips and joking about which monsters would hate tapioca the most, and for yet another while, the unease settles at the back of her mind.

...

That night, Annabeth jolts awake. She’s starting to get used to it, which is particularly ridiculous when there is an eight-month-old in the apartment that doesn’t wake her up half as much as her brother. 

Truly, the apartment is dim and quiet except for the steady breathing beside her. Percy is sound asleep, his face slack and, gods, actually peaceful, none of that wide open and lost sleepwalking-stare deal for the first time in days. No furrowed brow. No restless twitching. Just him.

She exhales slowly, letting herself sink back against the pillow, muscles unclenching one by one. Maybe she’s being ridiculous? But with Tartarus and monsters and gods, with prophecies and sudden tragedies, it isn’t hard for her brain to have become hardwired to expect disaster, even when things look calm. 

Paranoid, Annabeth. That’s the word, don’t be shy. That’s what you’ve become.

Her eyes linger on him anyway, cataloguing the rise and fall of his chest, the way his messy hair sticks to his forehead. There's a drool falling down a corner of Percy’s mouth and that does it. She gives a tiny, private snort. Well, that hasn’t changed.

Still, she lets her hand drift close enough to brush his, the contact grounding her. For now, everything is fine, and she can sleep without worrying.

Momus must have been listening, the little shit.

Because the next time her eyes open, the bed is empty.

Her stomach drops.

The bed is cold beside her. Annabeth shoots upright, heart lurching, the curtains swaying faintly in the breeze.

No. Not again.

She scrambles to the open window, bare feet thudding against the floor. The lock Paul had installed that day lay in pieces, splintered wood from the frame scattered like teeth across the floorboards, and the metal lock itself twisted inward, dripping with condensation as though it had burst from the inside. Water beads and slides down her fingers when she picks it up. Imploded, not forced. 

She leans out into the night. The fire escape stretches downward into shadows, a toppled clay pot resting on its side, soil spilling across the grating. He’d already passed through.

Her pulse hammers in her ears. Percy is gone, out in the street somewhere, barefoot and defenseless: well, maybe not entirely so, based on the damage left behind, but still… she doesn’t like his annoying knack for stumbling into trouble. Especially while asleep… or, whatever it is that’s happening to him.

Annabeth swallows hard, the night air biting against her skin. “Idiot,” she whispers, a plea and a curse all at once, before rushing back inside, slipping on her snickers (pajama-combo be damned), grabbing her knife and hauling herself onto the fire escape.

...

Annabeth’s sneakers hit the fire escape grate with a sharp clang. She darts down the metal stairs, heart hammering in her chest. It's cold out, the air seeping through her only layer of clothing. One of Percy's borrowed pajama shorts and shirt: Finding Nemo themed! Still, she doesn’t care much. 

I should’ve followed my gut last night. This isn’t normal sleepwalking. Not for Percy. Not ever. What did I even think a tiny lock would do?!

Her sneakers slap against the pavement this time, as she all but finishes flying down the fire escape. She scans the street, momentarily lost as to where to go. Did he go up? Did he go down? There must be a pattern to where he keeps trying to go every night, otherwise he would have just used the front door of the apartment upon finding a lock on the window. She just doesn't have time to find out what that pattern is, exactly. 

She's midway to mentally berating herself for having fallen asleep so relaxed that he actually managed to get out before she woke up, when she sees it: a trail of water gleaming under the yellow glow of the streetlights. 

It doesn't take a genius, even if she sort of is one.

So Annabeth takes off running, following it, each step slow in her mind even as her legs carry her fast. The amount of trouble Percy could find, or that could find him, is crazy stupid and growing by the minute, and even though she lied and said he isn’t the best at staying alive and it's actually kind of miraculous and ridiculous how he manages it every time (thank the gods), she's not leaving him by himself in this state.

It's a long street, but eventually she catches up.

There he is, in the middle of the street, pajamas soaked up to the waist and barefoot, arms limp at his sides, moving like a ghost, a broken puppet on frail strings.

Where is he going?

“Percy!” She shouts, running the last few steps.

He stops at her voice, and turns, almost drifting, but doesn't respond. His eyes slip past her, milky, unfocused, not a flicker of recognition. His face is unnaturally pale and hollow, the faint outlines of a skull vaguely drawn in the shadows. Annabeth doesn’t think she’ll be able to forget the sight so soon.

And then headlights slice through the darkness.

Her stomach drops. A car roars around the corner, barreling straight toward him.

He doesn’t so much as twitch.

“PERCY!” 

She lunges forward, racing to grab him by the shoulder, and somehow manages to ruthlessly yank him toward the sidewalk just in time. The car swerves, tires squealing, horn honking angrily. 

Percy sags against her, both spread out on the floor. His chest rises and falls in rapid, uneven gasps, but he finally blinks as if surfacing from a deep, dark ocean. 

“Annabeth…?” His voice cracks, hoarse and panicked. “What happened- ah no. Not again.”

“Yeah. It happened again,” she says, gripping his arms tight, feeling his shivering. His skin is as gelid as the other times, but he never shivered before when he woke up. His lips are purplish. His nails too, she notices. “You were walking in the street. Nearly got flattened.”

“But…?” Percy’s gaze darts down at the water dripping from his wet pajamas, then back at her. “The lock… what about the lock?”

“It didn’t work, clearly,” she says, jaw tight. They both move to sit, and she helps him lean against her. He’s still panting, though she is too, she has to admit. Her knee’s scraped, and her elbow. But at least neither of them are pancakes right now. She’s gotta take what she can, and calm down. 

He lets out a weak, half-laugh, half-grimace. “Great. Next time maybe we should just… I don’t know, glue it shut or something.”

“Percy, this isn’t funny. You can’t just keep going blank like this. We need to figure out what’s happening. There has to be a reason, a clue-” Her voice hitches.

He’s frozen, eyes slipping toward hers and then away, and for a heartbeat she sees the truth in his face. He knows something. 

“Percy…” She begins, her tone shifting into that dangerous calm she reserves for when he's being especially dense. Her eyes narrow as he smiles sheepishly. “Spit it out. I know that look.”

“It’s probably nothing.” He mutters, way too quickly.

“If you think you’re protecting me by keeping your mouth shut,- or some other brilliant excuse that little seaweed brain likes to come up with,- you’re actually just annoying me. And you do not want me annoyed right now.”

He swallows hard, his jaw tight. His usual deflection, some joke about how scary she is, it doesn’t come. For a moment he just sits there, fingers twisting in the fabric of his pajama pants, and she can see the battle warring in his face.

Finally, he exhales, voice low. 

“So it’s not nothing.” 

He drags a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze. “When I’m… under, it’s not like I’m asleep. It’s like I’m stuck. I can’t move, can’t breathe, but I feel everything. And it-” He breaks off, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. “It hurts, Annabeth. It always hurts. It-” 

He breaks off.

The words hang there. She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. For once, Annabeth Chase has nothing clever, nothing analytical and strategically right ready. Just a hollow ache in her chest.

“And now I can feel it, even when I wake up. This tingle, inside. Like my body can’t forget it.”

Her stomach twists. She reaches out, catches his hand before he can pull it away, and presses it between both of hers. When he still won’t look at her, she leans forward and peeks into his space, takes his cold cheeks and forces his eyes back to hers.

“Percy…” Her voice wavers, sharper than she meant it to. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you keep that to yourself?”

His throat bobs, and something like guilt flickers in his expression. “I didn’t want to- ruin things. This holiday. Us. I just…” His voice cracks, and he shuts his eyes. “I thought if I ignored it, maybe it would stop. Don’t we deserve a break?” His voice cracks. “You deserve a break. I just can’t seem to not attract trouble for a few days of my stupid life.”

Her grip tightens around his hand, steady and unyielding. “Seaweed Brain…” She breathes. 

His eyes flick to hers, glassy, and then away again. For a second, his whole posture crumples: like that one name is enough to split him open. His laugh is harsh, humorless. His jaw tightens.

“It’s not fair, Annabeth. Every time things start to feel… normal, it’s like the universe can’t stand it. Figures. The gods probably have a timer set- ‘oh, Percy Jackson’s happy for five minutes? Better ruin that.’”

“Well, you’re right about that,” she reasons. 

But he goes on. “And then, there you go, getting dragged after me. And my mom, and Paul. Now Estelle. I don’t want to ruin-” 

Annabeth sighs. “Your mom and Paul love you, and they’ll worry whether there’s some weird sleepwalking phenomenon going on or not.” She shakes her head, “you’re not ruining anything. Not everything is your fault, Percy. Nothing about this is. And if you think I’d rather be kept in the dark than fight through it with you, you’re even denser than usual.”

He shakes his head, stubborn even through the pain. “And if it gets worse? If this is the start of some other long and deadly bullshit?” He huffs, bitter. “Or even if it isn’t, but if I hurt someone, or you, because I can’t control myself?” His voice cracks at the edges, raw with guilt. 

Her chest tightens, not because of what he said, but because she knows exactly what he truly meant.

Tartarus.

The word doesn’t even have to be spoken for it to echo.

That moment, deep in the pit, when he’d turned the poison against Achlys: when the air had curdled, and the goddess had screamed and begged, and Percy’s face had gone blank, cold, unrecognizable. He’d drowned her in her own misery, had tortured her, and for a heartbeat, Annabeth had been absolutely terrified. Not of the monsters around them. Not of the ancient goddess right there. But of him. Of the way his eyes had looked: endless, dark, and old, like the sea right before it swallows a city whole. 

She still hates herself for that flicker of fear. 

It had been gone after that, buried under love and understanding and everything they’d survived together. But even now… remembering always sends a chill through her.

Some things are just too powerful to be normal,- and Percy, her Percy, has always walked that razor’s edge between saving the world and devouring it.

“Then what?” He asks lamely.

“I don’t really think that’s the case here, but…” Annabeth doesn’t flinch. Because that may all be true, but she would never fear Percy himself, if that makes sense. He would die before he laid a hand on her and, in a way, that is truly what she fears most about him.

She doesn’t flinch, but instead reaches up, playfully knocks their foreheads together, and forces him to meet her eyes. 

“Then we deal with it. Together. Like we always do. In case it wasn’t obvious, doofus. You’re not getting away from me ever again, remember? ”

That finally cuts through. He exhales shakily, the fight leaving him all at once. 

He smiles.

“Well… guess that means you’re stuck with me then, Wise Girl.’

She huffs a laugh, relief slipping in despite herself. ‘Sure,’ she mocks. “Guess I’ll just have to live with the tragedy.” 

They both snort. Her voice softens, the sharp edges giving way to something gentler, “but right now, you need help. You need ambrosia and nectar. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He nods weakly, teeth clenched against his splitting headache as they get back to their feet. His arms slump around her, shivering into her side. Annabeth presses a hand to his back, fingers tracing soothing patterns. She lets him lean there, letting him settle, feeling both resolve and anger churn together.

He’s hurting. And I hate that I can’t make it stop. 

Focus. 

Think. 

Fix it. 

NOW.

...

Sunlight spills through the curtains the next morning, soft and golden, cutting through the quiet of the apartment. Percy sits on the couch in the living room, Estelle cradled in his arms, tiny fingers grabbing at the strings of his hoodie. 

He’s bouncing her playfully on his lap, nearly drooling with adoration of his baby sister, as per usual, but there’s a faint tremor in his hands betraying the strain. His shoulders sag, his skin tinted a sickly colour even in the sunlight, shadows lingering beneath his eyes. He presses one hand lightly to his temple as he adjusts her in his lap, wincing, and she lets out a soft delighted squeal, tugging at his hoodie again.

Annabeth’s perched on the arm of the couch, one hand under her chin, the other seeping the warmth of her large mug of coffee. That’s how his parents find them. Sally enters the room, Paul hot on her heel.  

“So, what’s the plan today, you two?” He asks, cheerfully oblivious to the tension he can’t see.

Sally’s robe is loosely tied and there’s a warm mug in her hand too. She leans down to press a smooch on both of her kids’ faces, and one on Annabeth’s too, which always makes her blush needlessly. Estelle gurgles softly as she latches onto her mom’s finger with the usual baby iron grip.

“Morning, you two,” she says, glancing at the pale, tired pair on the couch. There’s that raised, suspicious eyebrow. “So, planning a quiet day at the library, huh?”

Both hum in agreement, although it must sound more like a pair of sleepy old zombies than a couple of youthful teens.

Hair still mussed from sleep, Paul’s checking his phone. “Great, so you’ve still got the little one covered, right?” He asks, nodding toward Percy, who still has Estelle in his lap. “Sally and I have to run a couple errands; hit up the editor and maybe stop by the grocery store before the holiday madness kicks in.”

“What?!” Percy blinks, mouth half open. He looks from Paul to Sally like he’s just been accused of a crime. Estelle jumps in his lap. “Wait, that’s today? I totally forgot!”

Annabeth arches an eyebrow over her mug, eyes narrowing. "Seriously? You forgot?”

Percy groans, dragging a hand down his face. He gives her the I’m currently dealing with a lack of conscious control over my own body, okay, give me a break? look, or something equivalent but a bit shorter, in Percy style. Give me a break. Yeah, that’s more like it. 

“Oh, man. Yeah. Bugger…” He winces, helpless. “Totally forgot about the whole responsible older brother thing.”

But Sally smiles softly, picking up and then setting Estelle down on the rug for a moment so she can adjust her sweatshirt and shoes. “I know Percy, you’ll survive a few hours at the library with her,” she teases. “Take it as practice for later.”

The boy chokes on his own saliva. Annabeth nearly spills her coffee. There she is, blushing again. Superb.

“But!”

Sally’s brow furrows. The damned smile is still there, though. “Unless you’re too sick? Oh, no, don’t give me that look- I know you’re sick. Are you sure about the library? Maybe you should stay home.”

Percy manages a weak grin, retrieving the baby back to his lap. “Nope. Totally normal. I can totally survive a few hours of… the library.” The word must taste like cardboard on his tongue. 

Annabth snorts behind her hand.

“Just books and babies,” he finishes, glaring at her.

Percy clears his throat, trying to summon his usual playful energy. “Isn’t that right, Little Miss Droolzilla?” He bounces Estelle a little higher, and the baby giggles loudly. 

Annabeth, perched beside him, just watches the little scene, feeling a soft swell of protectiveness. Even if Percy looks sick and drained, even if the night before had left them both rattled, seeing him here with Estelle reminds her what’s at stake, and that she’ll protect it all, no matter what. She wants to scream at the universe, at the gods, for putting him through this. For showing her how fragile he can be, too. She realises she wants all of this, a future with him, with family, with small perfect moments like this.

Losing him now? No. Not possible.

She rolls her eyes but allows a small smile. “Sure, Seaweed Brain. Totally normal.”

However, Sally’s eyes still soften with worry. “Percy, you really don’t have to go if you’re feeling this bad. I mean, you’re practically pale as a ghost, and Annabeth… you don’t look much better.”

Percy grimaces. He hates lying to his mom, but she also understands why he wouldn't want to say anything about this yet. 

Annabeth offers a hand to Estelle, hoping it looks slightly reassuring to the sharp woman, then quickly regrets it. Dam, that iron grip.

“It’s okay Sally, we won’t be too long,” she says. 

Sally huffs but nods, “well, if you insist… just take it easy. And Percy? Drink water, okay?”

Percy nods, hiding the dull ache in his body behind a grin as Estelle coos and tugs at his hoodie strings. Annabeth’s stomach clenches.

Then she presses a soft kiss to his temple.

His eyes widen and a silly, lopsided grin grows on his face. “What was that for?”

Annabeth frowns. “Nothing. Do I need a reason?”

He shrugs, “you certainly don’t. But if you’re handing out kisses for free, I might start collecting.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch. “You already do. Like a hoarder.”

Percy leans in, mock-serious. “A strategic hoarder. I’m saving them for when I need a morale boost. Or when you’re mad at me. Or when I forget your birthday.”

“You wouldn’t forget my birthday,” she declares, poking his chest.

“I won’t,” he promises, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “But just in case, I’m building up interest.”

“You know what interest is, Mr. Jackson? I’m impressed.”

“I have a good teacher, what can I say?”

She snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he says, eyes sparkling.

Annabeth sighs dramatically. “Unfortunately, I do.”

Between them, Estelle, utterly unaware, suddenly sneezes, spraying banana mush everywhere. It hits Percy squarely on the cheek.

He blinks. “Was that… a love offering?”

Annabeth smirks. “She’s definitely your sister. Messy and dramatic.”

...

Percy grumbles the whole way there, juggling Estelle’s diaper bag while Annabeth hunts down titles on sleepwalking, ancient rituals, and obscure Greek myths. Estelle, meanwhile, has made it her mission to charm every librarian in sight with gummy smiles and loud babbles.

By lunch time, they are knee-deep in research. Well, she is. Annabeth skims through dense texts with laser focus, occasionally muttering things like “hypnos cults” and “stupid dyslexia”. 

Percy, sprawled on a nearby couch with Estelle climbing over him like a jungle gym, had managed to read exactly one chapter, (mostly because Annabeth threatened to quiz him).

Now, with Estelle finally asleep in her stroller (after a dramatic protest involving three pacifiers and a rogue sock, the sock won), Percy’s finally rejoined her efforts. He sits cross-legged on the floor, staring at a passage Annabeth has flagged. His brow furrows.

“I still think this is all way too weird,” he says. “Like, weird side of Greek-myth, if you get me. Which is saying something.”

Annabeth doesn’t look up. She thinks that too. “That’s why we’re looking into it.”

The thought… it’s not the first time she has it, but it lands like a stone in her stomach: possession. Monsters, gods, even titans have worn voices that aren’t theirs. And the voice speaking through Percy at night? It is not his, no matter how similar. 

Just his luck, to be possessed again. The Eidolons back at the Argo II would’ve been enough.

Percy sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I hate books.”

“You hate being possessed in your sleep more.”

“…Fair.”

But it isn’t long before his stomach is rumbling and winning them their ticket out of the library. She doesn’t have the heart to say no, as he clearly needs the energy, and she does too. 

As they wait at the crosswalk outside the library, Estelle perches in her stroller and gnaws on a teething ring like it owes her money. Percy is crouched beside her, making faces, while Annabeth flips through a book on dreams and dreamwalking.

Two elderly women shuffle up beside them, full of the vintage hairs and floral patterns, one clutching a tote bag with embroidered cats.

“Oh, she’s precious,” she coos, peering into the stroller. “How old is she?”

“Ten months,” Percy replies automatically, but she can hear the apprehension in his voice. She looks up, at the ready too. But neither seem to grow fangs and claws. Not right then, at least.

The other woman gasps. “And you’re both so young! You must’ve had her in high school?”

Percy chokes on air. “Wait- what? No! I’m not her dad!”

The woman blinks, clearly unconvinced. “Ah, but she looks so much like you. No need to be ashamed, dear.”

“Seriously-!”

It’s Annabeth’s turn to turn red next.

“But the nose is her mom’s for sure,” the cat-tote mortal lady declares, leaving no room for argument. “You two make a lovely couple. And such responsible parents!”

Percy’s given up, it seems. “I just carry the diaper bag,” he says, already expecting it to fall on deaf ears.

Not Annabeth’s. She smirks. “And cry when she spits up on you.”

Estelle lets out a loud burp, as if to punctuate the moment.

Percy glares at her.

The women chuckle fondly. 

“Well, you’re doing a wonderful job. Such a sweet little family.”

That’s when Percy throws up his hands, and Annabeth watches that little dangerous glint return to his eyes. 

“Seriously, she’s my sister.”

The women pause, blinking in surprise. And horror.

“She’s my baby sister,” he repeats, gesturing to Estelle. “And she’s my girlfriend.” He points at Annabeth.

Their expressions soften, reassured,- until Percy adds, deadpan: 

“Who’s also my cousin.”

Annabeth coughs.

The women stare, horrified.

He shrugs, that evil provoking smile growing at the look on their faces. “It’s complicated. But love is love, right?”

She’s never seen grandmas agree to something then dip as fast as these two do. Well, not the mortal kind, at least. Annabeth stares straight ahead, jaw tight. The light turns green and they step onto the crosswalk. The corner of her lips twitch.

“I’m never coming back to this library now.”

“Next time, I am bringing a sign,” is all he has to say for himself. Percy stares after the fading old dots in the distance, then turns to Annabeth with mock seriousness. “Well, babe, should we start looking at preschools?”

At least he’s feeling well enough. For now.

Annabeth, still pink in the cheeks, shoots him a glare. “Only if you’re doing drop-offs. I’ll be busy designing our dream treehouse.”

“Oh, right. For our growing family,” Percy says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Estelle, and any future chaos goblins.”

Annabeth groans, cheeks turning pink. “We are not talking about that.”

Percy smirks, but he, too, is clearly having his proper fight with abashment. “Too late. I’m already picturing mini yous with battle plans and glitter swords. Uncle Grover will knit them all little hats.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” he says, nudging her.

“Unfortunately,” she mutters again, quickening her step with a bit more energy than necessary.

Percy jogs to catch up, pushing the stroller faster. “Hey, at least I’d remember all their birthdays.”

Annabeth scoffs, “well, I’d have them scheduled six months in advance. With a theme. And a guest list.”

Percy smirks. 

“And I’d show up with cake and a kazoo. See, this is why I married you. You’re always good competition.”

...

When Percy dozes off that evening, Annabeth stays up.

She pulls her laptop close, drowning in a rabbit hole of myths and medical forums. Sleep disorders, PTSD night terrors, spells. But none of it fits. The symptoms just don’t line up, not completely. There are just too many oddities: the cold, the distance in his eyes, the way his skin looks unnaturally pale, damp, the water puddles that pop up.

They way the waterline on his pajamas keeps getting higher and higher.

She even flips through her own old mythology notes, tracing half-remembered stories of nymphs and spirits, barely aware of how the hours crawl past. It’s infuriating, that this is how they get to spend their break. Always a problem. Always something to take their peace and sanity away.

And none of the literature she’d brought from the library was even helping. If only she still had Daedalus’ laptop at least…

At some point, exhaustion wins. Her eyes shut for a moment and when they blink open, Percy is gone.

...

She finds him three blocks away this time.

No shoes, pants soaked halfway up his stomach, the cuffs heavy and dripping onto the pavement. His footprints glisten faintly under the streetlights as if he’d walked through shallow water,- though the ground is bone dry,- and now it just refuses to dry.

Annabeth stands still for a long moment, watching him sway slightly on his feet, chest rising and falling in deep, slow breaths. The night is quiet except for the distant murmur of the East River and the crazy traffic that never really settles in New York.

She approaches carefully, like she’s trying not to startle a wild animal, and places a hand on his shoulder.

His head lols toward her, eyes half-lidded, unfocused. When she tugs him back toward home, he comes without resistance, but his feet move sluggishly, as if some part of him truly doesn’t want to leave.

...

The cycle repeats itself.

Every night, Percy’s invisible path stretches farther. He doesn’t always retrace his steps, doesn't always follow the same street twice. Like he’s new to the city he grew up in, and is trying to find the right way through. But the pattern is there, and Annabeth doesn’t miss it. 

Whatever it is seems to be pulling him eastward, possibly toward the East River. 

It’s a clue that makes sense. As a son of Poseidon, this could all have to do with the water, somehow. She needs to research more on water deities and spirits.

Past corner bodegas and flickering streetlamps, Annabeth spends her nights following after Percy, and trying not to fall asleep. They both try, yet fail every night. Without proper sleep the previous days, it’s getting harder and harder to deny their bodies any shuteye whatsoever. And the thing puppeting Percy must know it. He hasn’t reached the water yet, but the air grows cooler the farther he goes. Damp. Restless. Like something is waiting just beyond the skyline. Growing more powerful. Making waking him up a greater struggle.

And every time she finds him, the waterline on his pajamas creeps higher.

By the end of the week, it is up to his chest. 

...

Annabeth keeps researching. 

More than once she thinks she’s spotted a pattern, a thread to follow, someone to place the blame on and pay a visit. 

But she still gets no concrete answer.

So she keeps her findings quiet… because there aren’t any. And every morning, Percy wakes up looking a little more drained, a little less himself. He’s stopped meeting her eyes when she asks how he feels, not out of denial, but exhaustion. They both know this isn’t normal. He’s slipping, and she can’t stop it. That’s the worst part. She’s the daughter of Athena. She’s supposed to have a plan, a solution, a way to fix this. She’s supposed to be the one who knows what to do. The strategist. The problem-solver.

But all she has are half-read myths and a growing fear that whatever is pulling him eastward is going to take him for good.

Plus, Thanksgiving is closing in. To make things worse. 

Sally’s not clueless, and it seems neither is Paul. Annabeth’s been doing her best to deal with the stares, the questioning looks. Percy’s become irritable at times, even with them both, which is not like him at all. Thanksgiving is closing in, and the holiday spirit is getting more and more buried beneath sickness and worry. 

She’d almost told Sally the night before. The words had been right there, caught behind her teeth as the two of them sat at the kitchen table, Estelle feeding in the woman’s lap and Percy upstairs, recovering from another night of wandering. But what could she say? That Sally’s son was being pulled through the city by something she couldn’t name and that doom, whatever it was, was getting closer? That every myth she read only led to more questions? That for once she doesn’t know which mythology jackass to face? Sally would worry further. Paul would try to help. Percy would blame himself. 

And Annabeth couldn’t bear to admit that she doesn’t have an answer yet.

...

Percy has always been good at faking normal. Gods know he’s had enough practice. They both have.

But he’s been far too quiet all day, dragging his feet more than usual, his jokes thinner, slower. Annabeth sees it clearly, and is really just waiting for it to happen.

They’re halfway through sorting another stack of books when he stands up too fast and sways, then drops to one knee like the floor had snickered and ran away from beneath him in a prank.

Annabeth’s beside him in an instant. “Percy?”

He blinks up at her, breath shallow. “Guess I’m really not cut out for the academic life.”

She doesn’t laugh.

He tries again, forcing a grin. “Tell Estelle I went down fighting. Death by footnote.”

Still nothing.

Annabeth’s hands tremble as she steadies him and helps him over to the couch. “You’re getting worse.”

Percy looks away. “I know.”

She hates that. Hates that he isn’t arguing anymore. Hates that she doesn’t have an answer. He’s slipping, and all she can do is watch.

Watch.

She finds him staring at her, expectant.

“What?”

“You have a plan,” he points out.

“No,” Annabeth shakes her head. Adrenaline surges through her at the thought. She really doesn’t want to do it. “It’s too dangerous. Besides, it’s not a plan. More like… an idea.”

“I like your ideas,” he says, “even when I don’t like your ideas.”

“You wouldn’t like this one.”

“You’d have to tell me first.”

“No. We’ll find another way.”

Percy blinks. “When? When the water gets past my head? I can breathe underwater but I’m not too excited to find out what happens when it does.”

Huffing, Annabeth shifts. He’s right. Doesn’t make it easier. She hates when he’s right.

“We should let it happen,” she says.

Percy blinks again. “What?”

“Next time,” she says, voice low. “I don’t wake you up. Just... let you go. Follow you.”

“Okay.”

She stares at him, horrified that he just agreed like that, not an ounce of hesitation or self preservation. She shouldn’t be surprised…

“Percy, it’s insane. What if you get hurt? What if I lose you?”

He rubs at his face, offering her the faintest lopsided smile. “You won’t. You’ll be there. I trust you.”

Her stomach twists, but the moment stretches quiet and long and she can feel it, the depth of his trust, the absolute certainty that if anyone can pull him back, it would be her.

And she’s not about to let him down, now, is she?

“You really think this will work?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But doing nothing isn’t working.”

He gives a tired half-smile. “Guess we’re out of brilliant plans.”

“Don’t rub it in.” She exhales hard through her nose, then adds, “I need to know what this thing is and what it wants. I need to figure it out.”

Percy leans his head lightly against hers. “If anyone can, it’s you,” he says easily, like it’s the truest truth in the world.

Annabeth doesn’t answer. Just closes her eyes and curls even further into his personal space.

...

That night, Annabeth doesn’t sleep.

She stays perched in bed, watching, the city’s distant glow washing the room in pale gold. Hours slip past like lazy clouds and she does her best not to doze off.

At some point, Percy stirs.

His breathing slows, his fingers twitch, his head lols to one side. Then his body moves, stiff and sluggish, as if something is making itself at home within his bones. His sneakers pad over to the window, then out. 

Annabeth pulls on her hoodie and follows.

...

The night is cold, the air sharp and damp. She isn’t sure what is due to it being November, or what is due to Percy.

He moves with the same eerie calm, oblivious to the world around him. Annabeth keeps close, half-running, half-holding her breath as they weave through side streets. If the few people they pass by notice anything weird, they don’t show it. Probably work of the Mist. Or the fact that they're in New York, and thankfully nothing is too weird anymore. She doesn’t have the time to intimidate any weirdos or nosy passerbys away.

The East River isn’t far. A winding, murky stretch of water that pops up from behind the last line of buildings, and that’s exactly where he is going.

Her suspicions are confirmed.

At the sight of the river, though, he seems to step on the gas. By the time she catches up, Percy is already standing at the edge of the pier, the dark water lapping hungrily at the stone supports. Water climbs up his legs, higher and higher, as if inviting him in, deeper, away. His darkened clothes get even darker, freshly wet. The river wraps around his waist, then his chest, pulling him in like a mother welcoming a long-lost child.

His eyes don’t betray a flicker of reaction.

Panic surges through her instead.

Sure, Percy can breathe underwater, but like this? Like a puppet, asleep and unguarded? Plus, she can’t. She wouldn’t be able to follow him. She’d lose him if he went in.

Annabeth lunges forward, grabbing his wrist just as the water creeps up to his collarbone.

“Percy,” she hisses, yanking with all her strength.

The current fights back, fingers trying to force her grip open. The water sloshes higher, swallowing his neck, reaching for his chin, a living armor dragging at his body with impossible strength.  

But Annabeth holds on.

“Wake up!” She pulls and pulls, grabs at his face and wipes the climbing blanket of water away from his cheeks and chin. She yells, both for his dense brain to wake itself and for the river to back off. 

“I don’t care who or what you are! Pull him under and I promise I’ll reroute you with a dam!” She threatens.

The sound of water rushing behind her ears grows louder, but Annabeth will die before she lets go. This thing is gonna have to pull her in too, and for the few minutes Annabeth can hold her breath, it will have to deal with her. And it won’t be pleasant.

She pulls at his arm again, wraps hers around his middle and the water surrounds her too. She pulls until his feet finally stagger backward, the river’s grip breaking with a sharp splash. The second his body is let go of, they both collapse onto the wet boards, blinking, dazed and probably with some degree of whiplash, but still breathing.

Annabeth rolls next to Percy, her heart hammering against her ribs. He’s blinking repeatedly, as if trying to will a bad dream away. Which, in a way, he is. Her first instinct is to get them both away from the river and the water pooling on the edge of the wooden pier. However, they barely have time to catch their breath when it happens.

The river wails.

A distant, echoing voice, muddy and unclear. Watery, hollow, and furious. A single word, stretched and mournful, cuts through the night air:

“NOOOOOOOOOOoooo...”

The sound is gelid, sending chills crawling down Annabeth’s spine. Every hair on her body stands up and, for a terrible moment, she thinks she feels a fraction of what Percy must feel when he’s under. Trapped. She can’t move. She can’t speak. She can’t blink.

She hurts.

As soon as she can, she draws in a heavy, anxious breath. Disquietude and anguish pool in her stomach, real and liquid. These emotions, they're not hers.

She turns to Percy, whose wide eyes mirror her own.

They still don’t know what is calling him, but at least now, they have a lead.

...

The wail still echoes in her bones long after the river falls silent.

Annabeth half-drags, half-supports Percy back home, though he pretty much does the same for her. Their clothes are soaked and cold, sneakers squelching with every step, but she doesn’t have the heart to ask Percy to dry them up. He’s looking positively worse for wear which is both ironic and infuriating considering that water is supposed to give him strength. It always did.

Besides, there’s no point drying up. What they need is a bath. The East River has seen cleaner days.

Neither of them speak much, not until the apartment door clicks shut behind them, and the dim kitchen light flickers on.

Percy slumps into a chair, pale and quiet, his wet hair dripping onto the floor.

“Do you remember any of it?” She asks gently, crouching in front of him.

He blinks at her, brow furrowed, the dark shadows under his eyes looking deeper than ever. “Nothing. I mean, in a way, I do. Everything. But at the same time, it’s just... fog. And that sound.”

Annabeth nods, swallowing her unease. After all, she’d heard it too. The wail. And sure, she’s heard worse things. They both have. But still, she can’t un-hear it.

...

The next morning, Percy’s stiff and bone-tired, but he puts on his usual easygoing act for Sally and Paul: helping with breakfast, cracking half-hearted jokes. Estelle babbles at him from her high chair, reaching out chubby hands for his finger.

When Paul notices the new lock still doesn’t seem to have helped, his worry deepens. Annabeth jumps in, lying before Percy even has to open his mouth.

“We think it’s a leftover curse,” she says, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Could be Tartarus leftovers. But nothing dramatic, just needs time to wear off.”

Her voice comes out steadier than she feels. Sally doesn’t look convinced one bit, but she doesn’t press. The woman just nods slowly, her eyes flicking to Percy, who is pretending to study the floor tiles like they hold answers.

Paul promises to look for sturdier locks, something more secure. And just like that, the conversation moves on.

But Annabeth can’t stop thinking about the river.

...

That night, when Percy finally falls asleep, Annabeth can’t close her eyes. 

Instead, she opens her laptop, scrolling through pages of mythology, reports of hauntings, sailor superstitions. She searches for anything,- anything,- to do with the East River or bodies of water in general that may explain what is happening.

A strange pattern starts to emerge.

Old stories, scattered and half-forgotten, mention dreamers walking to the water. Sailors vanishing in their sleep. Fishermen hearing voices in the dark. All in New York. All nearby.

The more she reads, the less she can stop. 

This isn’t new.

And Percy isn't the first.

When she finally snaps the laptop shut, her eyes are dry and stinging, the sky outside is pale gray with dawn. She climbs back into bed, curling close to Percy. His breathing’s deep and steady.

But the voice in the river isn’t finished with him yet.

...

Morning comes like a slap to the face. Neither of them had slept enough, their bodies sore from hauling each other away from a river that clearly hadn’t wanted to let go.

Annabeth stretches her arms overhead, trying to blink away the fog in her head. Percy, on the other hand, looks like he’s aged five years overnight: dark circles carved deep under his sea-green eyes, and his usual spark dulled to a flicker.

Still, she doesn’t give him much choice.

“We’re going to the library,” she declares, tying her hair into a bun and snatching her bag off the hook.

Percy groans, flopping back on the bed like a beached fish. “That’s it. You really do want me dead.”

Annabeth shoots him a look, unimpressed. “It’s the library, not a hydra nest.”

“Same thing.” He drags himself upright, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, for someone who loves me, you’ve got a cruel streak.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’d rather sleepwalk into the East River again?”

That shuts him up.

By the time they reach the library, Percy looks mildly alive again: caffeine, a bagel and the stubbornness of a reluctant demigod working overtime.

They hole up in the quietest corner they can find, this time Estelle-free, books and old maps spread across their table. Annabeth, as always, attacks the research like a monster slayer, cross-referencing old folklore, articles on local history, even digging into maritime accidents and drownings.

Percy sits next to her, less helpful, more fidgety, tapping his pencil against the edge of the table and flipping through pages without really reading them. But he tries. He really does. 

Hours pass. At some point, Percy’s buried his head in a book titled New York’s Forgotten Ghosts when Annabeth’s sharp intake of breath makes him sit up straight.

She takes the book from him, scans the page next to the one he’d been reading and slides it back toward him.

“Yes!”

In the distance, a librarian angrily shushes her.

Annabeth doesn’t pay him much attention. She’s busy pointing at the book. An old sailor’s log, from nearly a century ago. The entry had reportedly been scrawled and water-stained, leaving a great deal illegible. But the part that had been transcripted is gold.

“The river’s cursed, the old men say. Something waits beneath it, calls to the living in their dreams. A woman’s voice, bitter and cold as the sea. Some say it was an offering refused by the old gods. Others, that it was a daughter left to drown. Either way, I believe all of them folks. I have seen with my own damned eyes that those who hear her song do not wake, or return half of themselves.”

Percy leans back in his chair. 

Annabeth taps the page, her voice quiet but sure. “If it’s a water spirit, which we already kind of knew, it would make sense. You’re a child of Poseidon. If this thing is angry at your father, or the gods in general, you’d be the easiest target.”

Percy scrubs a hand across his face. “Typical. Get cursed by association.”

She nudges him gently, worry still carved deep behind her eyes. But there’s a sense of satisfaction at finally finding something in their search. She absolutely loves the feeling.

“We’re going to fix this. But we need to be smarter than last night.”

Percy nods, the corner of his mouth twitching into a weak smile. “So what’s the plan, Wise Girl?”

...

That night, for once, they don’t wait for sleep to come.

No pajamas. No dark, silent apartment and expectation. Instead, they wrap themselves in jackets and boots; and arm themselves with flashlights, drachmas, nectar and ambrosia, and of course, Celestial bronze.

Soon, both are standing side by side near the riverbank, the air sharp with salt and the metallic scent of the water. The moonlight shimmers off the black surface like an omniscient watching eye. There’s close to no one around.

Percy crosses his arms, shifting his weight. “Well. Here we are. Awake. Ready. Totally sane decision.”

Annabeth’s lips quirk into a dry smile. “Time to meet a ghost.”

And with that, they step onto the dock.

The water lays still for a moment, smooth as glass. Then, slowly, the surface ripples, uncoordinated from the wind. Just moving. A breath. A pulse. The river responding to him no doubt.

Percy takes a step closer to the edge, voice low but steady. “I’m here! Come get me!”

Nothing.

He frowns. “Or do you only like it when I don’t come voluntarily? That’s seriously creepy, by the way!”

Annabeth doesn’t laugh. She’s watching the water like it might blink.

Percy tilts his head. “You wanted me! I’m not sleepwalking this time! So what now?”

The river doesn’t answer. But the ripples deepen, stretching outward like fingers.

Taking another step toward the edge, Percy opens his arms. 

“Come on, creepshow! Don't get shy now.”

The river pulses again, slower this time. Like it’s thinking.

Annabeth shifts behind him. “I don’t think it expected you to show up.”

“Yeah, well. Surprise.” Percy laughs bitterly, "I didn't expect it to possess me either."

He stares out at the water, voice sharper now. “Is that what you wanted? Me, sleepwalking like a puppet? You only like it when I don’t know what’s happening, huh? When I’m trapped in my own body!”

The surface snaps.

A sudden surge breaks the stillness, water curling upward in a shape that isn’t quite anything yet. Cold mist rolls across the dock, and the air drops ten degrees in a breath.

Annabeth reaches for her dagger.

Percy doesn’t move, though he stiffens, instinct snapping into place like armor. 

“Thought so.”

It isn’t a wave. The river itself lifts, coiling upward like a serpent made of liquid shadow. A figure unfurls from the current, shaped like a woman but stretched wrong: her limbs too long, her hair a mass of dark, rotted weeds tangled with silt and scraps of old ship rope. When she raises her head, her face is neither alive nor dead, but something in between. Her eyes are hollow and white. Her cheeks sunken and her pale blue shin dirty. She’s dressed in thicker rags than the floating pretty dresses most nymphs and sea spirits usually wear. Annabeth wonders if she ripped a ship’s sails in a past century, sank it, and decided to keep them as a trophy.

Her voice, when it comes, is precisely the sound of a ship’s hull groaning and losing against the tide.

“Son of Poseidon.”

Annabeth shifts closer, calculating.

“Who are you?” She asks sharply. “Why are you haunting him?”

The spirit’s hollow eyes flick to her, then back to Percy, as if Annabeth is little more than background noise. It moves in their direction, arms raised and long finger pointing.

“The stars returned the gate to me,” it whispers. “The tide turns. The sky aligns. My cage thins.”

Its voice is like water over stone, soft, but scraping, “for centuries, I waited. Silenced. In rot. Now your blood walks to me.”

Percy’s jaw tightens. His hand flexes. “What does that even mean?”

The spirit’s lips peel back in something like a smile. With horror, they realise its mouth is incomprehensibly filled with dirt and trash.

“A curse left by your dear father, pup. He buried me here under stone and tide, him and his court. I could not go elsewhere. My prison. When the moon and the slow stars turned, I was allowed to stretch. Only then.” Its bitter, elongated face twists. “And now your world has changed. Your towers steal the horizon, your harbors choke me. Your boats bruise me, and your trash poisons me. I wake to concrete and iron. I wake to find the waters broken,” she spits.

Annabeth’s mind runs like wildfire, fitting the pieces together: a trapped spirit, celestial alignments, old grudges, and modern sprawl. Poseidon’s enemies are countless, as any other god, but a spirit imprisoned long enough to only awaken under a rare astronomical alignment? 

No wonder Percy had never run into her before.

“You’re angry the city grew,” Annabeth tells it. “You’re angry the harbor changed.”

The spirit turns her head slightly, wet hair slapping against her hollow chest.

“Would you not rage?” She heaves. “Would you not tear the world down if your prison grew tighter and tighter while you slept?”

Percy braces himself. “So what, you’re trying to drown me? Use me to break free?”

The spirit tilts her head, zeroing in on him again like a bird sizing up prey.

“You are his son. You carry his magic. You are strong enough. You are my anchor. You will walk me free.”

The water beneath her darkens, deepening even though the river hasn’t physically risen. The current pulls, the pressure shifting around Percy’s feet like unseen hands trying to drag him in. Annabeth moves fast, stepping between him and the shore.

Her dagger gleams in the moonlight. His sword springs to life.

“We’re not going to let that happen,” she says coldly.

The spirit’s voice sharpens into a wail, less human and more like the wild, enraged entity of the previous night. It growls, like an ancient shipwrecked ship crumbling completely under crushing depth.

“YOU WILL NOT STOP THE TIDE.”

The river bursts upward, a wall of water slamming towards them, and the fight begins.

...

The wave hits before either of them can blink.

Percy barely manages to shove Annabeth back as the wall of water slams into him, dragging him toward the river like a hooked fish. He flips mid-pull, planting his feet and forcing the current to obey,- but the strength behind it isn’t natural. It isn’t the sea’s voice. It’s someone else’s. And someone who challenges her own king’s rule.

At his resistance, the spirit bursts from the water again, fully formed, dripping and writhing like the riverbed itself has come alive.

“I was Nymede,” she hisses, circling him like a predator. “Once a nymph of free waters! Once me!”

Annabeth’s brain locks onto the name: old, older than most myths she’s read. The kind of story that gets buried, half-lost even to Camp Half-Blood lore. Or lost to anyone the gods don’t take interest in having it known.

Percy’s lip curls. “Let me guess, you weren’t exactly the friendly type.”

Nymede’s laugh is sharp and bitter, like a wave smashing against jagged rocks.

“Your father and his court decided so. I only asked for what the mortals owed me. Their ships crossed my water. Their nets stripped my fish. They gave nothing back.” Her voice contours painfully, unnaturally. “So I took their sons. Even my own.”

Annabeth feels her stomach drop.

That would do it. That’s the kind of sin that earned you a curse from Olympus.

Percy twirls Riptide in his hand, “so you snatched a few sailors and Poseidon decided ‘let’s chain her underwater forever.’ Classic.” 

Annabeth can imagine his eyeroll.

“They stole from me, they hurt me.” Nymede’s eyes flicker to him, more sorrow than rage for half a heartbeat. “I only took back what was mine.”

The water surges again, faster and harder. Percy braces for the hit, slashing through the wave, but it closes around him like hands, trying to smother him, hold him down. He gasps as Nymede buzzes around his head, her voice like drowning:

“The sea remembers. But so do I.”

Annabeth races along the docks, scanning for something, anything, as the water coils tighter around Percy, dragging him down. It’s clear neither have full control of it, fighting for dominance. She trusts Percy to handle himself against a rageful nymph. He’s faced worse. But it’s still not the time to take any chances.

She spots it: an old rusted cargo crane with a dangling, half-sunken shipping container still clinging to the hook. It teeters just over the spirit’s shape, slick with moss and the night’s humidity.

Annabeth doesn’t hesitate. She scrambles up the dock’s ladder, flips the manual override lever, and lets gravity do the rest.

The container snaps free with a shriek of rusted metal.

Nymede turns too late.

It crashes down into the dock like a meteor, slamming straight through the shape of the spirit, splitting her apart into ribbons of water and kelp. The water around Percy bursts, letting him regain his ground. They've just caused a budgetary crisis for the Port Authority. Probably a whole meeting about it.

She’s halfway back to the dock when the water swirls, reforming.

The voice comes back, lower, guttural, and absolutely furious.

“Clever, little Athena-spawn.”

The spirit lunges, aiming straight for Annabeth this time. There’s no way she’ll hold her own. She’ll end up in the river, and drowning will be a piece of cake for this thing.

Percy’s head snaps up, wild panic replacing exhaustion. He must realise that too.

“NO.”

Riptide flashes, but he doesn't swing. Instead, he launches himself forward, tackling the spirit in mid-leap. The two go flying over the edge, the river closing over both of them like a curtain.

Annabeth stands, for half a second, unblinking.

Then she takes off, sprinting to the edge, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

“Percy!” She screams. “PERCY!”

The water is still. No ripple. No sound.

Her chest locks tight, every part of her waiting to see him break the surface. For one long, terrible moment, the river is silent.

Annabeth doesn’t wait.

She kicks off her shoes and dives, the cold hitting her like a slap. The water swallows her whole, murky and thick, and she forces herself down, deeper, searching. Her eyes sting and she keeps them open only by willpower. Still, they aren’t made for searching underwater at night.

Then, there. A shape. Floating.

Percy.

He’s just beneath the surface. When she gets close enough, she notices his eyes are closed, arms slack. He’s just drifting right where that thing wanted him. Yet, the spirit is nowhere to be seen.

Annabeth grabs him, heart hammering. 

No, no, no.

She hauls him up, gasping as they break the surface. He’s breathing, barely, but not moving.

They reach sand, a tiny bank by the dock, wet and sticky and dirty too. She drags him onto it, collapsing beside him. She’s shivering, soaked to the bone, but more worried about the stillness. 

“Percy,” she calls, rolling onto her side and tapping his cheek. “Come on, I’m tired of waking you up.”

She nearly despairs, again. But then his eyelids twitch, and then they open, and his eyes are glassy for a heartbeat but then his expression crumples into exhaustion.

And Annaebeth can only sigh in relief.

“Percy? Hey, can you hear me? What happened?”

She’s knelt beside him, grabbing his face, checking for signs of possession, but his eyes are clear now. Tired. So, so tired. But his.

“I made a deal,” he croaks.

“What deal?” She demands.

His face is even paler than before. His skin seems almost bluish. No, it is bluish. Almost like hers. Almost like-

Percy’s laugh is dry and hoarse. “She’s... still in there. Just not in control.” He taps his temple lightly. "Wasn’t easy but… I promised I’d move her. Not free her, just move her to somewhere the world hasn’t crushed yet. Somewhere peaceful.” He blinks, slow and sluggish. “She’ll stay quiet until we get there.” Then, he winces. “Or, as quiet as possible- yikes. I’m so gonna have a talk with my dad.”

Annabeth stares at him, tears of relief and fury all at once, and throws her arms around him.

“You are the biggest, dumbest, most reckless seaweed brain I’ve ever met,” she mutters into his shoulder, smiling.

He leans into her, too drained to do much else. “You know other seaweed brains?”

“Just the one I keep dragging out of rivers.” She helps him up, looping his arm around her shoulder. “And one’s more than enough.”

Together, they leave the harbor behind, heading for the best spot to drop the ancient grudge that had been driving them mad for the past weeks.

...

They end up farther from the city than either of them had planned.

Nestled in the tangle of Long Island’s marshes, far from the horns and the subway hum, the place Percy chooses has more water than land. A quiet, winding brackish river that lazily feeds into the ocean.

No ferries. No fishing boats. Just herons, sea grass, and open sky. Annabeth wouldn't mind it if she were imprisoned there, of all places.

They stand at the edge as the sun begins to rise, pale light glinting off the water. Percy’s steps are slow and unsteady, exhaustion weighing twice as heavy now that the danger has passed. The spirit's negative energy had turned it into a rageful spirit, as poisoned and poisonous as the polluted waters of her prison. That much is clear now.

Annabeth’s arm is locked around his waist, keeping him upright as he leads them to approach the best spot.

A faint voice drifts up, the same one that had haunted them both. But it is softer now, less venomous and angry, more… tired. Just that.

“I never thought I’d leave that harbor.”

Percy lowers himself to his knees by the riverbank, fingers brushing the surface.

“You’ll honor it, right?” he says. “The deal.”

The voice doesn’t answer.

He exhales, jaw tight. His fingers curl into the river’s edge. 

Percy’s voice is low, almost a growl. “You got what you wanted, Nymede. Don’t twist it.”

Annabeth doesn’t interrupt. She watches from behind, in silence. He thinks he’s just being firm. He doesn’t know he sounds like a threat. It happens sometimes.

“It’s not freedom,” the voice speaks through him again, quietly, relenting. “But it is better.”

For a moment, there is no answer. Just the water lapping at the reeds, and Annabeth standing rigid, every muscle ready to fight if the spirit tries anything. Percy’s hand remains in the water, waiting. But then Nymede’s voice comes again, almost wry.

“The son did what the father never would.”

A current surges beneath Percy’s hand, cold and silken, and this time it doesn’t try to pull him under. If anything, it gently pushes him away. A goodbye.

“Thank you.”

The water settles, and as promised, she is gone.

Percy slumps back onto the grass like someone just unplugged him, chest heaving with lassitude. 

Annabeth sits by his side, brushing his hair back, making sure it is really him, that his eyes are his own. Just like when she pulled him from the East River, they are.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispers, voice trembling, relief breaking through at last. It's over.

Percy lets his head drop onto her shoulder, “I’m starting to take pride in it.”

She huffs, half a laugh, half a yawn. “You tackled a cursed river spirit.”

“Technically, I negotiated with it. Mid-tackle.”

Annabeth pulls back just enough to look at him. Curiosity takes over. “How did you even convince her?”

Percy shrugs, wincing. “Eh… I offered her something she wanted more than revenge.”

Her eyes narrow. 

“Which was?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out at the water, quiet.

“She didn’t want to be a monster. She just didn’t want to disappear,” he admits. “The gods are unfair, not just to us. So I gave her a fair deal. She didn’t believe there was any beautiful place left in the world. I promised if I didn’t find her one, she could, y’know, keep me. As her new prison. The son of Poseidon. Over 70% water, a pair of legs. Seemed fair enough:”

Annabeth stares at him, heart thudding.

Of course he’d offered himself. Of course he’d made it sound like a joke.

She wants to shake him. Or hug him. Or both.

“You gave her you,” she says, voice low. “As collateral.”

Percy blinks, like he hadn’t thought of it that way.

Annabeth looks at him,- soaked, exhausted, still trying to smile,- and sees it again. That wildness. That quiet, dangerous loyalty. The part of him that would drown for someone else without ever asking if he should. And yet, that emotional inteligence that is always there when they need it.

Annabeth realises, she still has quite a lot to learn from him. And that's amazing.

“You’re an idiot,” she says again, trying hard not to strangle him. Or cry. Or both. Always both. But her hand finds his, and doesn’t let go. “I’m an idiot. You said you trusted me to have your back, but you still ended up in the water, right where she wanted you.”

Percy squeezes her hand, just once.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “But I knew you’d come in after me.”

He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it like a fact. Like gravity.

“She wanted me in the water. I went in knowing you’d pull me out. You always pull me out.” He shrugs. “Remember when INico took me to the Styx? How I pictured you on a dock, reaching down, keeping me tethered?”

He gives a tired smile, crooked and soft. “Guess some things don’t change.”

The way he says it. Like it is nothing. Like it isn’t the most terrifying kind of trust.

And gods help her, she’ll keep it forever.

“You’re lucky I’m strong,” she mutters. “Because you’re heavy, and you sink fast.”

Then she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him: quick, fierce, like she’s anchoring him all over again.

They sit there a while longer, watching the river shift quietly under the new daylight, until Annabeth finally hauls him to his feet, looping his arm around her shoulders. He seems to be doing better, but she’ll keep pretending to help him walk anyway. Like when she pretends to have cold hands, so they can share his pockets.

The walk back to the train station is slow and uneven, and the two of them lean on each other like a pair of bruised old warriors. Then, with a groan, he flops down onto a seat, dragging her with him. 

“Is it really Thanksgiving? Because this feels more like Halloween.”

Annabeth snorts. “You do always manage to make holidays traumatic. Fourth of July? Harpy swarm. This? River spirit possession. Next year I’m hiding the calendar.” She raises a challenging eyebrow. “If you don’t know it’s a holiday, maybe we’ll survive it.”

Percy gives a tired laugh. “I actually do miss my university classes. How sad is that?”

Annabeth huffs, amused, elbowing him lightly. “After this break? I think you’ve earned a semester’s worth of extra credit.”

He grins, nuzzling into the side of her face until she swats at him.

“Cut it out, Seaweed Brain.” But her voice is soft, fond.

Percy nuzzles deeper, not moving away. “Make me.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push him off. As they watch the landscape pass by through the window, the other early commuters throwing judging looks at their dirty muddly selves, Annabeth’s mind flicks over the last few nights: the haunting, the danger, the endless cycle of weird.

They might never have normal, only different.

But as long as she has him, she is lucky as hell.

“When we get home, I’m taking the fattest nap known to demigod history.”

Gods, yes. And if anyone wakes me, we’re about to have a whole new ghost problem.