A/N: This is just a short little one-shot I wrote - a bit of AU Percabeth fluff, 1940s-British-nightclub-style. Hope you enjoy, and please review!
Disclaimer: I own neither the image nor the Percy Jackson series, or any of its consequent subsidiaries or entities.
Nightclub
Her voice was husky and sugar-sweet, and he loved her even better for it.
She was wearing a slinky evening dress slit up the thigh, made of glittering, shimmering vermilion cloth. Manufactured sparkles fluttered to the creaky wooden floorboards of the stage with every step she took, her faux-ruby earrings swinging like pendulums, dangling from her earlobes. Her dress was low-cut, exposing a swell of creamy cleavage. She was beautiful and seductive, hair coiffed in a honey-blonde bob.
But it was her voice that got him, made his throat dry and his heart hammer in his chest. Low and syrupy, like maple sugar drizzled over flapjacks on Sunday mornings. She was singing an old song, one that he'd heard on the phonograph in his boyhood home more times than he could count. He'd waltzed around the parlor to it when he'd thought no one was looking, toes tapping, mouth turned up in a wicked grin.
Even then, Percy Jackson had loved to dance.
Now, years later in 1942, drinking a glass of neat whiskey in a London nightclub late at night, watching a beautiful girl sing onstage, little had changed on that front. He might have grown tall, with wide shoulders and a cheeky, dashing grin that had gotten a fair share of women into his bed, but he still loved to dance.
"Thank you," the woman said now at the close of her song, voice gravelly. Percy wondered absentmindedly if she smoked cigarettes, or if her voice came like that naturally, enticingly hoarse and rough. A smattering of applause met her words. "I'll be taking a short break, but be sure to hang around for a little while longer. The show's just starting!" She nodded to the orchestra, and they began to play, a hodge-podge of brass and piano. When Percy was young, he used to think that was jazz. It wasn't until years later, when he visited America and listened to the music that played in their bars, that he realized it wasn't jazz at all; just its bastard brother.
The woman descended the stairs gracefully in her sky-high stilettos. Percy appraised her, eyes skimming her figure. Away from the stage, he could see the beads of sweat on her forehead, the smudge of rouge on her cheeks. Her eyes were gray, not blue, and a few flyaway strands broke away from her carefully arranged hair. It made her more human, and somehow more attractive.
He set his glass of whiskey down on the counter and strode across the room, elbowing past people with a polite "Pardon me". He hadn't always been a smooth operator; once upon a time he had been clunky and awkward, tongue-twisted and red-cheeked. Somewhere along the line, he had learned how to talk to girls. He just wasn't sure where.
The woman had reached the floor a whole five seconds before Percy reached her. "Hello," he said with a dinky grin. "May I help you?" He outstretched his elbow.
She arched an eyebrow. "Depends," she said. "Why are you asking?"
Percy faltered for a moment, elbow dropping. "Er… what?"
"I only meant," the woman said, plopping a fist on her waist, "that you're either asking because you're generally a nice, polite bloke, or you want to drop my panties." Her lips curved in a sly smile. "So, which is it?"
Percy blinked. "Er… the latter, I'm afraid."
She laughed, low and throaty. "'Least you're honest." She grinned. "I didn't really expect it to be the first, if it makes you feel any better. The only ones that plead the first are either lying or swing the other way. Prefer trousers to skirts, if you know what I mean." She fluffed her bob.
He let out a surprised laugh. "You're awfully frank, did you know that?"
"You flatterer," she said, pressing a gloved hand to her heart. "Be still, my fluttering breast."
Percy chuckled. "Well, if you want compliments, you might as well have just said so. Your eyes, you know are the exact shade of -ˮ
"I don't," the woman said quickly, pressing her hand across his mouth to keep him from speaking. "Really. People… Flattering is easy. I like honesty. Even if you are only trying to get me into your bed."
He lifted her hand from his mouth, and she withdrew, blushing. "In which case, mademoiselle," Percy said softly, "your voice sounds like you smoke a pack of cigarettes a day."
For a moment, he thought he'd overdone it, completely and totally blown it. But then she threw her head back and laughed. "That's more like it," she said. She appraised him, her smoky eyes narrowed. "You know," she said, "you have some promise as a panty-dropper."
"Do I, now?" Percy asked, attempting to appear as suave as possible.
"Hmm." She cocked her head, the faux-rubies in her ears swinging. "My name is Annabeth. Annabeth Chase."
"Pleased to meet your acquaintance," he said with a sweeping bow. "My name is Percy Jackson."
She smiled at him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson."
Percy took her gloved hand and brought it to his lips, old-fashioned like one of the heroines in a Jane Austen novel. "The pleasure," he said, voice low, "is all mine, Miss Chase."
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please review! (You make my day when you do.)