The nursery is only half-painted.
Annabeth stands in the doorway, looking at the hastily assembled rocking chair; the crib, still packed in its box on the floor; and the bookshelves, already stocked with a selection of children's books—baby shower gifts from Paul and Sally.
There are wave designs stenciled on the part of the wall that has been painted, clearly applied by a careful hand. She remembers sitting in the rocking chair, watching Percy painstakingly paint each one, taking time to make sure they were perfect.
With her baby due to arrive any day, Annabeth knows she should really enlist someone to help her finish her daughter's room—but she just can't bring herself to do it.
With a sigh, she leaves the unfinished nursery, waddling back down the hallway and stumbling a few times in the near-darkness as she goes. At thirty-seven weeks pregnant she can't even see her feet, much less walk in a straight line. She wishes Percy were here, always prepared to help steady her on her feet.
She makes a detour into their bedroom. The bed is unmade (no surprise there), the pillows and blankets strewn across the room. Annabeth sighs—she hasn't slept well in weeks, and it shows in the rumpled, twisted sheets. She smoothes out the blankets as well as she can, but leaning over to pick up the pillows sends shooting pains up her back, so she thinks better of it.
The baby kicks her, hard, in the ribs. Annabeth hisses under her breath, but her hand instinctively goes to the place where her daughter is pummeling her. She pats her stomach gently.
"It's okay, baby," she coos. "Mommy's right here."
Her baby stops kicking, lulled into stillness by Annabeth's voice.
The TV is playing softly in the background when she finally leaves the bedroom and heads to the living room. Easing herself onto the couch, she looks around out of habit, but nothing seems to have been disturbed; there's a few magazines stacked on the seat of the leather recliner and a half-empty bag of Cheetos on the coffee table. The enormous white garment bag containing her wedding dress still hangs from an unused curtain rod. She doesn't know why she's holding on to it, not when she'll never get the chance to wear it now. Stubbornness, she guesses. Old habits die hard.
The familiar tune signifying the eleven o'clock news blares suddenly from the TV. Annabeth already knows what's coming, but she snatches up the remote and dials up the volume ever so slightly anyway, leaning in to hear the story.
"...The case of a man discovered brutally murdered on a deserted road on Long Island last week has not yet been solved," said the reporter. "The deceased was identified as Perseus Jackson, age 28, a ninth grade teacher at Goode High School. Police have no leads but are currently still searching—"
Annabeth shuts the TV off. There's no point in searching; the mortals will never find what the gods themselves have hidden from them. She knows exactly how Alecto had slit his throat with her talons as he was guiding a new demigod up the road to Camp Half-Blood. How fitting, she thinks, in a sick sort of way—the first monster he'd ever killed was the last one he ever saw.
She feels her face get hot, a warning sign that she's about to cry. Normally she would try one of her many techniques for calming herself down, but her hormones are so messed up anyway that the tears start falling before she can do anything to stop them.
Annabeth lets out a shaky breath and looks over at the wedding dress she will never get to wear.
The baby—the daughter that Percy will never get to meet—kicks her again, even harder than the first time.
The nursery is only half-painted.
A/N: Oh angst, how I've missed writing you. ;D
I am super behind on Baby Got Back, yo. I want you guys to hold me to a promise, which is this: I WILL have chapter 10 of that published by this coming Sunday, or you guys can come and hunt me down with pointy sticks. Deal? Okay.
Don't forget to drop a review if you liked the fic, my darlings! 3
EPC :)
PS: WHO'S EXCITED FOR THE FAULT IN OUR STARS MOVIE CAN I GET A HELL YEAH