Into the Face of An Angel
Disclaimer: I am not Rick Riordan … and therefore do not own Percy, or Annabeth (except in my dreams, of course, but I hardly think that counts).
A/N: My first Percy/Annabeth oneshot … I suck at writing romance, but I'm trying!
Gold splashes the sky, dripping down, blending into vivid oranges and scarlet red. The lone pine standing atop the hill sways softly, the wind tugging flirtatiously at its branches. The laughter of dryads floats on the breeze, mingling with the whisper of panpipes.
He slowly drags his feet down to the beach, nursing his injuries. The sun is a fiery, pulsating orb, gradually sinking into citron waters. He sinks onto the damp sand, discarding shoes and socks, running painfully stiff fingers through his dark, sweat-sodden hair. His gaze finds the ocean; an involuntary smile twists up the corners of his mouth. He breathes in deeply, the tangy salt-smell filling his nostrils. He can feel the calm settling over him; his shoulders relax, and he stretches his legs out in front of him, wiggling his bare, sand-encrusted toes. Boyishly, he counts the mottled, gaudy bruises decorating the tanned skin of his legs. Four, five, six … there are at least ten of them, of nearly every color he can think of, and others he doesn't know the names of. The wind ruffles his unruly hair and he leans back, eyelids drooping, lashes brushing his cheeks. His mind wanders, the images flickering like a hazy movie reel. A laughing face, blonde curls dancing in the wind, luminous gray eyes, a lithe, graceful-girl-figure twirling in the surf, arms wide …
"You planning to sleep out here?" A voice interrupts his reverie. He opens his eyes, looking up at her laughing face (luminous gray eyes, blonde curls dancing in the wind) and smiles.
"I could, but I'm not planning to," he answers, patting the sand beside him. She sits cross-legged, Indian style, and twists to look at him.
"What were you thinking about?" she asks. "You were smiling like … like you were looking into the face of an angel …" She flushes, and her eyebrows draw together as if she is embarrassed, and a little put out with herself for asking. Color suffuses his own cheeks, and he looks out over the water, wondering how long she has been there, watching.
The sun has sunk, and the gold has faded; crimson paints the sky, bleeding into a rich, dark indigo. The moon has risen, a pale, silver crescent, glowing faintly. "I was," he answers finally, his voice low and husky. He smiles at her.
"Oh," she says, and falls silent. Minutes tick by in silence; yet neither finds the quiet awkward. "What is she like?" Her voice is almost a whisper when she speaks. In the moonlight he can see a look of wistfulness on her face. "Your angel …"
"Well," he begins, and then stops to clear his throat. "She … she's smart. Very smart … much more than I am." She smiles at this. "That could be anyone," she teases.
"Very funny," he says in mock-resentment. "She's got the most amazing eyes in the world. They're like gray crystal … like a gemstone I once saw – an agate. Her hair is blonde – there's a gray lock right here –" He reaches out, gently pulling a lock of her hair. "-that reminds me how brave she is … brave and loyal …" His voice wavers and he blinks rapidly, smiling to hide his sudden awkwardness. "She makes me laugh," he continues. "And she's always been there for me … and I know she always will be."
A breath of wind gusts by, tousling their hair and making her shiver. He turns to look at her, and she blushes under his gaze. Slowly, almost shyly, she reaches out and slips her fingers into his, leans her head on his shoulder. He presses his cheek into her hair.
The last of twilight fades; stars twinkle at them from above and the moon shines brighter as he whispers so that only she can hear, "You are my angel."
Review! Please, please, please!