They're safe.
It's surreal in its simplicity, and the way Annabeth realizes it – the way the fact washes over her like a tidal wave, a relief so intensely comforting that she cannot help but let her shoulders droop with the weight of it.
She sits on the deck of the Argo. It's dark, save for the sliver of moon peeking through as dusty clouds pass over and under it playfully, occasionally illuminating the ship and then abruptly leaving Annabeth in the dark again.
As far as she knows, Leo is the only other one of the seven awake – he'd passed by her an hour ago, whistling quietly to himself and startling when he saw her, leaning against the starboard side of the ship with her head tilted back and her knees drawn up to her chest. He had been on his way to the engine room, again – the only other person whom Annabeth had met who worked even remotely as intensely as she did whenever a particular project became all-engrossing. She admired it, overlooked his overly teasing and sometimes immature behavior because of it.
No one else had wandered on deck, however, and so Annabeth had been free to sit in silence, accompanied by nothing but her own thoughts and the stars - the stars that Bob had so longed to see.
The thought brings a heaviness over her relatively peaceful mood, the comfort of the safety she was just relishing fading away.
Of course, she knows that that security is brief and temporary in its existence. There are still monsters to fight, enemies to defeat, and a deadly war to win – but after Tartarus, Annabeth knows she will never feel true fear - the fear she had felt when Percy was helplessly drowning in the river after the fall; or when they witnessed the embodiment of the deepest pits of hell itself come to life in front of their very eyes – that fear, she acknowledges, will forever remain unparalleled.
But for now, at least, there's something that feels like safety.
She isn't sure if it's partially brought on by sitting alone in the dark – after all, darkness has become quite familiar, scarily so, in fact, and she's not entirely certain that the suffocating claustrophobia it still brings on is just a part of her comfort now – but regardless, Annabeth pushes the thoughts of Bob and the fall and the pit back and focuses instead on the cool breeze fluttering through her hair and the soft glow of the moonlight, the luxuries.
And then, suddenly, footsteps.
Quiet, and imperceptible if not for the fact that Annabeth has gained an ever-present, instinctive alertness that is likely indicative of PTSD. She whirls to her feet in seconds, facing the intruder, vision blurring as she fights the panic and already strategizing what to use as a weapon – her heart still aches every time she remembers her lost dagger; but a familiar voice speaks quietly, firmly:
"Annabeth."
Her eyes clear and readjust to the darkness – it's Percy, and he looks tired, bags almost engraved under his eyes and shoulders tense, his hands halfway up in a gentle attempt to prove he isn't a threat. It's enough to calm Annabeth down, and only then does she realize how fast her heart had been beating. He smiles softly.
"It's just me," Percy says, stepping forward from the stairway and reaching a hand out to her. He knows not to force it, knows how jumpy she is and understands because he is the same way, after everything. "Why are you awake?"
She takes his hand, lets him pull her towards him. They stand a hair's breath away from each other, but there's space there, a sliver between them interrupted only by their intertwined hands.
Despite it, Annabeth knows, they are closer than they have ever been.
Annabeth shakes her head, knowing what Percy's thinking. "Not nightmares," She says softly. "I just never went to bed."
"Oh," Percy says. He runs his thumb across the back of her hand.
"You?" She asks.
Percy shakes his head, smiles bitterly. There's a pause, a silence that lengthens on forever.
"Kept seeing things," He says, finally.
She nods, lets her gaze drift up from their joined hands to his eyes. They are bright green and reflective in the dark, but something in them has changed – has changed since before they fell together, something more ominous and angry and dark. It scares her, but then the reflections shift and the green is calm and stormy and bright and he's just her Percy again – a little sad, maybe, and definitely a little broken, but hers just the same.
Percy looks around, past Annabeth and across the deck.
The sky is just barely starting to lighten from pitch black to a deep indigo, the stars still twinkling with a dreamlike quality that makes her uncertain whether she's really awake or not. It happens often, this vague curiosity in the back of her mind gripping her randomly, when she wonders if maybe all of this is just a dreamed up fantasy her mind has created to keep her from going insane, and she and Percy are still down there in that place without light.
She's working on it. She breathes in through her nose and lifts Percy's hand to press her lips against it. He gives her a crooked smile and her heart clenches painfully.
"It'll be light soon," He says softly.
Annabeth nods. "Maybe we should head to the kitchen and fix breakfast for everyone," She suggests.
Percy grins. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Wise Girl?"
Annabeth raises an eyebrow, and she can't stop the little smirk that makes its way onto her face when his tone is all of a sudden so playful and carefree and him.
"Depends," She teases, turning to lead him across the deck towards the kitchen. "Your thinking doesn't usually work out very well, does it, Seaweed Brain?"
He pinches her arm and she laughs.
"Pancakes, Annabeth," He says, feigning exasperation. "Blue pancakes."
Annabeth stops suddenly at the kitchen doorway, making Percy nearly collide into her as she turns around suddenly, grabs his face and pulls him down to reach his lips, kissing him hard. She pulls away, and they're both grinning like idiots. Percy's face sobers, thoughtful, and for all her teasing, Annabeth knows that he's much more intelligent than he lets on. He tucks a curl behind her ear and runs his hand down the side of her shoulder, where that poisoned dagger had scarred her so long ago.
He's quiet, and then, "Things have changed."
"Yes," She says. "But it's okay."
Their friends find them sitting at the kitchen counter with plates of blue tinted pancakes, some more burnt than others, messy dishes in the sink and laughing in between mouthfuls of whipped cream. Sunlight dawns through the windows.
Things have changed, but they're okay.