A/N: Make sure, if you're new, that you scoot yourself on out of here. Make your way to Burden Bright and then Operation Restoration. This is the third part of a series, okay? Now, move along. Followers, welcome back.

I know I haven't posted the epilogue yet but I got this in my head so whatever. Feel free to leave prompts and I'll see what is inspired.

Prompt: Battle Wounds

Pairing: Percabeth

Rating: T

Spoilers: N/A

Disclaimer: I own nothing mentioned throughout this sequence of drabbles/one-shots/etc.

Daughter's Lament
Burden Bright: Part III

He takes my hand and lifts me high, high, high.

On the rare occasions that we find ourselves bound outside of the walls of our school, he finds my body pleasing to touch. And with him, I don't mind at all. I encourage it; the first brush of the back of his hand on mine as we walk and the subsequent heat blooming across his cheeks. It is nearly always followed by a bold grasp at my hand that only paints him pinker; he is everything in his bashfulness. And then, if he's lucky and I don't feel the urge to torture him, I'll allow a kiss.

A blazing string on the mouth when it's just too hard.

Too hard to breathe on my own; I need his air. Too hard to find a reason to go on. His kisses are a perfect purpose; at least for the time being. Too hard to move, so I let him move me. So gentle, yet he is sturdy, dependable. He is good. And his kisses, the hot and heavy kind, slip like a balm over the bruises and breaks and pull the ache from my skin, my bones, my muscles, my heart.

A peck to the cheek on truly good days.

Because on those days, I can accept the intimate moments as something more than what they're meant to be. On days where my body is healing, or when that healing ache has even vanished, I want him. I want his company and his sweet loyalty and a slow-building relationship. The permanent takes time, especially in concerns to the foundation. Everything must be set just so, carefully developed in mind and heart with active participation closely following. We still hold tight to our supplies to study what's been thrown on the ground. An honors class is the fine sedimentary land chosen to build upon. A frame has been formed from unlikely but complimentary personalities. And then chucked into the center unceremoniously, a mound of abuse and secrecy meant for a roof, a topper, a finishing touch to a firm structure that solidifies it. It's come too soon, much too soon; it's gotten in the way again. What we have now—it's weak and not much to look at, but I think we can make something of it.

So I'll have to stay near to him. And that is worth the sacrifice.

He lulls me over with him from the bench to the roots of a thick tree. Gnarled bark laps up the stocks and stretches out in the midst of feathery green leaves. They whisper in the light spring wind, promising us a good summer.

Today my back burns with every move, so in his everlasting thoughtfulness, he guides me with a hand wrapped firmly around mine and the other placed gently on my spine. His fingertips press into my shirt with intensity. When I'm settled, he lounges against the tree with his shoulder brushing mine and sighs with content.

His hands fiddle in his pocket for a minute or two and he produces a peppermint, deftly unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. I watch, slightly bothered that he didn't think to ask me, but not enough to say so. It seems a petty thing to complain about. And then his hand dives back in and, without sparing me more than a sideways glance, he holds out his palm with another mint.

And I, like an idiot, sit and stare. Bewildered, astounded, content, pleased. Happy.

I'm happy. I like it; I like what happy feels like. It's a good thing to be, I decide.

Instead of taking the treat from him, I close my hand over it and wrap my fingers around him. He turns curiously as I take his hand and press it to my lips in a grateful kiss. And then he looks very pleased with himself, which makes me cross and playful at once.

"Don't look so superior," I quip and the indignant face he pulls makes me laugh. He follows my lead. It is so nice to be enjoyed as I am, to be near him, to feel so light. Sitting still makes me squirm—I've been sitting still for nearly a week—but I can't imagine moving away.

Percy takes my hand into his lap and plays with my fingers. He runs his own tips up and down the lengths of my hands as gentle as a breeze and lifts my fingers. He does so with each one separately and then lets them go to thump on the back of his hand. I lay my head back and let my eyes shut out everything. I don't want anything but to feel him. I don't want to see this park or smell it. I don't want to taste that mint. I just want to commit the touch of his hand on mine to my memory where it will live on and last forever.

He keeps tracing, up and down, up and down, up and up and up…

And then it stops. His fingers freeze for a moment and hesitantly trace my skin from side to side on the inside of my wrist. It feels just as nice so I allow it. It takes too long to open my eyes but I manage, despite the building awe under the pressure of wanting to sleep right here. I turn my eyes from his lovely face to his gliding fingers and tense. Immediately my heart stutters and begins hammering in my chest.

He stares at our hands, too, but I doubt he sees what I do. He sees the pain while I see the release and the power.

I used to be the girl who'd sneer at self-harm. How idiotic. Who in their right mind would hurt themselves? And in such a dangerous manner? But then I got low; somewhere along the way, I lost myself. I lost Annabeth in the fall and picked up a soul of angst and desperation. The flash of white pain tingling all the way up my arm reminded me that I'm still alive, that he hasn't won yet, that I can feel more and be okay.

He could keep going and I'd still be okay.

"What are these scars?" He whispers so close to my ear that I can't breathe. Everything is him in that moment. I feel his disappointment and anguish and decide then that it's not worth it. The pain? It won't persist. I will instead focus on healing myself, if not for me then for his sake. I will get stronger and I will persist and I will live on.

"They're battle wounds, Percy."

He looks at me then for a long time. And it's quiet. Despite the gurgle of the fountain and chatter of the birds, the people talking not far from here, it is quiet.

"Who were you battling?" he asks.

"Myself."

I think he's going to pull out of my grasp in horror or disgust but he just holds on tighter and I wonder how he feels for me. Not for the charity case, but for me as I am. Selfish and unkind. Unapologetic, proud, standoffish. What does he see when he looks at me? When he really looks at me?

He presses the outer of my wrist to his mouth gently, not really kissing it, just breathing. I like the feel of it almost as much as being happy.

"Well," he replies, mouth still to my wrist so I can feel the rumble of his voice. "Who won?"

I grin and point a finger at my cheek; he promptly leans over to kiss the appointed place and keeps going, making his way to the corner of my mouth.

Fin.

First glance in Annabeth's head. What do you think?

I actually started dozing off at the end so that's not very great but whatever.