"On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero."
How strange it is to feel alive, almost well, after so much time spent in varying degrees of death. The euphoria of it all, in certain moments, can nearly cancel out the overwhelming, paralyzing panic that accompanies any thought of what might be awaiting them in Athens.
Only for a moment, though, can they suspend reality.
He supposes this is how it's always been. Brief reprieves followed by a greater evil. He would complain that it's not fair, and he'd be right, but it's not like it's some great revelation. To say it among his comrades would just make him sound whiny, stating the obvious.
He can say it to Annabeth, of course, because if he couldn't he wouldn't love her as much as he does. And only she can understand the sting of surviving Tartarus, and having all of five seconds to celebrate.
Only she can appreciate the fact that they have so little time, despite grand plans for the future.
On board the Argo II, he tries not to think about what the odds of surviving two wars in two years is. He figures Annabeth has probably already made a mental pie chart of their likelihood of making it out together. Thankfully, she hasn't shared that information.
His friends offer to take the first watch, to give him and Annabeth time to rest. He thinks he could ask them to keep watch for the next thousand years and they wouldn't question it. His aura must reek of death, or maybe accomplishment. It's clear, though, that he's proved himself again. Created another legend to be told around the campfire.
The couple that lived through death. It does have a nice ring to it.
They stumble down the stairs, toward their sleeping compartments. It feels like an eternity since he slept in his own bunk. He wonders when he'll be able to disconnect sleep from Drakon skin. He wonders, hazily, if he really wants to. Maybe that's his best example of a light in the darkness, a flash of goodness among evil.
They stop, as if on cue, before entering their own compartments. Their thoughts, as always, are on the same wavelength as they meet each other's eyes.
"Come here," Percy says gently, and she's already taking the few short steps to his outstretched hand. He realizes, then, that he's never going to be able to let her go. And it's entirely possible that he's known that for years.
m m m
In his bed, her body fits flawlessly in his arms. It's a wonder to know what warmth feels like again—not choking, dry fire, or a dark, bone-seeping cold. Just two people reliant on one another. She leans her head against his inner shoulder, and they stare comfortably at the ceiling, surrounded by the silence they once took for granted.
"Can you believe we made it back?" he asks, over the little creaks of the ship and the whisper of voices from above deck.
It takes her a long time to answer, but he already knows what she's going to say. "Almost. I knew we'd put up a good fight. Didn't think we'd succeed."
"You have no faith in my promise to keep you alive."
"Oh, shut up," she smiles. "With our current circumstances, you don't want to go around making promises like that."
"It's not quite a promise, I suppose—more of a guarantee."
"Oh, Gods," her voice catches, but she's already shifting up to kiss him before he can ask her what's wrong.
He kisses her and it's like they're falling into the earth again—once more, she's the only solid thing in the universe.