I could give you every very legitimate excuse I've got. But... well, I won't.
Quote: "Something's watching over me like sweet Serendipity." -Lee DeWyze
Rating: T
Pairing: Percabeth
Spoilers: N/A
OPERATION RESTORATIONBurden Bright
"Please eat," I murmur to the small body hunched over a steaming plate of grilled chicken, broccoli and mashed potatoes. I took special care today, during my shift in the kitchen, to marinade and expertly season the meat, rubbing it tender and lighting it ablaze on our outside grill. The garlic mashed potatoes are salted tastefully, as done by Mrs. Kay under my instruction, and the broccoli is steamed and buttered to a point where it's bearable.
It's a dish my mother made for me whenever there was a celebration of sorts in the air: graduation, my first job, moving out, graduation (part II: college edition). Or if she was just feeling particularly generous, she'd pull on her apron from the church kitchen and tie her hair up with a pretty smile in my direction, and then she'd slap together her palms and rub them eagerly.
"It's dinner time, baby."
That had become a weekly regular when I was sixteen. I'd come home from therapy drained, mentally and emotionally, just wishing for a hot shower and an even hotter date with my pillow—a pillow that had taken the title of punching bag and shoulder-to-cry-on in the midst of one momentous night. Then, after I'd toed off my shoes, I'd be hit with the overpowering tang of that dinner favorite and my exhaustion would be blindsided by want and a suppressed hunger. Chicken popping as mom tossed it in the frying pan and potatoes situated in the colander bowl waiting to be ground into a fluffy side dish.
Eventually, mom weaned me off of the comfort food but it remained the go-to meal when one of the three of us was having a particularly bad day.
Today is a very bad day.
I woke to the twang of my alarm stiff and drenched down into my bones, with my fingers tangled in my bed sheets; my whole form trembled. My throat ached dully. A light patter on the window crossed the room, all the while straining to be heard over my pounding heart. Beads of rain gravitated towards the charred desolation of the chamber, and then collapsed on each other and fell mightily towards the sill. Branches teetered under the slight wind and pattered on the window feebly. A surge of light manifested the room, seeping over everything like a blanket of quicksilver, followed closely by the roll of a drummer hidden amongst the clouds.
My fingers clamped on my pectoral and I heaved and choked on my air for a while until the next clap of thunder that was quickly followed by a string of silence, only infiltrated by the drabble of rain. When I slipped from my bed, shoving aside the stringed memory of a nightmare that fought to tie me down, and leaned in to check my calendar, I considered calling out of work.
And when the idea had almost fled my mind, I considered it some more.
I threw myself back into the tangle of damp sheets and groaned into my pillow, trying to think my way out. Out of what, I couldn't say.
But the idea of staying home just wouldn't settle in my skin so I picked myself up and peeled my sleep shorts from my body while the shower heated. For a while, it just ran and ran and ran, overpowering the storm raging outside, and I just stared and stared and stared at my reflection. I couldn't help but dread over the fact that everyone would know as soon as they saw me that the rightness I'd found just wasn't with me today.
The bags under my eyes serve as proof enough. But my matted hair tangled worse than usual and the clamminess of my blanched skin are great additions.
I stumbled into the shower and rubbed at my shoulders, letting the showerhead pepper my face with a sweltering stream of water. But keeping my eyes closed proved problematic. A solid, black barrel stretching out under the command of a sobbing boy.
Did Grover cry?
When he decided to end it all, did he think of his mom, of his siblings of all ages? Of me?
My nightmares started one night while in the apartment of some girl attending my college, too late to be appropriate—of course, what we were doing wasn't really appropriate—after I had fallen asleep in her bathtub. That, itself, has a long and unnecessary story to it. But that night had been the first time I'd fooled around with a girl since high school. And while I hadn't brought myself to go all the way again since high school—and still have not—I had gone far enough for it to settle uncomfortably in my subconscious.
When I refused her, she'd gotten pissy and kicked me out of her room but I was too far gone to carry my sorry self home.
I shot up in a fit, tears streaming down my face, and cracked my head on the nozzle. That did nothing to staunch my sobs but I clapped a hand over my mouth, nearly hyperventilating, and cupped the top of my head. When I pulled back, my fingers were sticky with blood. Against my better judgment, I drove myself home and set about fixing a pot of tea and whipping out my Girl's Scout thin mints.
Sporadically, frequently, I'm plagued by visions, some blurred and frustratingly dim, others sharp and horrifyingly graphic.
Today, though years ago, I lost someone.
And I don't know if I'll ever see her again or even if I want to.
Presently, I lean into the table and grab one of the fresh, flaky rolls and set it on the girl's plate. There is a tense moment where she considers me, somewhat hostile, and I think she'll push her plate away completely. Then a spindly arm crawls across the table top and pulls at the buttery croissant and as soon as her fingers tear it in two and the steam erupts in a flavorful burst, she gives a small smile. It will always be carbs that win over children.
Little Reyna lost her home and her family after a break-in gone horribly wrong. Her parents had adopted and fostered multiple children, but she was their first and only child by birth. She'd been raised in the midst of a bustling and happy home, with kids to play alongside and good manners taught. Her guardians imparted kindness and compassion and wisdom. But the hardest of all was learning her on the fact that good things end, bad things happen, life isn't easy. In the hub of one night, while she was fortunately away, attending a sleepover, a pair of men crept in. And when the house awoke after the smashing of a vase, there was no hope for the unarmed Bundrens family.
We got her nearly a week ago, hours after the tragedy, and she was instantly wary of me and the only other male on staff, our bus driver, Braden. She huddled in closely to the side of our youngest volunteer worker, Emily, who just needed the hours to graduate high school. She tended to only work in the kitchen, washing dishes and taking out the trash, since that's all she qualified for. She had never interacted with one of the kids before. But Reyna clung and refused anyone else for the first day or so.
But progress can be made.
Now, she'll talk to me.
"Would you like some water, Rey—"
"No!"
The disappointment works into my side like a pinprick; I set the pitcher down with a sigh and lean back in my seat. "Right. I'm sorry."
Emily, who's weighted to the chair beside her by Reyna's strong grip, picks up the jug and pours a glass that the girl readily accepts. But at least Reyna let me sit at the table with her. It's something.
The other kids went on a field trip to the community pool. They've been on a lot of field trips, lately. Emily is forbidden from interacting with the other residents considering the fact that some of them are her age and we strictly obey our confidentiality agreement—usually. Every meal Reyna eats, though, is with Emily at her side, so we've had to work out an austere schedule.
"Have you made any frien—"
"No!"
"...Well, what about your bunkma—"
"No!"
"How abou—"
"No!"
I fold my hands on the table top and rest my forehead on the pads of my thumbs, willing away the forming migraine. My restless sleep last night and her insistence that I'm the bad guy are working my nerves to a point where I can hardly breathe. I haven't faced stubborn kids before. I've dealt with troublemakers and rabble-rousers (a term straight from Mrs. Kay's personal dictionary). But there's a difference between them and Reyna.
Because I can relate to kids who raise hell. But with this child I've got no angle to work with.
She simply won't allow me to try.
I look to Emily, commissioning her help. She brushes Reyna's hair back from her face while the younger girl nibbles on a slice of boneless chicken breast.
"Reyna, won't you talk to Mr. Jackson? Hmm? For me?"
She throws her fork onto her plate. "No!" She cries and scampers out of her chair, rattling the table as her legs race her to the dorm hall. She stops at the security door closing the corridor off from the rest of the facility, and pounds her fists on it until our office lady buzzes her in. Emily and I watch each other dismally, listening to her pattering feet and then the slam of her door with a wince. I let out a long sigh.
"We'll see how it goes tomorrow," I mutter as I push out of my own chair and scoop up the wasted dinner. Emily follows suit but takes the plate from me and meets my eyes confidently when I don't let go.
"I'll get her to finish. She needs to eat." Her hand falls on my forearm gently.
I relent and follow her to the hall, pulling out my ring of keys and unlocking the hall door for her. A buzz sounds throughout the dining area as I pull it open and walk her to the room; we stand awkwardly outside while Emily coaxes Reyna back out. It takes a good ten minutes before she relents at hearing that she'll get dessert if she cooperates and she steps out with a trail running down her dusty cheeks from crying. I press myself to the wall as they pass and settle back at the table.
I unclip my radio and buzz Amelia, one of our coordinators, asking her to come downstairs to supervise. I'll be heading out for the night. And when she arrives, I pull on my jacket and wave goodbye to Reyna. Little eyes go wide and then she snaps her head back to her plate, scooping up a forkful of vegetables. I step out into the dark and force the front door shut behind me.
My work van is none too handy at getting dates but that's not usually what I'm focused on when I'm getting myself from place to place. When I'm in it, there's a handful of kids bickering and laughing in the back seats after a McDonald's run, yelling for me to turn the music up and dreaming about whatever activity we have planned for them. And my mode of transportation majorly is the van.
I decide on a diner my mom took me to as a kid to pick up a cheap, but deliciously fattening, meal. It's patriotic and retro and just my speed after a rough day at work. There are older couples and families strewn across the booths and round tables. Only a few patrons loiter at the bar and I join them, trying to remain unobtrusive by hunching over and burying my face in a menu. From the jukebox I can faintly here Ritchie Valens humming out his hit "Donna". It's soft and nostalgic and works like magic on my heavy shoulders and pounding head.
I order a cup of coffee and a stack of waffles, whipped cream and strawberries to top it off. Just as I would eat them as a kid. I haven't had waffles in a few years, which seems odd to me. But I either hadn't had the time or was too concerned on preserving my current shape. Tonight feels like one of those nights that people just need to be reckless, so I order the waffles.
The waitress, in her long pink skirt and polka-dotted ribbon, swishes by and pours a cup of black and motions to the creamers and sugar packets. She scribes the order and dots the paper when she's done with her pen tip before slapping it down on the kitchen window.
Behind me, the bell above the door chimes.
A school of shouts surge into the diner and disrupt the calm almost immediately. Short legs race to the largest booth shoved into a nondescript corner of the joint. And following the pad-clad legs is a clump of exhausted soccer moms, game bags slung over their shoulders coupled with fashion-forward purses. They all have their hair pulled back in some fashion and simultaneously split to sit on the outer ring of the table, shielding us unsuspecting strangers from their riled up children.
One dark-haired boy stands in his seat and bounces excitedly with a smooth grin stretching cheek to cheek. He lets out a gleeful shout and a woman I assume to be his mother, an attractive blonde, leans forward and tells him—with much force and embarrassment—to sit down or else she'll take him home. He doesn't comply right away until he looks to her and registers the level gaze as bad.
He sinks down. I sip my coffee.
My one-woman-show of a waitress skates by with three plates lining her forearm; without hesitation she selects my waffles and slides them in front of me. Keeps going to the next customer. Doesn't even look my way.
The waffles are nearly an exact replica of the ones from my memories. Fluffy, golden, crisp, heavily sweet, and stained pink from the sliced fruits topping them. When I take my first bite, I think of making the dish for the kids' breakfast. I'm certain they'll love it.
After my second bite, I begin composing a text to Mrs. Kay about the scheduled meals and just exactly what I'm looking forward to tomorrow morning. Her reply is instant, with a winking grin and an 'anything for you, sugar'.
When I'm half-way through my meal, the door dings again and is followed by a crisp breeze that tussles my hair. I muss it with my fingers and shake my bangs from my eyes. The jukebox flips mid-way through a tune to some Sinatra jazz, smooth like honey and rich in tone. When I glance in the general direction, not really minding and only half aware, I see another soccer mom with her son. Unlike the obnoxious orange crowd, he's got a bright green uniform on and black shorts.
More food in my mouth, syrup certainly ringing my lips, and as I reach for my coffee mug the seats beside me slide out with abrupt groans. I try not to look at them—there's no doubt it'll make them uncomfortable and 'creeper' is not really my style—but train my gaze on my waffles.
Mom situates herself between me and the kid, smoothing a cloth napkin across his lap and telling him to decide what he wants to eat. She sits back and throws her blonde curls over her shoulder, then clears her throat. She scans a menu. Her son sits, a perfect gentleman, a carbon copy, scanning his own kids menu with his chin dropped on the back of his hands. When the waitress skates by, he even throws out an 'excuse me' before asking her to please bring him a pack of crayons, if that's okay. His feet pick up a steady swing while he waits.
The air is immediately suffocating in its thickness. My skin crawls. I feel like his mother is too close, like I should scoot my chair just a few inches to the right, but that could be misconstrued as rude. I fidget as imperceptibly as I possibly can. I sip my coffee again and ask for the bill.
"Mommy," cute kid in green whispers. "Mommy, can I have what he had?"
Mom spares a glance and to my credit, I only watch her from my peripheral. She takes too long; she lingers. My throat tightens. She begins to drum her fingers on the counter top mutedly. And then, finally, her gaze flits back to her son.
"Sweetie, you should really eat something with more substance," she murmurs half-heartedly and with her words I'm immediately smothered by the gravity pulling me back to her. I'm not so obtuse as to not realize that these two soccer teams—orange and green—were probably versing each other. And making an educated guess, I'd say that green lost. She really shouldn't begrudge him anything tonight. "Besides, you know how sugar before bed gives you nightmares."
Sugar before bed used to give me nightmares.
"Yeah, but mommy," he starts to protest. "I promise to be really, really good. Please?"
Mom's hands drop into her lap and she turns to him with that exasperated, impatient look that mothers get when they repeat themselves to children that don't yet grasp the concept of 'no'.
My tab is slid around my plate and I cast a thoughtless eye to the waitress with a quiet snip about gratitude. I pull out my wallet as I stand and throw down a twenty dollar bill. As I move towards the door, my eye catches on the line of the woman's neck, on the slant of her mouth, and my feet stutter. My hand lingers on my back pocket where my leather wallet was just secured.
Before I can do something stupid, I hurry from the diner and slide into the van. My heart pounds and my ears ring; that's all there is. I can't feel anything. To ground myself, I wrap my arms around the stinging cool of the steering wheel and press my forehead to it, muttering every curse in every language I can think of in alphabetical order.
At home that night, I snap.
Everything on my counter top is sent flying across the room, except for a family portrait that can never ever be taken for granted ever again. I rip my drawers from there tracks and toss whatever I can. I scream through gritted teeth. I kick my bed post and follow that up with a colorful range of expletives that I've managed to strip from my vocabulary for the most part.
Hot tears pool in my eyes and blur the walls of a room that I've managed to keep empty of company and happiness for so long.
My body collapses under the weight of remembrance onto my sheets.
She was so close, so close, so damn close. Right there, within my reach. For years, for years, I'd worked hard to push her from my thoughts. And for a long while, out of sight managed to keep her out of mind. It was just barely enough. I began to help kids that the world had given up on, gave myself a purpose; I survived. I started to breathe again; playing fifth wheel with Thalia and Nico, playing wingman, harmless flirting became easy. It became natural to look.
But never touch. Why not?
I'd survived; I'm surviving. I've convinced myself that this is enough, this is okay.
But I want to live. I don't want to just breathe; I want to breathe deeply and purposefully.
That weight on my chest is back. It won't let me.
Because after all of this time—after all these years—it still hurts. I don't think it will ever stop hurting.
Every night for weeks I find myself in that seat at that diner eating that dinner.
Waiting.
The same waitress—Gracie—breezing by on her rollerblades, chomping on three sticks of gum at least, calling out orders and naming her regular customers with pet names. Other patrons that don't frequent the place are simply 'Honey' but I'm Sugar Daddy. The old man three seats down is Squirrel. And then the booth two away from the corner booth, five feet from the jukebox, is occupied by Sweetcheeks, Love and Bubba. Don't ask for their birth names, she couldn't tell you, but she knows for a fact that Sweetcheeks has a granddaughter starting kindergarten and Squirrel has a son that's older than his third wife, who blessed him with a daughter that's just bloomed into a blushing 18-year-old bride. Bubba and Love have been married for nearly seventy years and they've got a love story to last the ages recorded in some old letters that have been tucked away in a cigar box.
And I am her mystery case. Because when she asks, I've got nothing to say.
I'm from nowhere, not really doing much of anything, with not much of anyone.
My visits have become so regular and predictable that she's developed the uncanny ability to slide my order on the counter in front of my seat the moment the bell chimes overhead to announce me.
Same steam of coffee a wisp of warmth cradling my face.
Same bite of strawberries a lick of sweetness on my tongue.
Same pouch of people a horde of quiet but hearty company.
And then again, every week, same day, the quaint diner is overrun by rogue children that tug their mom's along by their leashes. Same orange uniforms. Same boy standing up to cause a commotion much to his mother's chagrin. This time today, though, one freckled kid with glasses actively participates in our musical entertainment of the evening. For some incomprehensible reason, he settles on 'Drip Drop' and I nearly choke on my coffee. Couldn't he have chosen anything else? I'd even settle for some Elvis.
And then, of course, halfway through my stack of waffles, the door cries out for my attention. Every week. She slides into the seat next to me, tucks her child in and oh my gosh, she's got a child. She has a son with mussed hair a few shades lighter than my own. A son with dimples and a missing canine tooth. And where do children come from? Men. Men who are not me.
I try not to, but I listen to every word that drops from her lips like manna. I haven't listened to her in so long. And there's something different, something that wasn't there those years ago. A new shade of exhaustion, a strange aged wisdom that shouldn't be hers. A frustration.
"Waffles, momma?" He presses his fists into his lap and stretches his neck as he extends her a drawn out please. His cleats swing back and forth, scuffing the linoleum floor with each pass.
"Baby," she settles her own hands in her lap and gives him that motherly head-tilt that means she'll give him what he wants this time but she doesn't have to like it. And he rewards her with the biggest, sweetest smile of his life.
Gracie swoops in with my check and shouts out: "Same time tomorrow, yeah, Sugar Daddy?" Before my response is even half-formed in my mind, she's gone to Squirrel to hand over his apple pie and dollop of whipped cream.
I don't even think. I slide from my seat with the bill and payment clasped firmly in my hand, and stride over to hover at Squirrel's shoulder, the old man chattering mindlessly into his pie while Gracie stabs the crust with a fork. She catches me a moment before she can skate off and leans toward me. Her elbows prop themselves on the counter.
"What'cha need, hot shot?"
"Do me a favor? Open a tab, yeah?"
She gives me a wary squint on her left side and drops her head down a notch. Her manicured nails drill into the peeling bar. "What for?"
It occurs to me then that this might be awkward for her. And that maybe Annabeth will get the wrong impression. And that I'll probably just manage to piss her off. But I couldn't care less. From years of living under the care of a single mom, I'd recognize the tone anywhere. It creeps in, the loneliness and hardship, when they want it to the least and invades their dreams. It robs them, even, of their waking hours. A meal is the least I could do.
"The two over there," I toss my head their way. "Mother and son? I wanna pay for their meals."
Gracie just raises an eyebrow and scrutinizes me for a long while. I've got the decency to be briefly embarrassed and just as I start to blush and think that maybe she won't help me this one time, she holds out a hand for my bill and skates off with an approving 'humph'.
I slip out of the restaurant and make my way home, wondering how next week will change, if at all.
I prepare for her to get angry with me, to stubbornly refuse. I'll tell her that anything she says won't change my mind. That it's the least I could do. That I'm still trying to be enough.
The door hums a week later at the perfect time to make my entire frame tense up.
I've managed to get through only a quarter of my waffles this time but it doesn't change the palpable shift in the wind. The entire diner seems emptier, quieter, lonelier. Because this is it.
This is where she tells me off. Says I don't have any right to even think of showing up in her life again. She'll huff indignantly and grab her son's hand and never show up in the diner again and my efforts will have been a waste. She'll pretend to not know that I exist and—oh God, what if she doesn't even recognize me?
Somehow, that'll be worse than hateful words.
I set my fork down as soon as her presence loops into mine. I feel her eyes on the side of my head as she drops down into her usual chair. She settles her son and then turns to me. And says nothing. Just watches me and breathes and blinks and I'm going to be sick. I can't handle the merciless prolonging.
I clutch my fork and drag a bite of waffle through my lake of syrup. It's ash in my mouth. I can't eat anymore, not with her hard stare on the side of my head. I call to Gracie, nearly half an hour earlier than usual and request my bill. I pay and stand to leave, shoving my wallet deep into my back pockets, and then:
"Percy?"
I freeze. From head to toe; even air seems a thing of the past. At the very least, she remembers and that's weight drifting free and falling hard. I pull my hands in front of me and smooth them down the legs of my pants. My fists clench.
It's in my moment of defeat, after I've decided that I can't just ignore her, that my head lolls forward to touch chin to chest and I peer at her from the corner of my eyes. So weak, so exhausted.
Her breath hitches and then smoothes, so fast I'd have thought I imagined it if I hadn't spent so long memorizing her breathing. "I just, uh, wanted to… to thank you. For last week. It, um—you don't have any idea... Well, just thank you. For everything."
I didn't get yelled at. She should've yelled; I would've understood the yelling.
But I don't linger on that as I step out into the night.
I just wonder how she'll react to find out that she'll never have to pay to dine there again. And if maybe, just maybe, we've got a chance to be friends again.
At the very least, we could be friends.
Two weeks later, she comes to the diner alone, spins me around, and steps between my legs to throw her arms around my neck.
When I feel her quaking, I wrap myself around her, bury my face into her neck.
"God, I've missed you," she murmurs, her lips branding me as they move to the patterns of her whispers.
Fin. For Part I. Maybe.
Yeah. The epilogue—the freaking epilogue—had to be divided into two segments. There was just so much to write that I couldn't leave unsaid. And I promised this two weeks ago? While I do have legitimate excuses, I'm sure you're not interested so I won't go there. Part II… hopefully by Saturday. Miraculously, before Saturday. We'll see.
Update: Do you want me to just leave it here? I could.