Hurts, Doesn't It Kid?
For C. and H.
So what Percy had this vigilante, monster-slayer, ghost-buster-for-hire gig in New York going while Annabeth completed her Master's program in England? So what that he tells her he's fantastic every time she Skypes instead of telling her the truth? So what? She'd be home soon. And he'd probably be alive (and not too broke) to see it. (Or, a collection of one-shot hurt/comfort scenes of (older, college-age) Percy defending NYC).
CHAPTER 1
Percy's mouth tasted like shit.
He sucked at his teeth, tasting equal parts blood and dirt and the peanut noodles he had eaten before the fight and then thrown up afterwards. It all grated against his tastebuds in a casserole of awful, unbearable flavors.
His hand had trouble gripping the doorknob to his tiny, New York apartment. His joints were swollen past being much use, and his skin had split apart at the seams along his knuckles. His left eye was swelling shut as he stood there, running his tongue over his teeth over and over, hand just flopped on his doorknob like an idiot.
Gods, that was a bad fight. He hadn't taken a beating like that since his first year at camp. His ribs felt like he had lost a bad jenga game, or maybe like a giant had mistaken him for a xylophone.
Who would let demogorgons loose in a Manhattan McDonalds? was all he was thinking now.
That, and how nice it was for that employee to have given him a kid's meal to puke his dinner into.
Percy thumped his head against the door. It left a sweaty, greasy, bloody mark.
But underneath his weight, the door creaked, pushing inward just slow enough for him to be able to stumble back onto his feet and keep his momentum heading through the threshold and into the kitchen. The freezer accepted his exhausted embrace and with a little extra effort, the door was open and he was holding a packet of frozen Trader Joe's samosas in one hand and some microwaveable cauliflower rice in the other. Already the cold was easing some of the ache gathered between his finger bones, the raw sword callouses on his palms.
The apartment complex was quiet, save for the ringing in Percy's ears. That eyeball was now totally out of commission, and he slapped the cauliflower rice onto his left cheek weakly. His knees wobbled. He'd pass out, Percy thought, before he could make it to his mouthwash under the bathroom sink. He sucked in a shitty-tasting breath and pressed the samosas package to his ribs, breathing out one long line of shitty-tasting air before his world tipped sideways.
And the abyss opening in his vision on kitchen floor came up fast to meet him.