Hurts, Doesn't It Kid?

by the crooked typewriter

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? She'd be home soon. And he'd probably be alive (and not too broke) to see it. (One-shot hurt/comfort scenes of Percy defending NYC).

4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Percy found himself staring at his phone screen, waiting.

His dinner of scrambled eggs was getting cold. The time zones between England and New York were a little off, but he could have sworn he had gotten it right this time. Annabeth would call at 5:00pm, his time.

But his phone stayed dark.

He rolled his shoulders, fighting back a wince as the knots in his back flashing hot for a moment, throwing him right back under the weight of the world, of Atlas—

But no, he was in the present. Waiting for Annabeth's bright, beautiful face to show up and make his whole week of exterminating harpies and delusional, dangerous demigods and showering until his walls were sweating better.

He paced around the small kitchen for what felt like the hundredth time. Massaged his palms. Rolled his shoulders again. Winced again.

Outside, rain came down in thick sheets, pounding his windows with a relentless force that made him wonder if Zeus was all good up there, or if he had gotten into another fight with his wife. The weather changing always brought back old pains, ones that even the waters couldn't fix entirely.

The weight of the world.

Absently, he twisted the lock of hair that once was silver.

Then choked back a gasp of pain as the small movement tweaked his right shoulder, sending his body into a shivering convulsion. His muscles tensed, pulling taut as a bow string as he fought to unclench his jaw and let the muscles relax. A soft, pained sound escaped his lips. It left a puff of steam against the window.

Relax, relax, relax. This used to happen all the time when he was stressed—like his body remembered the weight and the trauma locked him up like he'd jumped in the Arctic ocean. But with fights keeping him up late into the night and fights waking him up early in the morning and fights between grocery shopping and going to the bank—

Gods, he just wanted Annabeth to be here.

He took in a shaking breath, let it out slow, fought the tears that came to his eyes when his shoulders spasmed again, sending a shock of pain down his spine and into his knees. Another breath. Another.

Tendon by tendon, he found himself coming out of the tweak.

It passed in an agonizing minute, leaving him breathless, leaning against the cool window pane.

Then his phone started to vibrate across his kitchen island.

Aching all over like he had just spent a full 24-hour period at the gym, still wiping stray tears off his cheeks, his shaking hands pressed at his phone to answer.

"Hi, Seaweed Brains," Annabeth said, smiling so brightly that Percy wanted to cry all over again.

"Hey, Wise Girl."

And the ache traveled down, from his old wounds to his heart.