Disclaimer: I am not Rick Riordan, therefore, I do not own the totally awesome Percy or Annabeth or Grover or Athena or -- I'm not going to give you the list. it's pretty long.
Kisses,
{--Inky--}
"So," Grover begins, leg twitching nervously as the three teens (though Grover is, actually, half their age) sat comfortably in the Jackson's living room. "You ended up here."
"Yes." She agrees, pulling her knees up onto the seat of the chair she is nestled into.
And then Grover asks the question she doesn't want him to. "Why?"
In lieu of an answer, she flicks her gaze to Percy, sitting on the end of the sofa unoccupied by Grover's hooves, which he had uncovered and almost given Percy a heart-attack over. Understanding flashes in Grover's eyes, and he raises one eyebrow. She hesitates, unwilling to reveal anything. She's learned from experience that telling the future can only make it worse, and the coming days are already bad enough; she Knows.
Her gift, fortunately, takes pity on her and presents a way out. She quickly retrieves her warehouse sketch.
Grover recognizes it when she hands it to him. Relieved, she sinks into the middle cushion to watch him pore over the pencil rendition, her leg accidentally pressing firmly nest to Percy's and making him jump.
"It's one of our old hideouts, down in the Southern end," Grover says. "Been abandoned for years, last I heard." Suddenly, she sits up straighter.
"How many years?" she asks slowly. Grover shrugs, thus beginning a heated discussion over something Percy can't follow, filled with strange names, years, and addresses he doesn't have a hope of understanding.
