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Percy barely remembers what happens next. The world seems hazy, and it blurs unsteadily as he shifts on his feet. Harry is still on the ground from where he’d moved forward to finish off the boggart(of course the boggart magically became killable then, honestly Percy shouldn’t even be surprised anymore), his hand curled protectively around his ribs with a pained expression.
It hurts to look at him, so Percy shifts his attention to the door. Umbridge is long gone, the door cracked open from when she’d slipped out.
Vaguely Percy realizes that he should probably feel angry about that, but at the moment he just feels spectacularly numb.
There’s a small noise behind him, and Percy turns to watch Harry stagger to his feet. He should probably go and help him, but he feels such a rising indifference to the idea that he doesn’t move(he’s also fairly sure that Harry doesn’t want his help, all things considered).
Harry steadies himself on an old desk, his breaths deep and labored. He must have at least a few broken ribs, judging by the way he clutches his side, and the way his face screws up in pain as he breathes.
He’s carefully avoiding Percy’s gaze as he stumbles over to the door, his wand held tight in his one hand as though he’s about to be attacked.
Percy feels the strange urge to laugh, to grab Harry and ask him if he’s scared(“Are you scared, Percy?”), to give him reason to fear him(‘I’m better.” Another blow to the face, blood dripping steadily down onto the floor like crimson pennies).
But thankfully he still feels a slight semblance of sanity because he lets Harry pass in silence, watching him detachedly as he slips out of the door without even a glance behind him(which probably should hurt, but as Percy’s said, he’s not feeling particularly anything at this point).
Percy isn’t sure how long he stands there; time seems to ebb and flow like the tides as he stares blankly at nothing at all.
Eventually he registers that he should leave(Umbridge and Harry sure as hell aren’t coming back to the scene of what is probably the worst school fiasco Percy has ever created, and that’s counting the time he blew up that school bus with a medieval cannon).
The halls are dark, candles casting dim light on the walls that darken before hitting the floor. The echoes are weaker in the halls, and Percy revels in the fact that once again he is completely silent as he glides down the hall.
There’s a sprinkle of blood on the floor, like a perverted trail of candy in a fairytale, which disappears to the right leading to the hospital wing.
At the turn, Percy falters, his feet automatically turning towards the corridor that would bring him to the Ravenclaw Common Room, but eventually correcting themselves and heading further out to the abandoned classrooms of Hogwarts.
He can feel the weak urge to see Annabeth pulling him the other way, but the apathy currently fueling him pushes it away with ease.
He wants to be alone.
After half an hour of aimless wandering he finds himself in the abandoned classroom that he and the others had met up in that first night to talk. He traces the grain of the wood walls dispassionately, his back sliding down the wall until he hits the floor.
The room still carries mementos of their visit; the water bottle Percy had left behind(he always forgets his), the chair Leo had been trying to balance on upside down(now very much broken), and the sweet words written in dust that Frank and Hazel had silently sent messages on.
Percy loses track of time as he sits there, watching the moon creep lower from the single gloomy window in the classroom, so dusty and scratched that only a dim glow can be made out.
It’s nearly out of sight when the door creaks open again. Percy feels like he should turn to see who it is, but he feels such a lack of interest about it that he doesn’t bother.
“Percy?” The voice smoothes over his thoughts like honey, and he closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling.
His hearing is fuzzier than normal(no doubt because of the countless injuries he has, especially after his evil counterpart punched him in the face a couple of times), but he can dimly hear a muffled curse and the sound of the door shutting, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.
Then, from closer, the repeated question. “Percy?”
It’s Annabeth, his sluggish brain finally realizes, and he turns his head to look at her.
She looks as stunningly beautiful as ever, with her blonde hair cascading down her back and her gray eyes sharp with worry, but Percy’s having trouble focusing on her face and he really just doesn’t care anymore so he closes his eyes again.
There’s more movement from beside him(which really is getting on his nerves, he’d really come to enjoy the previous peace and quiet) and then a string of rather creative curses that are so very Annabeth.
“Hey Perce? Can you open your eyes for me?” Annabeth’s voice is soft and insistent, balancing on the line with a tact that only Annabeth could manage.
Percy really wants to tell her to just fuck off, but it’s so much work so he settles for pettily ignoring her and turning his head away.
Another string of curses, most of them unintelligible at this point, and then Annabeth speaks up again. “Okay, Perce. I’m going to touch your wrist, okay?” She moves slowly(Percy can hear her come nearer, but even better he can feel her, the blood in her arm is like light in the darkness), but regardless when her hand touches his wrist he flinches, his eyes snapping open.
Her hands are like solid fire on his skin(like hot brands, his right arm tingles and he resists the urge to touch the blocky letters burned into his skin), and for an instant a rising wave of emotion washes over him before indifference replaces it again.
Her hands are firm and soft on his skin, feeling for his pulse with precision. Briefly Percy amuses himself with the idea of telling Annabeth that there’s no need, he can feel his pulse, and hers, as a matter of fact, but again he’s stopped by the fact that it requires effort.
He watches her numbly as she searches through her bag for something, one hand still firm on his wrist, her thumb rubbing pleasing circles on his pulse.
“Gods, your hands are ice cold.” She mutters under her breath, and Percy fights the childish reflex to snap back and tell her that her hands are just really hot.
She pulls out a bag of yellow squares that vaguely smell like something nice that Percy probably likes(though at the moment, he isn’t completely sure what that is) and dutifully eats the squares after a bit of poking and prodding on Annabeth’s end.
A warm feeling fills his bones, coating him with warmth. The fog in his head clears a bit, enough for him to grasp a few tangible thoughts.
The warm feeling from the ambrosia travels upwards, ridding Percy of a coldness he hadn’t realized he’d had. His head feels lighter, light enough that he turns it to watch Annabeth, a smile growing on his face as he watches her hassle over him.
The apathy that had covered him like an icy blanket seems to dissipate slightly, and love for Annabeth curls up in his chest contentedly. With it comes the horrible realization of what he’s done, hitting him like a truck.
It’s immediate, the rush of feeling. The loss of numbness reveals every fear, and they’re far too countless, too powerful, to overcome.
He wrenches his arm away from her grasp and curls up into himself, his mind painfully aware of everything.
“Oh gods, what have I done?” He gasps, it’s becoming so hard to breathe, and this new warmth in his body only highlights the multitudes of cuts and bruises on his body(he misses the apathy, the unfeeling; it had been protection from this).
“Oh no oh no oh no-” Breathing hurts, though he isn’t sure whether it’s from his injuries or something else. His throat closes up painfully, and he shudders.
There’s blood on his hands, stained red(just like his), and he scrapes at his palms angrily. There’s more on his shirt, the crisp white no longer visible on his chest, and his hair is stiff with dried blood.
He can’t hear anything; there’s white noise filling his ears, and his chest is heaving- why does it hurt so much to breathe?
Annabeth’s speaking to him, her hands reaching for him, but he pushes himself further away from the soft embrace of her hands and growls warningly.
When did the line between human and monster blur so much? With his teeth bared toward her, an animalistic growl rising in his throat, does the blood on his skin fit? Does it paint the right picture?
(“Are you scared?”)
Annabeth backs up smoothly, moving out of sight.
Percy cranes his head around wildly to find her, but his vision is a blur and he’s not thinking right-
(That’s weakness, he realizes. He’s weak-)
Water, cool and comforting, hits him in the face, but it can’t stop the wave cresting on Percy’s shoulders(it’s dangerous, dark and deep like the ocean).
He gasps, his heart beating erratically- there’s Annabeth, standing right in front of him(how did he miss that?), his forgotten water bottle(now empty) in one hand.
He feels like he’s drowning(what a funny feeling for a son of Poseidon, but recently he’s been feeling it a lot- oh, the irony), is there water in his lungs? It hurts to breathe and he can’t stop it and everything hurts-
A gentle hand on his shoulder, and he’d do something but he can’t(he feels like he can’t move, because he’s drowning), but he can hear Annabeth’s voice(so bossy, but she always is) talking to him.
“I need you to breathe, Percy.” She’s speaking softly, softer than Percy even thought she could, but she doesn’t understand-
Breathing has never been so hard.
He tries to listen, though, he does his best(though his best was never good enough), taking deep breaths through a shuddering chest. Annabeth moves to sit down next to him, cross legged on the floor, and after a moment of pitiful silence Percy moves his head to lay down on her lap, his breathing still painfully erratic.
The intense pounding in his head lessens slightly with every deep breath, and he relaxes slightly into Annabeth.
She strokes his hair, playing idly with the lock of gray intermixed with the black, her hands a calming presence on his head. Percy presses himself closer to her, guiltily realizing that he must be getting blood all over her, but her hands seem to wash away all of the worries in his head as he sits there. She scratches behind his ear, remnants that had stuck from his time with Lupa.
Percy’s breathing finally calms down to the point where he doesn’t feel constantly winded, and he draws some water from the floor to clean the blood off his hands. He leisurely watches the beads of water circulate his hands, feeling better and better as every drop of blood is erased. (It makes it easier to forget).
Most of his wounds had stopped bleeding from the ambrosia, but a large gash on his arm continues to seep blood. Before Percy even realizes what he’s doing, he takes control of it, sending the streaks of crimson back to its source, leaving clean skin in its wake.
He doesn’t look at Annabeth, but he feels her hands still for a moment before continuing to run through his hair.
He hadn’t done this in so long, not since Tartarus, but it comes so naturally that Percy can’t stop himself. Even before, when he’d sworn he wouldn’t, he couldn’t help the fact that he could still feel blood(it sang to him, like power buzzing under his skin).
“You want to tell me what happened?” She finally asks. Percy watches a bead of blood run down the palm of his hand, before grabbing hold of it and evaporating it in an instant.
He shakes his head. Saying it will make it real. Right now, the memory lingers at the back of his head like a dream. Could it stay this way forever? If Annabeth had never come, perhaps he could have cleaned himself up, and pretended that it never happened. There was Harry, and Umbridge, sure, but it would be easy enough to avoid them.
Or silence them… The sick part of his mind croons, sounding eerily like him. (“They won’t even see it coming.” A shark’s smile, teeth sharp and glittering with blood-)
Percy shuts his eyes and tells her. He talks, shakily and broken, and he’s fairly sure at least half of his story isn’t understandable, but it’s Annabeth, and he’s positive she can put the pieces together. Annabeth doesn’t move from his side, the ends of her hair tickling his neck and her hands a steady pressure on his scalp.
By the end, a long silence fills the air, and Percy busies himself with screwing and unscrewing his water bottle to take his mind off of the quiet. When she speaks, her voice burns with a quiet rage.
“I’m going to kill her.” Percy looks up at her in surprise, and she looks back down at him, her gray eyes dangerously sharp. He feels the sudden urge to laugh, both in relief and disbelief.
“You can’t do that.” He says. Annabeth glances down at him and grins, and something flutters in his chest.
“Are you doubting my capabilities, Jackson?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. Percy can’t help but grin foolishly back at her, and he grabs her hand with his.
“I wouldn’t dare.” He responds, and for a moment everything seems right in the world.
The silence that follows is comfortable, the two of them lying there together.
Of course that’s when the adrenaline dies and the pain comes.
Annabeth notices, of course, immediately. She fixes him with a stern look that would kill lesser men. “We need to go see Will, now.”
Percy shakes his head, then hisses in pain from the movement. “I’m fine.” He says, though his voice is strained.
Annabeth doesn’t even bother responding, instead pulling herself to her feet and then holding out a hand for him.
“Come on, Seaweed Brain. We don’t have all day. Or night, in this case.” She says. Percy huffs, but grabs her hand and lets her pull him up.
He immediately regrets the decision, as every part of his body groans in response, and bars of pain rack his head.
“Oh gods I think I’m dying.” He says, his head steadied in his hands. He feels a light smack on his back.
“That’s not funny, Percy.” Annabeth says annoyedly, and he peeks out from behind his hands to look at her.
“Ow, woman, that hurts! Can’t you see I’m injured enough?” He complains, hiding his smile behind his hands.
Annabeth just grabs one of his arms and wraps it around her to support him, shooting him a reprimanding glare as she holds him steady.
“You’re lucky I like you so much, else I would have dropped your ass already.”
Percy laughs.
Together, they hobbled out of the classroom, Annabeth leading him down the corridor with brisk efficiency. Percy hadn’t realized how much his body had hurt until now, but every cut and bruise was distinctly painful.
They end up in a corridor with a bunch of barrels at the end, and Percy gets a brief respite from the walk propped up on one of them as Annabeth IM’s Will to tell him what’s going on and get the password to get in.
The common room is empty, yet warm with bright yellow and black colors and plants growing on the walls. Will guides Percy to a squashy beige couch with yellow and black embroidery and lays him down.
The son of Apollo is still in his pajamas, clearly just having rolled out of bed, his blonde hair sticking out everywhere. He and Annabeth talk profusely, Will shooting Percy slightly worrying looks every once in a while, before he finally comes up to him and shoots him a kind smile.
“Hey, Percy. How’s it going?” Will asks, opening up a slightly beat up med kit with familiar ease.
“Not great,” Percy mumbles back. “As you can see.”
Will glances back at him, his blue eyes shining. “I can see that, yes.”
There’s something comfortable about sitting there with Will, reminding Percy of the days when he’d gotten patched up after a too-rough game of Capture the Flag. Memories of sitting down and listening to Will berate him for being incautious as he got his injuries wrapped up wash over him, and he smiles slightly. Plus, he’d usually get a lollipop at the end.
Will works efficiently, chatting with Percy throughout the process. Percy doesn’t even need to respond; just give an affirmative hum occasionally and Will would do the rest, sharing funny stories and silly remarks with a comfortable ease.
By the end, Percy feels distinctly better. The ambrosia and nectar he’d been given had filled him up with a comforting sense of warmth, and Will had bandaged up all of injuries, before strongly recommending to him to take a shower before heading back to bed.
Annabeth sits with him a moment, the two of them silently preparing to leave the warmth of the Hufflepuff Common Room. Annabeth is cleaning up the last remnants of the mess that Percy had left behind, while he stretches weakly, readying himself for the walk back.
“Annabeth?” His voice breaks the carefully crafted silence of the room, and Annabeth glances at him surprisedly.
“Are you scared?” He asks.
Annabeth gives him a confused look. “Scared of what?”
Percy forces himself to meet her eyes, holding her gaze. He knows that she knows exactly what he’s talking about.
Scared of me.
He can’t say the words, however, so he just says, “you know what.”
Thankfully, Annabeth doesn’t continue the pretense of not understanding. She takes a deep breath, her gaze painfully raw.
“Percy, I'm terrified.” The words come like a blow that hits him in the gut, more painful than anything he’s faced this night. He outwardly cringes, pushing himself away from her painfully.
“I’m sor-” He starts to say, but is interrupted by Annabeth grabbing him by the wrist, her eyes holding his.
“You didn’t let me finish.” She says quietly. “I’m terrified… for you.”
Percy doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if he can.
“I don’t want to lose you.” Her voice is quieter than it’s ever been, and far too hesitant.
Upon hearing it he grabs her hand in his, his mouth suddenly dry. He still can’t say anything, his throat convulsing painfully, so he settles for holding her hand, leaning into her comfortingly.
Never.