AN: I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! Who missed me? …Oh. No one. Okay. That's fine…

But I missed you, you wonderful readers! I was sick for five days straight–still have the cough–and, over the weekend, my sister came back into town, which was just great. (Note the sarcasm.)

So, anyway, now that we're out of my ramble, this one-shot is set after The Last Olympian, but before The Lost Hero. This is kind of a week or two before Percy goes missing.

Thanks for clinking on my story, and even further thanks if you actually read it!

When Percy wakes up, he feels like death.

There's something close to a marching band pounding on his brain. Everything–his arms, his legs, his torso, heck, even his tongue–aches. He can't breathe through his noise, but when he opens his mouth, it feels like there's bile going down his throat with every intake of oxygen.

He groans and turns over, but apparently, he had stirred in his sleep, and he falls onto the floor with a loud thump. Tears spring up in his eyes when the fall sends shocks of pain up and down his already aching spine.

What a heck of a day for Sally and Paul to be gone and Percy to be alone.

He stares at the ceiling, briefly wondering if the neighbors will complain, since he was pretty loud and they are on the third floor.

But then the thought passes. He couldn't care less. The neighbors are probably the reason he's sick, anyway. Those Tobin kids down the hall are like germ sponges.

Whining pitifully, he blindly fumbles for his phone, which is located on his bedside table. Once his fingers close around it, he sends a quick text to Annabeth before painfully pulling himself up into a standing position.

After wrapping himself up in a blanket, he shuffles out into the hall. (He seriously can't manage a pace faster than 0.0000000000000001 miles per hour right now.) Once he makes it to the kitchen, he grabs a cold piece of pizza out of the fridge and plops down on a chair.

The pizza tastes horrible. Though, that might be because the buildup of mucous in his throat, but he doesn't think he'll be able to finish the slice either way.

There's a pounding at his door, and he's giddy when he recognizes the voice on the other side. "Percy?"

He gets a burst of energy and heads to the door at a 0.000000001 miles per hour pace. He reaches a hand out of his blanket to unlock and open the door, and there stands his girlfriend, Annabeth.

She has a Target bag clutched in one hand, and her backpack is thrown over her shoulder. Her hair is up in that high ponytail he always loves to play with, and her grey eyes are sharp as she looks him over.

"Annabeth!" he greets happily, his voice hoarse and rough.

"Hey, Seaweed Brain," she replies, continuing her inspection of his bundled form. She reaches over to feel his head. "You aren't as hot as I thought you'd be."

"I'm sorry if I disappoint," he starts in a sassy tone, "but I'm sick, and I really didn't have the energy to get all gussied up–"

"Oh, shut up," she grumbles, taking her hand away.

"Make me," he prompts.

She rolls her eyes at him. Holding up the Target bag, she says, "I brought jellybeans–"

"Ooh," he says. He loves jellybeans. He reaches for the bag, but Annabeth pulls it just out of his reach.

"–and," she continues, "if you don't stop sassing me, I'll eat them all myself."

Percy straightens. "Right. Of course." He zips his lips like he's two. "No more sassing."

Breezing past him, she unloads the Target bag as he shuts the door behind her. He plops himself down on the couch as she lists what she got him. "Jellybeans, of course, soup–store bought, by the way–ibuprofen–"

"Why'd you get painkillers?" he questions, drawing his eyebrows together.

She fixes him with a look. "Because my Seaweed Brain of a boyfriend texted me, sick, dying, and help, so I wasn't sure if he got poisoned or not."

"You were going fix my possibly poisoned-ness with ibuprofen?"

She gives him another look, and he shuts up, because he really, really wants those jellybeans.

And maybe a kiss, if he's lucky.

"Here." She hands him a canister and a plastic spoon. He tenderly takes it from her hands, careful not to drop it, and she picks up the remote to turn on the TV.

After she finds a movie that he likes–Phineas and Ferb; Across the 2nd Dimension–she kneels in front of him, rubbing his shoulder in a way that almost makes him moan and the achiness disappear.

"Do you want some water?" she asks.

"Yes, please," he replies in between sips of soup. Nodding, she removes her hand, the soreness coming back almost immediately, and presses a kiss to his forehead. He leans forward, warmth traveling through his entire body, but she pulls away and goes into the kitchen.

When she comes back, she hands him a cup filled with water and picks up her phone. Judging by the noises coming from the device, she's texting.

"Sally has been informed," she tells him after she places her phone down.

He nods, putting his soup and glass down on the coffee table, and stretches out on the couch. Warm hands wrap around his ankles so that she can move his feet and sit down, placing his legs on her lap. Their eyes train on the screen, and her fingers mindlessly massage his feet.

He's content.

There's still a pounding in his head, and he still can't breathe through his nose, but he's content.

And then there's this lurching in his stomach, and bile races up his throat, and he quickly shoots to his feet, stumbling to the bathroom. He hears Annabeth following him, but his own gagging is much more prominent at this point.

He manages to kneel in front of the toilet before he loses his lunch. It tastes terrible; a dreadful combination of cold pizza and chicken noodle soup.

A warm hand presses against his back, moving in small circles to help him calm down. Her other hand goes to his head, clearing any hair from his face. Soft nothings are whispered into his ear, and the sound of her voice soothes him.

"Ugh." Once he's done, Percy flops to the side like a ragdoll, but Annabeth manages to catch him before his head meets the tiles. She stands, propping him on her side with one hand and cleaning his mouth via washcloth with the other.

"Let's get you back to the couch, yeah?" she says softly, and all he can do is groan. He feels like crap.

Slowly, she half leads half carries him back to the living room. She carefully sets him down and leaves for the bathroom again. He can hear the sink running. She's probably washing her hands.

It takes a minute for her to return, and she has a wet washcloth in hand when she does. She lays it on his burning forehead, and he feels a bit better. He swaddles himself in the blanket again, reaching out his hand and staring at her with large eyes.

"Cuddle?" he requests.

She laughs. "You have a fever, and I have a basketball game next week," she says. "I love you, but not that much."

His eyes widen, and then her eyes widen and she turns beat red, realizing what she just said. She opens her mouth–probably to apologize–but, with a burst of energy, he launches himself at her. He tackles her to the ground, his hand cupping her head so that the only part that would be affected by his weight suddenly on hers' is protected from the blow. She lands on her back with an "Oomph!" but he swallows it by placing his mouth on hers'.

He probably tastes terrible, he knows, but he just can't help himself. When he pulls back, he breathes, "Wh-what did you just say?"

"I…I said…" She looks anywhere but his face, bashful and blushing.

Then her eyes lock on his, like she's accepting a challenge, and her fingers twist in the materiel of his shirt. "I said I love you."

He's so happy, he feels like crying. (Manly tears, of course.) "I love you," he whispers, his thumb dragging over her cheek bone.

And then he's pressing frantic kisses along her jaw, like she's water and he hasn't drank in over a decade. She groans, threading her fingers through his hair. "I love you," he says with every press of his lips. "I love you so much."

Then he captures her mouth with his, and the kiss is intense. It's great and amazing and perfect. She pulls away and laughs, a little breathlessly, which makes him want to kiss her more.

"Your breath is horrible," she says, chuckling.

He scrunches up his nose. "Way to ruin the mood, Chase." His voice is raspier than it was before. He wonders if his change in tone was caused by the girl under him. That, and the quick beating of his heart. And the urge to smile and never stop. And the urge to grab her hand and never let go.

"What mood?" she jests, dragging her nose across his jawline. "All I can feel is your lack of initiative. Seriously, Percy. I'm the one who kissed you first. I'm the one who asked you out. I'm the one who said I love you first. I'm–"

"Shut up," he says playfully.

"Make me," she challenges. He smiles and leans down to kiss her, but then she places a finger on his lips. "On second thought," she says, "don't make me. Your breath is still horrible."

"That's not nice. My breath smells like rose petals and candy canes."

"You just threw up!" she exclaims. "Your breath smells like death!"

Which is funny, kind of. Since he's feeling like life, not death. He feels like a pile of unicorns and glitter and kittens and cupcakes held together by rainbows right about now, and (even though none of these things are "macho") he wouldn't trade it for the world.

AN: You know, I had a intended this to be completely different, but it ended up like this. It's funny how a story gets away from you sometimes…

I really do hope you enjoyed, and that everything was alright. If not, then please let me know, and let me know what exactly I did wrong instead of just a vague statement.

This was not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson, Target, or Phineas and Ferb, and the tittle for this was borrowed from Bastille's The Silence.

Constructive criticism welcome, and reviews really do mean a whole ton to me!