DISCLAIMER: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians. Rick Riordan's death glare kills, pun intended.

A/N: Surprise! I'm back from my little unintentional FF hiatus. Double surprise! I'm writing a PJO fic for the first time in ages. Yeah, um, I think I owe you guys an explanation.

If you've read "Smile, Harry!", you know I haven't updating it in (yikes!) over a month. *Cringes* I'm. So. Sorry! Luna-Moonberry-Lovegood (who, if you didn't know, is writing the companion piece) asked me not to update until she caught up, and I complied. But then summer REALLY hit, and loads of different things were happening all at the same time, and she's still not caught up yet. So, it's gonna be a little while more, but I'll try to tide you over with a one-shot here and there.

As for why I'm suddenly writing Percy Jackson fanfiction...well...I'm out of inspiration for Harry Potter at the moment, and I got mad at Riordan for cheating us out of our Percy/Annabeth reunion in the teaser chapter that was released. So I'm suffering from Percabeth Withdrawal, and I've been browsing burdge-bug's DeviantART galleries lately (she's FANTASTIC), and I just wanted to WRITE. So, yeah. Sorry for my absence, and I'll try to make it up to you. I have a two chapters of "Smile, Harry!" written in advance for when Luna-Moonberry-Lovegood is ready to pick back up on that project, and hopefully that'll be sometime soon.

The old Annabeth Chase would never have dared enter Poseidon's domain without express permission. Such disrespect and lack of discretion was unbecoming of Athena's favorite.

The post-war Annabeth Chase...was desperate. The post-war Annabeth Chase was reckless. The post-war Annabeth Chase was tired of the games of gods.

A hesitation at the door of weathered wood that fitted snugly, swollen with sea spray, into the shimmering walls that created illusions with seashells. Her palms rested against the door, remembering all the times it had swung open for her before she'd even gotten to the three little steps that led up to it. All the times the face of Percy Jackson had appeared from behind it wearing that lopsided grin.

She gave the door a rough shove, and it fell open. The cabin smelled musty, and the bed was unmade. The only light came from the glow of a trickling saltwater fountain in the corner, an eerie greenish blue that tossed Annabeth into a sea of memories of ocean eyes.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Yet now that she was here, she wondered why she came. She was no daughter of Aphrodite, to curl up on Percy's bed and cry. She was a child of wisdom, of battle, and of strategy. She should be in the Big House, arguing with Chiron about prophesies and bent over maps and outlining plans and trying to find him.

But now she just wandered around his cabin that smelled unbearably like him with a Pandora's box of emotions boiling beneath her skin.

The bed was unmade, and the desk in the corner was strewn with letters and photographs. One of Annabeth's own face smirked up at her from between tendrils of blond hair that tangled around her cheeks.

A few spare weapons littered Percy's bedside table, and Annabeth, just for something to do, picked up a knife and tested the Celestial Bronze blade on her thumb. She sat on the bed and felt her heel kick something further into the space between the floor and the frame. In a careless move, she pricked her finger on the blade and cussed under her breath, tossing the knife onto the bed and diving to the floor to see what she'd disrupted.

The corner of an old, worn shoebox teased her, and she nudged it towards her, sitting cross-legged and lifting the lid with a reluctantly-curious air.

The contents of the box shocked her into remembering the nondescript gray shoebox Percy had carried around during his first year at camp.

The horn of the Minotaur lay, with garish flakes of dried blood still decorating the jagged base, atop a small notebook.

Gently moving the horn (that, despite its formidable appearance, looked as though it might crumble at her touch), Annabeth pulled the notebook from its hiding place.

It was a simple black ledger, and Annabeth felt oddly as though she needed to justify her actions when she opened it. (Perhaps it holds information that could help us find him! It's possible...)

The first page held the hurried scrawl of Annabeth's missing boyfriend.

August 18th, 2009

'Dear Annabeth,

I had made up my mind to write this, with the intentions of giving it to you just before we left camp. Because, I don't care if I just saved Olympus, I'm still the worlds biggest coward.

There are a few things that I probably should've told you years ago. Or at least after that...thing on Mt. St. Helens.

I'm sure you guessed where I was during those weeks I was presumed dead. (Yes, I'm using large words. Excuse me, I need to go find some Hermes kids and re-learn my bad grammar.)

Anyway, you know I had been sent to Calypso's island. What you don't know is why I came back.

The quest was always nagging in the back of my mind, as was Grover, but what I've never really acknowledged was that you were the only one who regularly crept to the forefront of both my thoughts and dreams.

Lets backtrack a little. I'm sure you remember the day I came to camp? When I collapsed on the porch of the Big House, I was dazed, dizzy, and...pretty much completely out of it. The last thing I remembered was a lovely princess in a garish orange shirt and denim cutoffs leaning over me, her lemon-scented curls brushing my cheeks.

And now that I've managed to spew my thoughts out in no particular order already, lets revisit Mt. St. Helens and those blissful ten seconds during which I could no longer remember my name, or where I was, or why in the Hades I was carrying a sword, or anything but the taste of your lips.

(Am I starting to sound appropriately corny yet? Grover says you've gotta go all out if you want to get a girl's attention.)

Anyway, thanks for almost getting me killed back there, Annabeth. So much for 'a kiss for LUCK'.

But I'm not kidding. Everything I said was true.

I don't think I'm ever going to give you this, Annabeth. It's been rendered pretty unnecessary now by that kiss you gave me back at the Pavilion. In any case, I'm sorry that you had to take the initiative in the end. But then again I'm not, because if you hadn't I'm pretty sure we still wouldn't be together.

The point of this pathetic excuse for a letter is, I suppose, to tell you that I love you.

Hopefully now I can get up the guts to say that in person.

Percy Jackson'

Annabeth's fingers trailed over the smudged pencil marks, and her eyes stung traitorously. Sniffling, she flipped through the rest of the notebook. It was entirely blank other than the letter that had reduced her, the dignified daughter of Athena, into a blubbering mess over that idiotic, sweet, bumbling, adorable son of Poseidon.

And that was how Annabeth Chase ended up curled up in Percy's unmade bed, crying like a daughter of Aphrodite.

A/N: And...that's about it. I'm sorry for the crappy quality, it was written in, like, fifteen minutes. I hope it was somewhat satisfactory. And comments are welcome, but please refrain from singing my clothes with the flames. I rather like these jeans, thank you very much. :P