A/N: So, okay, I'm a little late to the party. But I started reading the Percy Jackson books last year, and I'm re-reading them now, and I just thought there'd be no harm in writing a little bit of Percabeth, just to see if I like it. I think I like it though.

Never A Dull Moment

by padfoot

...

Bullet

The bullet went skimming past Annabeth's cheek, so close she could feel its heat. She yelled out loud, startled more than anything that now these crazy old ladies were shooting at them, too. Beside her, Percy swore under his breath.

"So they definitely don't need help with their shopping bags, huh?" he asked.

Annabeth glanced over at him as they both tore around a corner. They dodged a car that was speeding straight at them from the side street, its horn blaring. Percy – the idiot – was grinning.

"If we survive this," Annabeth replied, "remind me to kill you later."

"Okay!"

Immortality

Annabeth tried not to gasp at the realisation of what the Gods were offering. She suddenly felt like she had been knocked down by Kronos again and was staring up into those eyes that were almost-Luke's, almost-beloved. This felt like the same risk: throwing her faith into the arms of someone she trusted, and hoping, praying that they knew, that Percy understood-

She would have fought this battle a thousand times over for him. She would have taken Ethan Nakamura's knife again and again. She would do anything, if he would just stay here. Stay mortal. Stay with her.

"No."

Resurface

Annabeth was smiling when Percy kissed her again, again, again, and she wasn't sure if they were laughing or kissing anymore, but whatever it was, it was wonderful and absolutely just right.

She could feel his smugness in the tension in his cheek and sense his joy in the touch of his hand on her neck, the curve of his lips, the way his nose bumped hers so gently, so happily.

She knew they'd have to resurface eventually. But not yet, she begged with her kisses, with her hands in his hair and her forehead pressed against his. Not yet.

Winter

The heater in Percy's apartment was one of those old-fashioned contraptions with bars that glowed orange, radiated waves of warmth, and smelt like it was about to explode pretty much all the time.

Annabeth loved it.

She loved sitting on the floor in front of the couch, her shoulder pressed against Percy's, her legs stretched out to catch the heater's warmth. She loved Paul joking that she was hogging the heat, Percy poking her in the side and making her squirm, the violent sounds of some Gods-awful action movie playing the background as Sally cringed and Annabeth laughed, utterly carefree.

Wind

Salt-brittle, ice-cold air stung Annabeth's face, whipping the sand up into a hurricane. The wind thrashed against her, pushing her away from the foamy water, urging her up towards the safety of the valley.

But Annabeth didn't want to go back to camp yet, to people who looked at her with sad eyes, as if they thought she was broken. On the beach she felt less fractured, more whole. She could smell the sea and feel the vibrations of the breaking waves in her bones and know in her heart that Percy was alive.

Everything felt easier at the beach. The churning water and the constant tides reminded her that the world was still turning, time was passing – that no matter how helpless or hopeless or desperate she felt, she hadn't failed yet.

Her eyes stung from the salt, the sand, the tears and the frustration. She felt so close to Percy that it was maddening. If she closed her eyes she could feel him here, his presence making her skin tingle and her pulse pound.

But the wind, the sea and the stinging pain were stronger than her fantasies. Soon enough, every night, they managed to drive her away.

Cruelty

Percy Jackson was not, by most estimates, a cruel man. He was foolish, rash, a bit snarky at times, but rarely ever cruel. Which made it all the more awful when he was.

And, okay, it's not like he knew he was being cruel, probably. Annabeth was sure he'd never purposely cause her this much distress.

But.

Like.

It really would have helped if the poor, hapless boy could just put a shirt on a bit more of the time. Yes, it was summer. Yes, it was hot. But no. No. Annabeth really could not withstand this kind of cruelty.

Happiest

Annabeth had turned into one of those girls. She knew she had, and she was embarrassed that she had, but not so embarrassed to try and put a stop to it.

Because, when it came down to it, she had not known these friends of hers for all that long anyway. (Not like some people, who she'd known since she was twelve.) And she had not gone literally to hell and back with these friends. (Like she had with some people.) And, perhaps most importantly, these friends did not know how to make her sweat with just a look, or make her body tremble with just a well-placed kiss, or basically just sort of rock her world with apparently very little effort. (And also get a tonne of satisfaction out of doing so, like some people did.)

So, yes, Annabeth was most definitely one of those girls. But she flat-out refused to feel even the least bit guilty about it when she said, for the fifth time that week, "I can't come tonight, I'm hanging out with Percy."

"You're one of those girls?" her friend asked, "Dumping us to hang out with your boyfriend?"

"Yes," Annabeth replied smugly, "I am."

Lesson

Annabeth had always assumed that she didn't have much more to learn. Despite the dyslexia, the ADHD, the teachers who more often than not turned out to be monsters, hell-bent on killing her, Annabeth had always kind of done well at school. She worked hard, it paid off. That was how it went.

College was different.

The lessons there demanded that she bend her mind in new, painful ways. The lecturers didn't stop to make sure she understood, they just powered on, assumed that she was keeping up. She was made to work harder than ever before. She loved it.

College

There was a dangerous amount of freedom allowed to Annabeth in college. Not the least of it was the dorms. Dorms with doors that locked from the inside, and roommates who disappeared for entire weekends to visit their family in Connecticut (why did everyone's family always live in Connecticut, anyway?), and did she mention the doors that locked from the inside?

Not enough emphasis could be given to the doors.

Doors that allowed her to tug Percy inside by the loops of his jeans, to kick the door shut and then click. Privacy. It was the best kind of magic.

Clutch

"Help me!"

Percy yelped as one of the scaly creatures belched out a ball of fire, which shot towards him with surprisingly speed, narrowly missing his shoulder.

"How?"

"I don't know! Use your handbag!"

The nearest of the monsters opened its mouth wide, getting ready to shoot another fireball. Without thinking, Annabeth pegged her clutch at it, watching as the glittery item sailed neatly into the monster's wide, gaping mouth. The monster gulped, emitted an ominous low rumble, and then promptly exploded into a cloud of dust.

"It's not a handbag," Annabeth chided, standing by Percy's side, "It's a clutch."