A/N: I'm addicted to oneshots; send help.

Someone asked me why my oneshots are always in Annabeth's perspective, and I honestly don't know, so this one is in Percy's. I've always been fascinated by the idea of immortality and all of those fantasies (shout out to Cassandra Clare), and I wanted to see how it'd fare with Percabeth, how it'd fare with the bitter side of a wealthy Percy Jackson. (Also mortality is sO much fun to play with eYe—) (Yes, the chapter title is "eternity" in Latin. Gotta get that aesthetic lol)

Feel free to roast me afterward btw. Usually for the more intimate scenes, I sample from Cassandra Clare or otherwise for inspiration (I'm not particularly talented at that sort of thing), but this time I decided to try it myself. No help. No referencing. No reassurance. (Kill me now). I hope it's not too shitty. Also, this is rated T plus plus lmao. For such a short amount of words, it's quite… loaded. (No pun intended). My terrible habit of not editing is back at it again btw. Go ahead and call errors out in the reviews too, and I'll fix them lmao.

PS: This isn't the story you guys were voting for in the poll. The poll story will be my next multi-chap conquest, but I just have a long list of oneshots I've been wanting to do forever. Also, if you're new here, I have a poll on my profile lmao (no shit, Sherlock). Please vote! It's been interesting to see what you guys like the most, and I'm ecstatic to see that some of my favorites are at the top of the ongoing poll.

Disclaimer: These are literally such a waste of time. If I was really Rick, why would I be here? Uncle Rick doesn't tuck his alter ego away on FF like a hermit to hide his inner turmoil. He doesn't need this shit. Maybe we should all try to be more like Uncle Rick. (Also, triggers for people with depression. There's this melancholic undertone to this entire story, and, if you're easily upset by suicidal language and depression, I would advise clicking off this story. Additionally, especially with the COVID-19 and even otherwise, if you ever need help or are feeling suicidal, please reach out to someone. That's really not the main theme of this story at all, but I thought it was important enough to be said.)

Percy usually tries not to drink—it typically causes bad memories to resurface—but Jason's giggling like a three-year-old next to him, and Leo's throwing up outside, his elf head stuck out the window as he retches, leaving a nice treat for the neighbors' evil cats, and Piper's way too invested in the steps to Just Dance, drunkenly stumbling as the floor lights up on the exact opposite ends of where she should be, and Hazel's horrified, watching as Thalia downs her fourth cup, filled to the brim with cheap vodka, and Nico's scowling in a corner, a little ray of death, as Will pokes him relentlessly in a drunken stupor, and although Percy fully knows he's going to regret this in the morning, he allows himself to be caught up in the moment.

His mind is a little hazy, but he's pretty sure Piper was DJing earlier, and now there's shitty 2012 pop music causing earrape as far as the eye can see, and Leo's pumping his fist in the air as he throws up, impressively in time with the beat.

Silena's a slap-happy drunk, and she's ridiculously sloppy as she bumps into Percy, grinning to herself. Percy squints at her just to make sure it's Silena one more time. "Bumblebee," she whispers, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and Percy laughs wildly, eager to share her coveted secret of the buzzing pollinators. Silena hands him her cup, albeit upside down, brushes one lock of his hair to one side so that it sticks up in an odd direction, and with an expression of utter and complete satisfaction, she loudly announces she needs to piss and hobbles off in the direction of the guest bedroom. Percy doesn't have the heart to tell her she's going the wrong way. He's been to Leo's crib enough times that he's practically memorized it.

He's practically memorized this whole city; he's lived here for the last forty years, and before that a long, long time ago, he lived here too. And yet he doesn't look a day over eighteen.

Percy never wanted immortality, really. He wants a picket fence house with a dog and the love of his life and maybe a few kids, and through the years he's amassed so much money he's richer than he cares for, and he'd love to spoil some grandchildren or maybe more dogs, and he's watched too many people he loves die, only the problem is he's never fallen in love, leaving him in the predicament he's in now.

But there's another. He's heard of her. He still remembers in the '60s, the 1860s, that is, when New York City was buzzing with excitement until they realized there isn't just one immortal—there's two. Percy deliberately avoided her through the centuries. She's a temptress, and from what he's heard, it's not great. Last he'd heard she had taught herself German—not a difficult feat for those who had lived for far too long—packed her things, and moved to Vienna, Austria without another word. The press had gone crazy, he remembers well. That had maybe been five years ago. Or ten. He's not really sure. The numbers have blurred together well, and if you ask him to recall his childhood, it's hazier than he likes.

That's exactly why he's so surprised to see her here, standing in the corner of the room, not in a lonely way, but more like she knows more than anyone else, and she's mysterious, and unapproachable, and Percy feels his mouth going dry. Just her ethereal presence sobers him up. He wouldn't consider himself to be vain, not even close, and he's not shallow, but she's quite possibly the most gorgeous person he's ever seen.

She has golden ringlets cascading down her back and shoulders, elegant and classy, which is fucking preposterous considering she looks the exact as they all do: adorned in minimal jewelry, and jeans, and tees, but somehow he knows there's more to it than that.

She holds her head high, tipping her chin upwards like she's balancing books on her head, and her spine is straight, just like a true Victorian woman. The insides of her wrists are delicate, and Percy can imagine silk gloves slipping over them. The neckline of her top is square, like the fancy ball gowns from the 1700s, and she moves gracefully with quiet footsteps like a princess from the 1500s. It's jarring, really, to see someone who's so much like him, and so much not. Suddenly, Percy's terrified.

It's odd to feel fear. The sheer number of years he's lived have calmed all senses of rational, mortal men, but she causes his heartrate to spike, and his chest to feel sweaty. Her eyes are blue, he guesses, but he can't really tell. It's dark in this house, save for LED lights decorating it like a rave; it's a party for god's sake—of course it's fucking dark—but Percy feels mildly frustrated. He would like to see her better, no matter how shameful the thought. She's not even looking at him, caught up in whatever she's drinking, but he's entranced.

If she was paler, as opposed to her sunkissed, Californian glow, he might've mistaken her for a mythical vampire; her existence alone is enough to draw him in, so that she can devour his heart and soul whole, sucking up his blood, and everything that makes him who he is. He would give the world to her. Anyone who laid eyes on her would. Until Thalia snaps him out of his trance.

"I'm getting a tattoo," she slurs, squinting at him.

Percy hides a smile. "Of what?"

Thalia thinks for a moment, scrunching her eyebrows together. She hadn't thought this far ahead. "A bone."

"A bone?" Percy's ears are ringing, and when he looks over, he realizes why. She's looking at him, and his heart stops.

"Y-you should talk to her," Thalia decides, grinning like a kid.

Percy feels the tip of his ears go red because even a drunk Thalia can decipher his new obsession. He's disgusted with himself.

"I'm good," he assures Thalia, but he can't tear his eyes away from her. He had thought her orbs were blue initially, but perhaps they're green now. Hazel? He doesn't know anymore, and he's never wanted anything more than to know this.

Thalia looks at him mockingly, which is honestly such a Thalia thing to do. She's judgemental, even as she's stupidly drunk. Percy would laugh, but his throat feels so dry right now.

The blonde looks away, breaking the electricity trickling down his back, and Percy feels mildly disappointed, like he's lost a chance he never had or needed or wanted.

"That's Annabeth Chase," another voice comes from his right. Percy glances down, and he sees Nico. He's hiding under a black cape, and Percy's really not sure why, but he doesn't even try to question his intoxicated friend's thoughts.

Percy's fingers twitch at the confirmation that he had been right. She was unmistakable. There was no other, and he could see why.

"You're being a pussy," Thalia insults him, bowing ridiculously as someone hands her another drink. That's the last thing she tells him before Jason comes over, moony-eyed and sobbing over Piper.

"She's not single," Jason sniffles, and Thalia bursts out laughing for much too long, a dead giveaway that she's had too much.

Nico shoots him a withering look. "That's because she's your girlfriend, you dolt," he hisses.

Will's voice echoes from upstairs. "Batman!" he shrieks, dizzily spinning, and Nico quickly shrinks under his cape like a turtle.

"I was never here," he whisper-yells, and 'flies' out of the room, his cape flowing behind him. Percy watches as he tucks himself away underneath the dining room table, blinking slowly at the madness unfolding under him.

"Batman!" Will stumbles down the stairs, and Thalia's doing shots of whiskey as people cheer, and Piper's crying for some unknown reason, and then Jason starts crying because Piper's crying, and then they're kissing, and Leo's not even wearing pants, and somebody else's pants are on his goddamn head, and Percy decides that, yeah, maybe he will talk to the only one besides him who seems semi-sober.

Percy casually walks over to her, but without even looking up at her, he can tell she's watching out of the corner of her eyes. Her gaze burns.

"It's been a while," says Percy before he can stop himself. He cringes. 'It's been a while'? He feels like crawling into a pit and dying. He's never even seen her before, except for maybe a couple polaroids in magazines or online, but he hasn't seen a picture of her in at least twenty years.

Annabeth looks at him skeptically, and he has a feeling that she's judging each and every piece of him with her scrutinizing eye. He feels self conscious, a feeling he's not all too familiar with. Especially now that he's too old to deal with that bullshit.

She recognizes him immediately. He can tell by the way her breath catches when she sees his eye color. His trademark sea green eyes had died out a long time ago since he bears no children, and his own parents are long gone.

"Perseus Jackson."

Her voice is smooth. It's addicting, and it sounds like how Percy imagines money would sound. It's silky, and Percy realizes at once another reason why men and women alike are so drawn to her, like moths drawn to flame. Her voice warms his heart. It's not as cold as he had expected. She makes you feel special, he notes. That's why she's so enticing. It's a revelation. He inhales sharply, winded by his name in her mouth.

"Most people just call me Percy." He's mildly aware of Thalia singing Green Day along with the playlist. Piper's hugging her, something that would never happen while the spiky-haired girl was sober, her lasting, impenetrable walls up.

"I'm not most people," says Annabeth. She gives him a half-smile. "But I think we both know that."

Percy laughs a little to himself. It's a little awkward, and it's a little creepy to talk to someone he's only seen indirectly, but he's feeling okay. Maybe it's that aged perspective that chases the fears away. Percy casually sips on his whiskey.

Feeling a bit braver, he politely continues their conversation. "I heard you were in Austria…"

…

Annabeth's eyes shine brightly. Somehow they've migrated out of Leo's cluttered apartment, filled to the brim with strangers, and friends, and enemies, and everyone in between. A big house party with a crowded kitchen isn't really his scene anymore. He's at the age when he knows what he needs, and he suspects Annabeth is no different.

He sits nexts to her at an intimate cocktail bar by the name of Dear Irving off East 17th Street in downtown New York City. The ice clinks hollowly against the expensive crystal in her martini glass, making her words sparkle. Not they don't already on their own.

Annabeth makes a small, endearing noise as she pulls her pink lips away from the rim to interrupt him. "You're only from the 30s?"

Percy nods cautiously. "You?"

"Straight 1500," Annabeth corrects, shaking her head. He's mesmerized by the way the curls on her head bounce.

"Dang." Percy grins a little to himself. "You've got almost 30 years on me."

She smirks. "Well, it's not much in the grand scheme of things, is it?"

Percy obediently shakes his head no in silent agreement. The 1500s was a little over five hundred years before now. 30 years was nothing. It was like a month's time to them.

Percy can't help himself anymore. "So what's your deal?" he carelessly asks.

Annabeth's eyes—a stark grey, he's realized by now—narrow at him. "Excuse me?" she asks, curt.

"Your deal," he repeats.

"I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Jackson." Her tone goes frigid, her shoulders tensing up.

Percy raises an eyebrow. "I'm not immortal by choice, Ms. Chase." His eyes flash with challenge. "You, on the other hand, have an interesting reputation, and I'm not certain it entirely precedes you."

Annabeth purses her lips. "I'm well aware, Mr. Jackson, but in a dog eats dog world, we'll all do whatever we can to survive, won't we?" She neatly folds her slim fingers on the varnished bar counter in front of them both. He's not surprised to see no ring. There's not even a band of paler skin where a ring might have once been.

"Your situation goes past mere survival, if I do say so myself."

Annabeth stares at him, long enough for him to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He's crossed the line a long time back, but it's not until she's impassively melting him does he begin to question that perhaps reckless decision.

"What's your deal?" Annabeth throws his words back in his face. "Why have you never fallen in… love?" The word sounds awkward on her tongue. Percy feels a stab of reluctant sympathy for her until he remembers that no, she's done this to herself. She's a terrible person. It's cruel to mess with others' feelings like this.

He shrugs slightly. "No one's quite caught my eye yet."

Annabeth scoffs. "In the last few centuries?" she mocks.

Percy hardens. "Have you fallen in love yourself?" he inquires.

"Of course I have," Annabeth easily admits. He's surprised by that, at least. "But only twice, so I assure you, I have not lost much. And I've gained much more soul through the years that two mistakes hardly matters." Her lips curve up, and the hairs on the back of Percy's neck stand up, frightened. She's so charming that it's dangerous, but then she casually refers to making people fall in love with her for their souls, and she's so honest about her deceitful, manipulative ways, and Percy should not be as impressed as he is right now. He's disgusted by her, he reminds himself. She thrives off the privilege of wealth she's attained through immortality, and now she can do whatever she wants because she's pretty and rich. It's terrible. He cannot resist the monstrous realization that she's justified to do whatever she likes.

"And you," Annabeth begins. She leans forward, and Percy catches a scent of lemon, presumably from her. She curiously studies him, and he does his best not to squirm too much. "You're like me," she cautiously begins, and Percy feels revolted. He hopes to god he's not like her. She's a pathetic excuse for a human being.

Percy sharply barks out a laugh. He's never realized how much he hates her up until this moment. "No, Ms. Chase. We are most certainly not alike."

Annabeth's quiet. "You're immortal, then," she concedes. "In every sense of the word, except you've attained living forever differently than I have. You haven't gained any soul, but you haven't lost a drop," she contemplates, fascinated in that way that children find themselves fascinated by the boxes toys come in rather than the toys themselves.

"Well, I wouldn't consider myself immortal, not like the reporters say. A poisoned blade will end me just as much as the next man, but my life is certainly prolonged." Percy gestures for the bartender to pour more, and the mousy young man quickly complies, but Percy isn't looking at him. No, his eyes are glued on the figure across from him. "And I have gained some, albeit accidentally, but no," he concedes, "I have lost none."

"That's incredible," she decides, leaning back to take a good look at him. Her critical gaze rakes over him. Annabeth bites on the inside of her cheek. "So you're a virgin, then?"

Percy chokes on his drink. The bartender seems conflicted as to whether he should help his customer, but Percy musters his best death glare. The only thing more embarrassing than hacking over an old fashioned is a lean, frail boy performing the Heimlich maneuver on him in the middle of a classy, quiet bar. He indelicately spits some of the drink out.

Annabeth casually sips from her strawberry lemonade vodka like he didn't almost pass out. She arches one perfectly curved eyebrow.

"Of course I'm not," Percy hisses, his face feeling warm. "Why would you even ask that?"

Annabeth shrugs one shoulder. "If you've never fallen in love, well, I simply assumed…" she trails off.

"Assumptions are dangerous, Annabeth," Percy says, coughing one last time.

"Oh, it's 'Annabeth' now? I suppose I can call you 'Percy,'" she decides, nodding to herself. "So you've experienced lust then?"

Percy rolls his eyes. She's so unashamed, and it's infuriating because he's never found anything more attractive. "Yes, Annabeth," he dryly remarks. "Lust is unavoidable for most."

"Right again," she agrees. Her fingernails are glossy, but clear, and he's momentarily distracted by the way they're tapping against the glass. "Why did you approach me?" Annabeth finally asks.

Percy swallows, considering her question carefully. He's not really sure in all honesty. There's just something about her… and it's been over five hundred years. He figured maybe it was time he finally met the infamous Annabeth Chase.

"You looked lonely," he lies instead, feeling mildly guilty for his dishonesty.

Annabeth stiffens. "I'm not," she says coldly, indelicately.

"Right. You have your souls with you. Or their souls, I guess I should say." It's mean, but he feels unfavorably towards her. He can't help himself.

Annabeth slams her glass down, so hard that the bartender glares over at them before recognizing their faces, and then he's just pissed by himself instead. "That's it," she snaps. "I'm leaving," Annabeth announces, raising her hand to flag down the bartender, but Percy rolls his eyes.

"So dramatic," he remarks dryly.

"Dramatic?" she hisses, her cheeks flushing red with anger. It's a mystery; how the hell is she still attractive, even pink in the face? "You've been insulting me left and right," Annabeth huffs. "I have every right to be dramatic."

"You're unethical," he points out.

"I'm still looking for where I asked for your opinion," she snaps. "If you didn't like it, you should've never spoken to me in the first place."

Percy swallows his rum and coke. "I was hoping you'd be different than they said. As far as I can see, I made a mistake. I was right to avoid you for five hundred years."

"Five hundred years could never be enough," Annabeth agrees bitterly, and the bartender finally tends to her, letting her put it on her tab. "If I ever see you again, it'll be much too soon."

"The feeling's mutual," he mutters into his glass, and then she's gone in a flurry of blonde curls and a hurricane of lemon.

Percy drops his head into his hands when she's gone, and he allows himself to remember. Through the years, he's had his fair share of flings and friends and family, and he's spent the last five hundred years trying to forget—it's painful to remember faces he'll never see again—but something about Annabeth Chase is so nostalgic that he can't help but remember. He closes his eyes, remembering bright faces, shared smiles under dining tables, his late mother—bless her soul—with her bright blue eyes, his late sister Estelle, stolen kisses in the dark of the night, kisses that could never mean anything when the emptiness dulled his senses, his own anxiety as he broke the news that he hadn't fallen in love, that he's so sorry, so sorry… he'll only ever be sorry.

…

Percy doesn't see her until ten years later. To his friends, it's been a long time, but to him, it's hardly the blink of an eye, and then she's there, as pretty as she was the day he'd first seen her in the corner of Leo's apartment.

Funny enough, Percy's drinking this time again, and he's wasted, which is a bad idea around her. He can't get her lips out of his head, and there's more to life than looks, and he really should control his lust, but she's intoxicating—

There's a group of men surrounding her, preying on her, hoping to be lucky enough to dance with her, but they steer clear when Percy approaches her from behind, albeit stumbling and cloudy-minded. And then he's dancing with her. She's not looking at him, her eyes closed as she mesmerizingly moves in time with the rhythm on the crowded dance floor of the club. Her luscious curls bounce in time, and he doesn't even have to see her face—she's partially turned away from him—to know it's her. He knows in his heart it's her, and he doesn't care. He blames his lack of reasoning on the alcohol, really.

With the alcohol still fresh on his lips, Percy cautiously hesitates behind her before pulling her close to him. She doesn't seem to notice or care, much to his surprise, letting the bodies slide past her and around her as she gracefully twists in time.

Percy says a silent apology to every cliché every he's now realizing is true in every sense: she fits against him like a puzzle piece in a way he hasn't felt in so long, she was another half of him, she was something so extraordinary that no else could have ever experienced it, that he has discovered an unknown land—

Percy's dragged back to reality when the music changes abruptly, and a drunken brunette apologetically crashes into them. She giggles, but he's not looking at her; he's looking at Annabeth Chase with something resembling confusion. He's not really sure what he's expecting, but part of him believed it truly wasn't her. What were the chances the girl in the club was her in this great, big world only ten years later? She's startled, looking up at him with wide, grey eyes, and then Annabeth's stumbling backwards in regret.

"Oh, god," Annabeth blurts out, and he's surprised by her inelegance. Her actions are jerky and uncoordinated, something he's never seen from her. Granted, Percy's only seen her twice in his entire life, but it's still a shock. Her carnation lips are perfectly glossed over, and he wants to mess it up so bad—

"Oh my god," Annabeth repeats. "Jackson?"

"Chase?"

"Oh god," she says again. He's starting to think she's incapable of saying anything else. She stumbles in her heels from shock, and Percy reaches out on reflex to steady her, but she quickly shoves his hands away. "What are you doing here?" she demands.

"Dancing." He rolls his eyes, but that only makes his head hurt. "I thought that much was obvious."

She gapes at him. "But—I—" she sputters, at a loss for words.

This is the second point in his night that Percy reaches another fuck it moment. "Come have a drink with me," he invites her, too drunk to be wary.

She carefully takes a step forward, and he realizes she's just as drunk as he is. Perhaps that's what causes the lapse in her judgement because she breathes out nervously, and then she nods, allowing him to lead her to the bar.

…

Percy's not exactly sure how he's gotten here, but he finds himself covering Annabeth's mouth with his own against the club wall maybe two hours later. Time is kind of fluid now, actually.

She's sweeter than he ever imagined possible, and she tastes like lemonade, exceeding all expectations, not that he had expectations in the first place, he reminds himself hastily. But when he flicks his tongue into her velvety mouth, and her knees go weak, he realizes that he's only lying to himself; he's dreamed of this moment ever since he first laid eyes on her a decade prior.

Usually he'd suggest getting out of there, but with Annabeth it's different. He's hesitant to ask anything of her, but she takes the lead instead.

She mumbles something incoherent against his mouth, and then she's dragging him out into the humid streets of a New York City summer night with reckless abandon. He doesn't complain.

…

The next thing he knows, they're standing in the unflattering fluorescent light of a small tattoo parlor. Annabeth giggles uncharacteristically, and he finds himself smiling despite himself.

"Annabeth, you're so drunk," he comments, laughing.

"And you're not?" she parries, sniffing sassily. It only makes him smile wider.

"Thalia really did get a bone," Percy finds himself slipping out.

"Who's Thalia?"

"A—she's a girl," Percy vaguely explains.

"Oh."

"Are you disappointed?" he jokes.

Annabeth scoffs. "Never."

"S'what I thought," he murmurs. "I like your name," Percy hazily compliments. It might be his imagination, but he's pretty sure her cheeks turn rosy at his words. He's not lying. 'Annabeth' is actually quite the attractive name; what a shame it belongs to such an unpleasant woman. "That's what I'll get!" he exclaims much too loudly.

"Pardon me?" Annabeth's eyebrows scrunch together. She's slowly sliding down the wall, unable to control her limbs and body. He giggles. She looks like a caterpillar. He considers telling her so until he realizes that women probably don't like being compared to caterpillars, which sucks. It's their loss, he decides. He considers buying a caterpillar of his own. Maybe he'll name it after her.

"Your name," Percy explains. "On my arm," he contemplates before thinking some more. "Or maybe I'll get it on my ass." Percy bursts into a fit of laughter. "I knew a girl once." He gestures with his hand, and she's slowly collapsing against him, leaning on him for support in her state of mind. "She had a butterfly on her ass." She stares at him, at a loss for words. "It was pink," he adds helpfully.

Annabeth tries to look judgemental, but when he smirks, she fails miserably. He's oddly pleased to see even the ice lady has a soft side. She erupts into sweet giggles.

"Why would you ever do that?" Annabeth wipes a tear of amusement from her eye.

Percy shrugs. "Butter-butter…?" He pauses, trying to collect himself. "Butterflies," he recalls, "are pretty."

"I guess, but on your bottom? No, thank you," Annabeth remarks, biting her lip to keep from smiling. He wishes she wouldn't. "Besides, tattoos are permanent." Annabeth adorably wrinkles her nose, and Percy knows he's drunk because he did not just think of her as cute. Attractive, sure, but cute? How about no. Big, fat no.

Percy frowns at her. He's not afraid of getting a tattoo. People say that you regret them until you die, and he gets that. Only the problem is that Percy's never seemed to die.

"So are we," he points out, and Annabeth looks at him oddly, tilting her head to one side. It's as if she's seeing him in a new light.

"Regardless." She clears her throat, but it's shaky, and she coughs a bit. "You can't get tattooed drunk. Come back in the morning, and if you still want my name on your ass, we'll talk."

Percy snickers. "Okay, Annabeth."

She rolls her eyes. "It's not that pretty. It's just a mix of two basic names."

"I like it," he insists. "You're not very surprising, are you, Annabeth Chase?" he inquires, thoughtfully. He had, perhaps naively, believed that her life would be much more entertaining than his own, and a mere night with her would be enough to see how she lives her entire excitable, documented life, but no. She is extremely ordinary; she got drunk, and she laughed, and she made jokes herself, and she enjoyed herself, but then she's also immensely unordinary because she's the only other one besides him to make it this long.

"I am too," Annabeth protests, glaring at him with her dainty hands on her hips, but with her curly hair frizzled and disheveled, and, standing a couple inches below him, she's not very threatening.

Percy chuckles. "No, you're not. The tabloids are wrong. You are just the same as us."

"You're wrong," she bites back.

"Oh, yeah?" he challenges. He can feel the tension rising in between them, and he recalls another night in Will and Nico's apartment, maybe seven years ago or so, when they had been flirting so hard, and Piper had been absolutely trashed, and she'd tried to 'cut their sexual tension' with a goddamn kitchen knife. He wonders what Annabeth would do if he whipped out a swiss army knife and swiped the air between them. Maybe she'd stab him. It would be an honor, Percy decides, to be stabbed by her.

"Yes," she insists.

"Prove it." It's a mistake as soon as it leaves his mouth. Percy takes a step back with realization, but it's too late, and he doesn't have the strength to pull away as Annabeth slides her nose past his, capturing his lips with hers.

Percy feels a little dizzy, giving in to her touch, his eyes fluttering shut in bliss. Or ignorance. He's not sure yet, but then she kisses him harder, and his heartbeat spikes in surprise, and all rational thinking flies out of his head as quickly as it had come.

…

They drunkenly stumble into Annabeth's luxurious apartment. It's beautiful, but his mind is hardly capable of paying attention to anything going on around him.

She falls back onto her bed, half-tripping, and he laughs boyishly, grinning down at her with dark desire.

"You're so wasted," he snickers, and she glares up at him, but she's half-smiling, and she really is wasted, and neither of them can take each other seriously.

Heat races up his back to engulf his chest and neck when she kisses him. Blood roars in his ears, accelerated by his racing heart. He feels like he's in college again, and when she lazily cranes her head up to look at him, haphazardly slipping her shirt over her head in her drunken stupor, Percy remembers what it's like to feel.

He had been afraid he wouldn't remember, afraid his body and soul did not remember how to feel passion, but he feels it now, and it's like a wildfire, consuming him entirely. She smirks coyly up at him like an angel with a broken halo, like she knows she's doing something wrong, like she's wanted nothing more than to play with fire all her life, and he lets her strike the match, wholly consumed by every piece of her as he crashes his mouth against hers, reveling in the way she succumbs to his touch.

…

Percy feels irrationally angry the next morning. He shouldn't be—he chose to lie with her, to pretend that she isn't the worst thing to ever happen to humanity—but he is. He can't help but feel that as much as he was tempted himself, she played him. She's going to take him down too.

It's weird to feel paranoia, especially when he's never really tried to preserve living forever—quite the opposite, in fact—but he feels it all the same. He does not want to lose his life to her. She's taken enough already.

He never stays the night—he knows better by now—but even in the comfort of his own bed, his cheeks burn with humiliation. Was this some grand ploy of hers? Percy stiffens. Well, she's not going to win this time. She's attractive, he found himself caught up in the likes of her, and she's sated his irrational urge to follow her every word as if it's gold. That's all. He's done. No feelings, no ties.

Percy lazily crawls out of his bed, coming to terms with last night. At the end of the day, it's one night in the hundreds of years he's been alive. But this time it's unequivocally different.

Percy brushes his teeth, staring back at his face in the mirror long enough to creep himself out. It's different—he can feel it.

He's lived his whole life knowing no one will remember what he does in another hundred years, but now he will be held responsible for his actions, even if only by one person. Nobody else will remember, but she will. It's exciting, it's frightening, and as Percy climbs in the shower, closing his eyes to avoid soap in his eyes, he can't help but think he hasn't felt this alive in so long.

…

People like to ask him questions. And Percy likes to answer, really. But when they start to get too intrusive and personal, he finds himself curling up in a shell like Koopa Troopa. They pretend like he's Koopa anyways, wandering the world for his soulmate, promoting him to women and men alike, saying he's the world's most eligible bachelor—and they're not wrong; he's built up so much wealth his life could be as opulent as he pleases; he has more money than he knows what to do with, so he finds himself donating to charities, but at some point he runs out of organizations to donate to, and now he's doing repeats; he's attractive, or so people say anyways (he's not sure he believes them)—but that doesn't make it okay to put him in the spotlight like a shiny new car. He's not some innocent little boy who needs someone to complete his heart after so many years of loneliness, and he doesn't need to push the public to bother him more than they already do.

Maybe that's why when a radio station asks him to come on for a July 4th special, he just finds himself exasperated because this is the seventeenth "special" he's done in the last two hundred yeras, and he's sick of being put on show, and it's moments like this that he really wishes he was dead.

He doesn't think people realize how long immortals spend thinking about death. What it would be like not to feel anymore. What it would be like to feel again, really and truly feel. He wonders if Annabeth feels the same, or perhaps… perhaps he's the only one.

He brushes his teeth harder, so hard that his gums begin to bleed, but Percy doesn't even blink as the scarlet mixes with the crystal water, swirling down the marble drain, taking his soul with it.

…

Percy blinks in the stuffy booth. Even after all this time, recording booths still bother him. This whole thing bothers him. He doesn't want to be here, but he's passed up the last few "specials," and it's gotten to the point that the public talks more about his lack of interaction with the world more than when he actually goes on air.

So he says yes, and he sits there patiently. And he scowls when she arrives.

He's been in interviews with Annabeth before. The world is fascinated by them, by them paired together, and he'll be the first to admit he's seen fanfictions he wishes he could go back and time and erase from his memory.

"What do you do with all that extra time?" the agreeable brunette asks him, smiling kindly.

Percy pauses, considering her words carefully. "I swim," he says into the microphone.

The girl looks at him curiously. "You can't have been swimming for centuries straight."

"No," he quietly agrees. He hardly thinks admitting he contemplates his death on a daily basis is an appropriate answer, no matter how true.

"And you?"

Annabeth is graceful under the spotlight, unlike him. She was born for this, Percy realizes. She chooses to live forever, and so she knows how to handle it. For the first time ever, perhaps, Percy remembers what it's like to be green with envy. She's perfect as an immortal, and he suspects she's been flawless for centuries. It takes something from him, and he watches quietly as she speaks about her travels to London, and France, and Rome, and Japan, and West Africa.

"Do you think there could be more like you?" the reporter finally asks him. He's heard it a million times, but Percy's glad; he's eager to wrap this artificial atmosphere into a plastic bag and chuck it as far as he can. He never wants to breathe this stale air again.

"Yes," he says confidently. He's mildly aware of Annabeth watching him out of the corner of her eye. It should unsettle him, but it only makes him braver. "If you decided to never fall in love, if you committed, you would be like us." He pointedly looks at Annabeth, and her face doesn't change. "Ms. Chase here is living proof of that."

She shifts in her seat, and she opens her mouth like she's going to say something, but the reporter's already saying something, thanking them for joining them on air, and Percy's blocking everything out, just staring impassively at the blonde across from him, staring into her empty soul. She tries not to move, tries to appear unfazed, but he sees the way she shrinks into herself like she just can't help herself, like he's too much for her, and, with a satisfied nod, Percy stands up and leaves.

…

He's waiting for a cab outside when she speaks.

"Do you think there could be more like us?" she echoes the reporter's question.

"No," Percy admits. He doesn't look at her, his busy eyes searching the streets for some sort of escape from this hell. He could take a cab home, to Mexico, to Canada, to anywhere but here but it'll never change the routine he finds himself hopelessly trapped me in. "Not like I need anyone else anyway," he lies through his teeth. "I swim, remember?" He hollowly smiles, but he can't even disguise the artifice, so he lets the expression evaporate. "And neither do you," Percy says. He still remembers the way he acidly threw her faults into her face in that bar ten years ago. You'll never be lonely. You have your souls with you.

"Answer me again later," says Annabeth. "When you've reached your first millenium, when you've grown bored with your swims, and want to be a part of a people again, and don't remember how, when you can watch people give each other part of who they are, and watch them blend with each other, with their families—found and made—and they make it look so easy…" she trails off. With the flick of her wrist, she successfully hails a cab for herself.

Percy watches her stroll to the ugly yellow car door. Taxis will forever be an eyesore, even these many years later, he decides. Some days he misses the classy carriages of the Victorian era.

"Answer me again later," Annabeth says again, her lips pressed tight together, so tight he could only imagine she was hurting herself. "When you're standing on the edge of something you've passed by all your life, and you just wish someone out there understood in this world where it's only you and only ever you." She blows a rogue curl away from her face. "Answer me again," she whispers, and he watches her mouth curve over the letters to understand her over the honking cars and heavy traffic. "Tell me you don't need anyone when you're all cried out over the people you've lost, and you realize there are worse things in life than death."

And she's gone. He watches the taxi peel away, the tires squealing and leaving black tire marks, jagged and rough, on the tar street.

And then he curses with reckless abandon. He wants to stamp his feet against the ground, throw a tantrum like a toddler, but people are watching him—they're always watching him—and he can't even begin to understand why he's been chosen to be here for so long, to watch his world whizz past him as he stays, unchanging, through it all.

People think they're lucky, tell him and Annabeth they are the chosen ones, god's blessed. They were chosen indeed, Percy internally confirms. Chosen and cursed forever.

He walks home. The time is no sacrifice, and the ache in his legs is as temporary as he wishes he was.

…

Percy pulls himself away from the dark-haired girl, digusted as he snatches his hands back.

"Don't touch me," he says without thinking. The music pounds loudly around him, intensifying his disdain. This isn't even his scene. Why he let Thalia coerce him into coming here, he'll never know. Or maybe he will. He has all of eternity to figure it out.

She blinks innocently, her black bob swaying with her. "Oh, come on, Mr. Jackson, don't be like that."

He tightly presses his lips together, scanning around the room for something. He doesn't know what. Divine intervention, maybe? That's not true. He stopped believing in the big G once he reached his first century. If God was real, where was he? Why had he subjected Perseus to a lifetime of loneliness, singling him out in a destiny he didn't want?

Then he sees her.

It's strange. Before he met her, he had never seen her before, and now he seems to see her everywhere, in the steel silver of the mirrors, the impassive frown on his own face, in every woman with curly hair, in the sun, her tan glimpsing in his brain, haunting him. Ask me again. He bites his lip. I will. Someday.

She might as well be the divine intervention he's praying for. Her blonde curls neatly pinned up, they crown her head like a halo. She sees him, and they lock eyes, and then she looks away, ignoring his expression of desperation.

He supposes he deserves it. He's told her off enough times that it's warranted. Please, he internally begs her. The raven girl is still sidling up against him, and she's brought her friends to ogle him. He's not a piece of meat, and he's not a conquest. He knows his love is virgin, and he knows whoever finally satiates him will make the front of every newspaper, their pictures posted across all the media, brandished for all to see, and he knows they pursue him for the promise of something greater than themselves, hoping for fame, money—he doesn't even know what, and his heart. They want to tell the world they've finally reined in one of the world's most eligible bachelors, and it makes his stomach queasy.

He implores Annabeth with his eyes, pleading for her to take mercy on him. He'll do anything for her, a favor—she can name it—but for the love of all things holy, he needs her to save him first. Save him as he told her he would never need, not from her.

He thinks she takes pity on him when she stands up across the room, but her eyes glint maliciously, and he knows there's something in it for her, always only ever for her. He's alright with it, if she'll just absolve him. And she does.

"Ladies, I'll take it from here." Her words are overly crisp, and the bob-girl immediately backs away, taking her paws off Percy immediately.

Annabeth is much taller than he remembers, and Percy subtly glances down to see sky-high stilettos. He's frightened for her.

"He's not yours, is he?" The redhead on his left sneers. Her father owns a small publishing company, Percy recalls, thinking of the stubborn, cheap old man. She has dazzling blue eyes, but Percy only sees emptiness in them, and he doesn't want it. Not like this.

"He's not yours," Annabeth simply says, noncommittal.

"He's nobody's," a brunette laughs, simpering pathetically. Her acrylic nails are long and tacky, and they look like they could take his eye out. Annabeth's, on the other hand, are neatly manicured, prim and proper, a clear gloss over the natural color of her fingernails. It's odd, but enticing. She's enticing.

"He's his own man," Annabeth tartly replies, her lips curling up slightly. He thinks she's going to spit for a moment, but then she relaxes. The forest green clutch in her hand is subdued, but he finds it beautiful nonetheless. She's not flashy, he realizes. Elegant, perhaps, and muted, leaving the beauty wholly to her face and herself, never her accessories.

"Then why are you fighting his battles for him?" raven girl challenges. Percy can't help but stare at the atrocious purple feathers in her hair.

"She's not," Percy interrupts, curt. "We have business to discuss."

Annabeth blinks at him in surprise. We do? Her eyes narrow at him.

"But—" the redhead tries, but he cuts her off, holding up his impatiently. They're all like errant toddlers. She pouts, petulant. It has no effect on him.

"I don't want to hear it. I asked you to leave me be, and you did not. I will keep my lawyer out of it for now, but if you touch me again, I shall liquidate your father's company first thing in the morning," Percy threatens, and she pales as he backs away.

Annabeth curls a hand on his shoulder, staking her claim. He's grateful. She walks away, her chin tilted up at the sky, and he needs no prompt to follow. They leave behind the entourage of girls, their mouths dropped open in fury, and surprise, and envy, and everything in between. Percy doesn't look at them even once.

…

"Business?" Annabeth sips a margarita, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He shifts in his chair, fiddling with the tablecloth of the restaurant. The clinking of silver utensils against fine china in the background momentarily distracts him. A waiter rushes by him, carrying empty stacks of plates, high to the ceiling. Percy watches with mild fascination, his ADHD getting the best of him.

"Perseus?" Annabeth prompts, drawing him back to reality.

"Business," he agrees, his voice soft. He warily eyes her. He's thought this over, long and hard, and he's not sure what she'll say, or if this is the right move, but he has built his entire company, Jackson Enterprises, off gambling everything he owns, risking himself and the loan he received from his mother to build an empire. His judgement is unparalleled in every industry, and it is why he has blown up so much in the last few centuries.

"I'm listening," she tells him, her ankles primly crossed. They stare at each other, the electricity between them crackling. Her carnation pink lips part slightly as she sips on the cocktail once more, and Percy finds his mouth going dry, everything in him collectively on their own accord.

"Mr. Jackson, Miss Chase, I'm Andrew. I'll be your server this evening. How can I start you off?"

Percy blinks out of his trance, startled by the young waiter's spiel. He quickly recovers. His eyes gloss over the menu one last time, but he barely looks at the words. His instincts kick in, the ones that have kept him on top all these years, and he politely orders. Annabeth watches with subdued fascination over the rim of her glass, and his demeanor switches to something much more authoritative, aware she's watching him like a show.

"We'll start with some freshly-caught oysters, Andrew." The waiter shuffles to stack the menus in his full arms. "I'll take a bottle of Egon Muller Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese as well," Percy flawlessly pronounces the expensive white wine from the Mosel region of Germany. He was able to fluently speak German since he was two hundred years old, and he's learned a lot since then. He can speak French too, and Greek, and Mandarin, and then English obviously. His Japanese is sort of rusty, though.

"Very good, sir," Andrew murmurs, jotting it down on his notepad. "Shall I give you a minute more?"

"No thank you, Andrew." Percy doesn't take his eyes off Annabeth, enthralled by this staring contest. "Arowana fish for me, please, and for the lady…" he trails off, expectantly waiting for Annabeth.

"I'll have the same," she says without missing a beat, the corner of her mouth curving up as if to rub it in his face. See? I can play nice.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. She's so exasperating. It's thrilling.

"Yes, ma'am," Andrew stutters. Percy looks up, glancing away from Annabeth for this first time in the past five minutes, and he's not surprised to see the hint of rosy cheeks in Andrew's face. She is truly a sight to behold, and he's had his fair share of fawning waitresses and flushing maids and staff. Andrew scurries off, his face beet red. He comes back only moments later, making quick work of the wine's cork. He pours a little bit in Percy's fluke, and Percy tips it around, letting the fragrances and subtle flavors mix together, and then he breathes in the aroma before tasting the cool, crisp wine.

"That'll do," he dismisses Andrew. The waiter hastily pours two glasses, leaving the bottle in the center of the table.

"A wine connoisseur?" Annabeth teases three minutes after Andrew disappears from sight. "I wouldn't have guessed, Mr. Jackson."

A muscle in his cheek twitches. In reality, he just knows what he likes. "Something like that," he half-heartedly agrees, relishing the look on her face. "Thank you," he whispers after a beat. He feels her eyes shift from the window back to him, but he continues to watch Manhattan scurry below them, the city awake even through the pitch dark cloak of night. The city that never sleeps. He fondly watches the lights of the cars and the skyscrapers, looming above the tiny ants of civilization.

"You didn't deserve my help," Annabeth murmurs, her expression soft.

He sighs, looking at her. "Perhaps," he articulates. "My apologies, Miss Chase. I have been too quick to judge you." He won't say 'thank you' more than once, nor apologize more than once. He has a reputation too.

"Perhaps," she agrees. Andrew comes back with the oysters, and he refills the wine stems before darting out of their sight again.

"Very fishy, Mr. Jackson," Annabeth comments. "Oysters and arowana."

He shrugs one shoulder as they beat around the bus. "What can I say? I grew up by the coast." He still remembers the water of Long Island, even now, even far away from it in the heart of Manhattan.

"A fisherman." She grins.

"You laugh, but I was catching and selling fish at the age of eight." He smirks. He knows he's avoiding the main question, the inquiry he has to make, the deal he needs to propose, but he finds he quite unexpectedly likes her company. "And you, Miss Chase? A Californian, I've heard."

"You did your research." She can't disguise the surprise in her voice.

"I always do my research."

They ignore the weight of his words, glossing over the hidden implications.

"I've had my fair share of Californian wine and fine fish. San Francisco," she reveals. She smiles, revealing perfect, white teeth, flashing her trademark all-American-girl smile at him.

"The bay?" he politely inquires, reaching for an oyster. He squeezes a bit of lemon onto the shellfish, tipping it back into his throat. It's cool, and it tastes like the sea with a hint of lemon and garlic. These chefs know not to mask the natural flavor with strong flavors.

"Yes," she affirms, and she follows suit, skillfully swallowing. His mind goes places he wishes it wouldn't. Only she would make oyster-eating look like something salacious. He's enthralled by her, watching her careful, precise, fluid motions. And then he remembers how she came undone in the bed so long ago, her actions jerky and hasty as she fought for control, as he greedily took all she gave him, controlling every slice of her pleasure.

Focus. He glares at the oysters in front of him. I only know these oysters and nothing more.

"I have a proposition for you," says Percy.

"I had figured." She's brusque, and she spreads her slim fingers, gesturing for him to continue.

"As you know, the public likes to chase us," he begins, unsure of how to bring this up. She watches him, quiet as usual. It's the quiet ones that are the most dangerous, he's noticed. He tries not to let it deter him.

"Your little fan club," she drawls, amused. "Yes, I'm aware."

"And you have one too."

"I do."

"Are you willing to give it up?" he finds himself asking.

"I don't know, Perseus. I steal souls for fun, remember?" Her eyes flash angrily.

Percy grits his teeth. "I apologized once. Do not apologize again, Miss Chase." He pauses, and when she says nothing, he continues. "My point, madam, is a simple one. I'd like to escape the unwanted followers for some time, for my sanity, and I'm sure you'd like the same."

She purses her lips, and he knows he's right. He can read her tells so easily now; it's jarring.

"And so I have a deal for you. If the public sees us with someone, we'll be left alone. Simple as that."

"I don't make deals with the devil, Mr. Jackson, and I suspect there's something rather sinister to you, despite the way in which the reports display your philanthropy and eloquence."

He's taken aback; she never lays her cards out so easily. "The way I see it, if I'm Satan's spawn—"

"Satan himself," she corrects.

"If I'm Satan," Percy amends, "then you're Lilith."

Annabeth leans forward. "More intelligent than Adam, more willful, and stronger? Banished by God for being better?"

"In every way," he confirms, his voice husky despite himself.

"Dark rulers together? At least, I assume that's where you're going with this. I've read enough books, Mr. Jackson, to know faux dating never ends well for either party."

"Afraid you'll fall in love?" he challenges, feeling bold.

"No." She laughs.

"Then you'll agree."

"You drive a hard bargain," she points out.

"That I do," he grants. "And I intend to win."

"I see. What's to say I enjoy the attention?" she defies. "What if you're entirely mistaken?"

"With all due respect, Miss Chase, I'm rarely mistaken," he says, confident.

"I find myself in the same boat." Her eyes sparkle with amusement.

"Then we'll be pleasant and successful," he deduces. "Two perfect parties put together make a perfect product, a perfect solution."

"My point," she interrupts, "is what if your foundation is poorly evaluated."

"Humor me," he challenges, raising an eyebrow.

"What if I truly cherish stealing souls? What if I enjoy messing around, attracting the attention of all media?"

"You're quite reserved, if I've noticed correctly. I'm not sure you have an extroverted bone in your body."

"You read well," she acknowledges.

"Years of practice," he parries. He's breathless; she makes him like this; she takes everything from him. "Years, and years, and years."

She smirks at his morbid joke. "We'll have to negotiate the finer details, of course."

"Yes." He's noticed she often speaks like that: she makes statements designed to play the part of a question. It's all very clever.

"And we'll have to sort out the rest of the arrangements, like who shall sleep where, who shall mess how, and how we shall present ourselves publically."

"Yes."

"I can't dissuade you, can I?"

"I highly doubt it."

Andrew intrudes, interrupting them both. Percy heatedly stares back at her, and he hopes this is the right decision. Andrew opens his mouth to say something, but one look at Percy's face, and he scampers away.

She sits back, lazily peering at him through her eyelashes. "Where do I sign?"

…

"Do you want dessert?" he asks amicably.

She laughs. "Do you?"

"Not particularly. I've had my fill, thank you."

"Are you sure?" she tempts him, and he feels his face tempting up again. She's not even trying to be seductive, and yet she's got him wrapped around her finger like a vine. "They have the best cheesecake here."

"You've had it?"

"I adore cheesecake, Perseus, and I rarely joke about it."

He grins. "To go, maybe? I'd like to discuss the contract with you back at my place."

"Contract? You've certainly been busy."

"I'm always busy," he decides, trying to ignore how empty it feels to even admit it.

"I bet your assistants are positively curious as to why they had to draft a relationship contract."

"They know what they can ask about," Percy promises her. "And they know when to keep their mouths shut." Do you?

She rolls her eyes. "To go," she agrees, standing up. She has willowy hair and long, long legs he remembers appreciating that night so long ago. Who is he kidding? He's dying to have another go. She's addictive, every part of her, and he's never quite matched wit with anyone like he has with her.

"One more request," he says, his voice hoarse. He can't help himself. He's a moth drawn to the flame, and he knows she'll burn him alive, but he'll take it any way he can.

"Yes?"

He stands as well. They'll just send him a bill; no need to mess with this sort of payment. "I'm fond of cheesecake too," he decides.

"But?"

"But I think I'd rather have a share of you," he finishes.

"Would you now? That can't possibly follow the contract." Her breath hitches, and he's smug when he realizes she's not as unaffected as she tries to seem.

"Lucky for us, contracts are redraftable, and I have a fine printer that will spit out the revised version whenever we want."

"Lucky, indeed," she breathes, her fingers clasping the clutch tighter. And he revels in it. She makes him feel alive. She doesn't take his hand, but she allows him to lead her out, his palm guiding her at the small of her back.

"Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Jackson! Miss Chase." The hostess bids them farewell, but he's hardly paying attention as the pair eagerly welcomed the night with open arms.

…

"Lovely place," Annabeth dazedly compliments, ripping out of his touch as she slips out of the taxi cab.

Percy blinks up at his penthouse as if looking at it for the first time. "I suppose." It feels more like a museum than a house, but he won't diminish the glow she adopts when she's scrutinizing architecture.

Her fingers teasingly trail along the expensive glass lip of the handcrafted vases. "You have expensive taste, Perseus."

He swallows thickly. "Percy," he corrects.

"Percy," she concedes, glancing up. She half-smiles, and his heart threatens to fall out of his chest. With terrifying strength, she drags his lips back to hers, surprising him. She shoves him back onto the bed, and Percy can't even think of anything but her, and what it feels like to have her scorching lips trail along his jawline and the base of his throat.

He quickly flips them over, balancing his weight on his forearms, caging her under him. The moonlight, thin and silky, spills through the windows, casting her in heavenly light. He mildly wonders how many others have seen her like this, and if he's any different in her mind, if he stands out because he's the only one to turn her down, to leave the promise of emotions somewhere else. Emotions don't exist in this room, and people who know him know he doesn't have a heart at all. He suspects she's the same.

It's purely physical, a way to make ends meet, but when she touches him he loses his mind a little. The fact that she's draped in a dress excites him for reasons he can't quite comprehend. He's seen dresses a thousand times. Estelle used to wear them all the time, and his mother, and every girl and even some men he's ever seen. Annabeth's just another person.

Except she's not, something in his mind nags.

He reaches up to unzip her dress, and he helps her shimmy out of the cloth. She pushes his suit coat down his shoulders, her fingers lightly tracing his finely defined muscles as she goes, down, down, and further down. Holding her head, he runs his fingers through her curls, pulling her flush against him, kissing her roughly.

They battle for dominance in a clash of teeth and tongue and bruising lips. The pain feels better than he anticipated, and he allows it to shudder through him, reminding him of what it means to be intimate with someone, someone who understands.

She parts her lips, allowing him access to her mouth. Her sweet, appreciative noise echoes through him, to the very end of him. She tastes of wine, and carnal desire takes over him. He folds his arms around her, and, pinning her under him with his one hand, he uses his other hand to trail down her spine, his fingers ghosting her supple skin. She twists her fingers in his hair, pulling gently, and he thinks he's going to spontaneously combust. She's not doing anything particularly out of the ordinary, but with her, it's a heady mix, so much more potent, and every one of her fleeting touches is absolutely catastrophic.

He groans in response and drops to his knees; she is the only one he will get down on his knees for. He's been looking for a heaven to worship to, for a divine being to please, for something bigger than himself, something to give him satisfaction, a purpose again, and when he strips her entirely of her armor, when he breathes in her scent—a dizzyingly sweet lemon—he thinks he's found his new temple. He wants to please her more than he's ever wanted to for anyone else; he's not a people pleaser, never has been, but she brings out something wanton in him, something primal.

Grasping her hips, he runs his tongue along the line of her waistband, circling around her navel. She tenses, inhaling sharply. He nips at her hips, and she tightens her hold on his hair, her eyes fluttering shut. He closes his eyes, mirroring her, savoring her.

He lets her heels drop to the floor, his nimble fingers undoing the clasps. She writhes on the bed, watching him, fascinated, as he trails his fingers along the insides of her legs. Her responsiveness delights him, incomparable to so many others. He can already imagine what it'll be like after they've both agreed to the contract of fake love. He can see her in his head, squirming underneath him, gasping, begging for release. But something tells him he'll be begging just as much as she will; she doesn't seem like the type to go quietly.

Her hair falls around her face as she tosses the clip across the pillows. Her hands desperately clench his sheets, trying to hold onto something, something to ground her in the otherworldly experience. He kisses the delicate skin of her inner thigh, moving up her stomach.

She arches her back as he sheds her final garments, leaving them splayed across his white sheets like the biblical figures of the old stories. She absorbs the pleasure, unable to keep from moving, from squirming. He understands her restlessness. He feels it too.

It's so much different than last time. He's not drunk this time, and he can appreciate her, all of her. He finally gives in, worshipping her at the core she longs for, and her body bows again as she cries out.

"Who knew you could be so pliant, Miss Chase?" he whispers. Her pupils are dilated, dark with desire. He's sure he looks just as possessed by her. She whimpers at his touch, and he doesn't stop, torturing her like she's tortured him with her fleeting touches and innuendos and batting eyelashes. He continues his lascivious assault; watching her respond, sensing her pleasure, watching her climb distracts him to no extent.

"Perseus," she murmurs, screwing her eyes shut.

"No."

"Mr. Jackson." Her lips pull into a mischievous smirk as she evades his name.

He intensifies the torture, and she gasps out. "Percy," she breathes, and she relinquishes her power, setting him on fire. He covers her mouth with his own, capturing her cries and whispers.

The feeling is exquisite, heightened perhaps because of how long he's wanted her. He's never felt this type of desire before; it's new, and it's shiny, and it's intoxicating.

"You're so beautiful." His voice is strained, and his eyes widen in surprise along with hers. He's not supposed to say shit like that. It's purely physical, he reminds himself. Sweat beads on his forehead, and now he's not sure if it's from their activity or from the realization that he's overstepped the mark.

Her trust in him is his undoing. She doesn't even know him, and yet she trusts him entirely. It's overwhelming. She doesn't look at him like he's a sinner, like he's something dark and untouchable, nor a prize to be won. She pulls him into her own dark, chasing away his demons and his guilt, and they fit together like puzzle pieces as they claim each other.

"Let go," he demands, but she's stubborn.

"No," she fights, trying to calm herself, but it only sends adrenaline coursing through his veins, and they bring each other higher and higher and higher to no man's land, to a world unknown to every mortal on this planet.

"Annabeth," he growls, urging her, imploring her, and her given name consumes her as she tips her head back, losing her resolve. The sight of her ecstasy forces him over the edge alongside her. He had never thought her satisfaction would multiply his, but it does, and it surprises him. He sees black spots dancing in his vision, the world teetering around them and slipping out of sight and out of mind.

And as he comes down from his high, the stars fading into the back of his mind, him shamelessly observing her, he can't help but wonder what he's got himself into.

…

It's different after that.

She still has her own house, and he has his own as well, but she comes over. Photographs of them strolling leisurely through the city surface across the internet, and reporters speculate over wild theories of them being together.

No one bothers them. It's exhilarating.

It's entertaining. She's entertaining.

And they have a shit ton of fun. He works long, long hours, the master of his own universe, but they avoid clubs, and he feels more vibrant than he has in years.

She… well, he's not entirely sure what she does. But she must do something because he's seen her house, and it's beautiful, too beautiful for simply inherited money. It's nothing like his fortress—he's worked long and manically for it—but it's charming, the luxurious apartment. It's not far from his—his penthouse is along Madison Avenue in Midtown. Where his penthouse is all hard planes and rigid lines, hers is antique, vintage, dazzling. When he stepped into her home the first time, he thought he'd stepped back into the 1800s, but it has a hint of modern to it, and the palette is neutral, easy on the eyes. He can imagine her sipping on tea while she reads books, dressed in a southern bell skirt, and he knows she probably has worn those at some point in her life.

"They're saying you knocked me up," Annabeth muses, dragging him out of his reverie.

"What?"

She holds up her phone, and he purses his lips at the article. There are no facts, no evidence. It's full of speculation, the article, and it's garbage.

"This is ridiculous." He rolls his eyes. His phone goes off again, the fifth time in the past twenty minutes, but Annabeth's nonplussed. She knows he's always on call, a big, bad prosperous businessman.

"Jackson," he announces into the phone, holding it up to his ear. He watches her scrolling easily through her phone, artfully draped across his loveseat. Loveseat, indeed, he finds himself thinking, his mind wandering away with him. She must feel his eyes on her because she glances up, and she smirks.

His face feels warm, and he quickly looks away. How does she still have the power to completely handicap him, disarm him at any moment?

"Beckendorf's wondering if we can go through with the investment, Mr. Jackson."

"Tell him to hold off. I have a feeling the stocks will continue to drop till Monday."

"Yes, sir. Are we airdropping the shipments this Friday? There's been some protest to that from Beckendorf's board, sir. Apparently the expense is too high."

He can't disguise his irritation. His PA, although a lovely woman, often finds herself delivering the bad news of others'—it's in her job description, after all, but it doesn't hinder his annoyance. "Tell the board I don't care what they're worried about. We'll miss the opportunity of a lifetime if we wait even a moment."

"Yes, sir."

"Anything else, Rachel?"

"No, sir."

"Good." He hangs up.

Annabeth eyes him. "You're so short with them," she comments.

Percy frowns. "I value efficiency."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm quite efficient, aren't I?" she teases. He remembers how quickly she unmanned him just the night before. She's a goddess, and when she does rude things to him, whispering sensually in his ear, he finds himself caving to her will.

"Shut up."

She laughs loudly. "Come, let's go be efficient together," she coaxes.

It's nearly seven. "I'm hungry," he protests.

"Me too." Her eyes darken, and all thoughts of food fly from his head.

"Yes," he agrees, and he lets her take him somewhere else, somewhere cathartic where there are no souls, and life is short as it should be, and carpe diem is their mantra, and they only have so much time left together. It makes him hasty, and her desperate, and when she unbuttons his shirt from work, he doesn't complain.

…

"Do you ever think about death?" he whispers at the ceiling. He knows she's listening, though. She always is.

"That's the first thing you want to say after sex? What are you expecting—death by orgasm?"

He rolls his eyes at her words, dripping with sarcasm. She's always so sassy. He'll never say it out loud, but it makes him a little weak. It makes him want to do anything for her, and that's dangerous territory to tread on.

"It's not a bad way to go," he jokes, but it's strained.

She looks at him, rolling over, and she must be Aphrodite herself because Percy thinks he's going to have a heart attack. She's so unashamedly comfortable with making him uncomfortable, and he pulls the covers over them both to minimize the distraction. A ghost of a smile flits over her lips, and he knows she knows the effect she has on him.

"I think about death all the time," she says in response to his initial inquiry. "Tell me anyone who doesn't, at least a couple times."

"Yes, but I think about it a lot."

"A side effect of living for too long," Annabeth tells him.

He hums in agreement. "What happens… after this?" he asks aloud to no one in particular.

If it had been anyone but Annabeth, they would not have understood, but she does. She always does. "After us?" Because they, too, will end. Everything ends eventually. Love, happiness, and pain, and heartbreak too. And they are destined to fall apart eventually, maybe when she decides she's ready to face the public again, ready to suck souls like the master manipulator she is, when he decides he's ready to break his heart into a million shards and search again and again and again for a soulmate who will never come.

Only they live on. And it's painful.

"Yes," he confirms.

"I suppose it'll go back to how it was," she says thoughtfully. "I'll be the heartbreaker, and you'll be the broken."

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Hmm?"

"The first decade growing up? The first hundred years? When you still believed in something beautiful, and had hope, and had a family, and thought you had your whole life ahead of you, and now you only look at the road ahead of us and dread it because there's no foreseeable end."

Annabeth doesn't flinch. "I do," she whispers.

Her admission brings him peace. "I miss my mother," he says so quietly he thinks she doesn't hear, but she does.

"Tell me about her."

"My mom?"

"No, the ghost who stalks your toilet, haunting you every time you try to piss, grabbing your ass—"

"No need to get snippy," he says, jarred by her crude language.

She grins at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. He feels her melancholy wash over him like a tsunami, crashing into him, knocking him over, winding him. Annabeth Chase, he realizes, has a sad side too.

"She was the greatest woman to ever live."

Annabeth listens intently, and he's grateful.

"My father… he died when I was young."

She doesn't say 'I'm sorry.' She knows death is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. She knows they both envy his father for being able to die. It's different for them, and she understands him like no one else.

"So it was just her and me for some time. And then she remarried to a man named Gabe." He can't keep the disdain out of his voice. "He was nice at first, and then… then he hit her." He feels more vulnerable than he has in a long time. Nobody knows about this, not after so many years. It's freeing for someone around him to know, someone from this century, someone who'll never forget. "She was so strong, you know, even when… well, you know. When he shifted into a pig, when he decided cheap spirits and gambling and abuse was a better use of his time."

Annabeth quickly connects the dots, absentmindedly tracing the white scars on his forearm and shoulders and back. He shivers at her touch, trailing across his burdens.

He runs his hand through his hair, staring at the white ceiling with quiet contemplation. "He died when I was seventeen. I remember I felt so old then."

She runs her fingers up his sternum, and he finds strange comfort in the soothing ministrations.

"Then she remarried again to a man named Paul. Thus, Estelle was born. After Gabe, I didn't… I didn't speak for some time," he confesses. He isn't sure why he's telling her this, but something about her… he wants someone to remember with him, to reminisce and feel bitter and just indulge in all he came from. His past is just as much a part of him as his present.

At this, she stares at him. "You were mute?"

"Three years, from thirteen to sixteen."

She stiffens. "That's terrible."

She's never spent the night, and neither has he, and so she doesn't even know the full extent of the abuse. It runs deep like a river, and it carves him like the water erodes at the shores, leaving him vulnerable, a sufferer of PTSD, of anxiety, of things he doesn't even want to be diagnosed for.

"Mhmm," he murmurs in agreement. "Estelle was the light of my life, a mirror of Sally Jackson. She learned to bake my mother's cookies long after my mother passed away—in her sleep," he adds when he sees the horror in Annabeth's face. "Everyone didn't die on me," he assures her. But he feels fake because in the end, they really did. "I miss her cookies," he whispers. "And her smile. And the way she read books to me, poorly of course. She memorized them. She didn't know how to read. Only the wealthy did, and I taught myself in my apprenticeship. It's part of the reason I fished to make ends meet." Fishing will never bring him joy again.

Annabeth's hand tightens around his chest, drawing him close to her, tucking her head on his heart. "That… explains a lot, actually."

"Does it?" He forces amusement into his voice, but it's exhausting, and so he lets his walls crumble for a moment.

"It does," she says, but she doesn't reveal what she's thinking. It's infuriating.

"Are you purposefully being coy?"

"Me? I'd never," she says dryly, but it lacks its usual malice. "It explains…" She licks her lips, thinking, her eyebrows furrowed together. "It explains why you work so hard."

"What?"

"Percy, you never take a break," she points out. "And I'm the first to appreciate a good work ethic, but it's like… like addictive to you. You need it. You can't tick without work. You have enough money to live opulently, fancy for at least another five hundred years, and yet you charge ahead. You have no one to gift the money to, should you ever pass, and still you work. It's like if you stop working, you'd combust, and frankly it's a little disconcerting."

His mouth parts in surprise at her honestly, but she's not done.

"You work like you're running from something, and I can't help but feel that you are. When I touch your chest, sometimes you flinch."

She's noticed? She's psychoanalyzing him, and she renders him speechless.

"You shy away from love, and I'm starting to wonder if that's why you've never met a soulmate. You're not brave enough." She lifts her head, resting her chin on his stomach and peering up at him. Something like concern lingers in her expression, but no, that can't be right. They defined the relationship from day one. No feelings. Just public displays of affection to keep stalkers and the press off their backs and sex to satisfy their own needs and urges.

She cups his face in her palm, and it's so intimate he's holding his breath. And then he realizes, for the first time, he's holding his breath. And he realizes he's doing that a lot. And he realizes she's right.

And it's cataclysmic.

"And you rarely leave New York, even for a vacation, like you're afraid your world's going to topple if you don't the same thing every day. You're stuck in this cycle—I can't explain it."

He stares at her, his eyes blown wide. She knows him better than he knows himself, and it's shocking. His mouth goes dry, his heart numb.

"And you say you don't have a heart, and you pretend you're unlovable, but I know you are. I've seen it. I see it every day when you watch the world tick around you, and you show sympathy to the stragglers, and you donate obscene amounts of money to children's hospitals because… Estelle died from a tumor, didn't she?"

He nods, dazed.

"Because even now, you love her so much." Her eyes burn with passion, and fuck if he doesn't want to cry a little. He hasn't cried in at least four hundred years. And that was because sometimes he just can't handle himself. It's too much. His self-loathing knows no bounds, and she rips his heart out for all to see, telling him she believes in him. And it's too much. Her faith in him is too much. She's not supposed to trust in him, not like this. She's supposed to hold him at arm's length, and they're supposed to fear falling, and they're supposed to be emotionally distanced for all of eternity.

Because if he loses her now, he loses the only woman who will understand for the rest of his life. Without her, his life is empty, and he will revert to how he used to be, unremembered and alone. He doesn't think he can go back anymore, and the idea of losing her is so painful it paralyzes him.

"I know who you are, Percy Jackson," she whispers. He stares into her steel grey eyes, and they both know they've gone too far. Her words venture dangerously close to something akin to love, and it can't be—

"Get up," she commands.

"What?"

"Get up. We're going to the grocery store. There's one just down the street, isn't there?"

He blinks. Once. Twice. "Well, yes." Where is she going with this?"

"What type of cookies?" She doesn't seem to mind in the slightest that she's only wearing his shirt. It fits her like a dress, and he can see the tops of her thighs. It'd normally cause him to flush, but right now he's so confused that he can't even find it in him to be distracted.

"Excuse me?"

"Your mother, idiot. What type of cookies did she make?"

"Blue chocolate chip."

She does a double take. "Blue?"

"Blue," he confirms. "Like the smurfs."

"Blue it is," she concedes, shaking her head to herself.

"Are you making me cookies?" he realizes. "You can bake?"

"Yes." She throws a green t-shirt at him, and he pulls it over his chest, searching for his jeans. Going out in boxers isn't close to decent at all.

"Well?"

"Yes." She nods, her hands on her hips. "Can't you? Now hurry up."

I haven't cooked in fifty years, Annabeth, forget baking.

"You're not changing?" He eyes her figure. She's beautiful, and he can't help the way his heart throbs when he sees her wearing nothing but his clothes, but it's hardly appropriate to go out in his shirt. She's practically naked.

"Am I supposed to?"

"You're not even wearing underwear. Suppose the wind blows the hem up?"

She winks, and the air lightens immediately.

"Giving all of New York a show?" he teases, the pain that once lanced in his chest easing. She's medicine, and he'll down her until he overdoses.

"They're so keen on reporting our every activity," she points out. "Why not give them something to write about?"

"You're insufferable. C'mon." He finds fresh underwear for her from her drawer in his room.

"Possessive much?" she taunts him, but she's smiling, and it's infectious, and then he's smiling too. She shimmies into the lace.

"I don't like to share," he rumbles, and she shivers, making him grin boyishly. "And I don't want all of New York photographing your ass in close-ups."

"My ass is flawless." She snorts.

That it is, he inwardly confirms. "Clothes, Miss Chase," he berates, and he pulls out one of her jean skirts for her. She puts them on without any complaining, but she refuses to take off his shirt.

"I'm rather fond of your wear, Mr. Jackson," she teases him, and she haphazardly tucks his comically large shirt into the front of the skirt.

"Shoes?" he asks, alarmed as she drags her lips to his, kissing him so fiercely he nearly goes weak at the knees. Where the hell did she learn to kiss like that? His cheeks flush a subtle pink, and she doesn't seem to notice.

"I'm one with nature," she quips, but she puts on heels. She should look ridiculous, she really should, but she looks messy, and sexy, and he's having a heart attack. "Let's go," she demands, and she presses the down button on his elevator.

Stunned still for a moment, he takes off after her after a couple minutes, shaking his head to himself at her shenanigans.

…

"Are you wearing my underwear?" He blushes furiously in aisle seven, the baking aisle. He's only now noticing the Ralph Laurens peeking out subtly. She really doesn't give a fuck.

"Are you staring at my ass again?" she retorts.

"Again?" he protests. He feels her smiling. "Surely not."

"Shut up and find me chocolate chips, slave." She laughs.

"Slave?" he muses, squinting at her. "You're going to regret that."

"Am I?" she challenges.

She's such a brat. "You are," he confirms. "Just wait till I get you home."

She pauses, and he freezes, his hand hovering over her waist. Home? It's not like they share a house, it's not like they live together, it's not like they're lovesick fools. He swallows thickly.

"I'll be baking cookies, Perseus. No idea what you mean," she continues as if he didn't just make the entire conversation awkward.

"Maybe I'll distract you."

"Maybe I'll burn your penthouse down."

He gasps, laughing, and just like that it's easy again. "Don't threaten me with my house."

She smirks. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Everything south of his navel clenches. She's going to be the death of him, he just knows it. "Fuck off."

"I'd rather fuck you," she innocently conspires.

He looks away so she can't see him blush. "I'll go get the chocolate," he mumbles, embarrassed, and she laughs as he stalks down the aisle, searching for chocolate chunks.

Minutes later, he feels a pair of lean arms enwrap him from behind. "Guess who?" she singsongs, and it tugs at his heartstrings.

"My mother?" he gasps with mocking, and she erupts in a fit of giggles.

"Dumbass. It's the ghost of Christmas past."

"Here to show me my sins?"

"Hell yeah, baby. Maybe I'll even do a demonstration."

Fuck her so much, her and her alluring voice. "You don't fight fair."

"Never said I did." She kisses his back, where his scars line, and it's so innocent, and thoughtless, like second nature, that he feels himself melting a little.

"These good?" He holds up Ghirardelli chocolate chips, and she doesn't even inspect them, turning to the cart a couple yards down from them in the empty aisle. "Shoot for it," she excitedly whispers. She's such a kid sometimes. She makes him feel young.

He tosses it, pretending to be part of the NBA—even though he's only average at basketball—and it falls into the cart easily. She imitates a crowd cheering.

"And he scores," she laughs.

He rolls his eyes, but he can't fight the smile. "You're so fucking stupid."

"How else will you relate with me? I had to try," she insults him so swiftly he doesn't see it coming.

"That hurts, Chase."

"Cry me a river." But she squeezes him tightly, and he makes his way to the shopping cart.

"Is that everything?" He doesn't even know what goes in a cookie for heaven's sake, and he's trusting her entirely for this.

"Get some wine," says Annabeth.

"That's not in cookies." He may be completely out of his comfort zone, but he knows that much at least.

"Yes, but we're adults, and I like wine." She smiles, and it takes his breath away.

"So demanding. You're like an errant child," he points out, but he scours the aisle numbers for the wine section. He hasn't gone shopping in so long. His staff does it for him.

"Oh, really?" She climbs onto the back of the cart, standing up. "Push me," she laughs.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters, but he obliges, pushing her around in the cart. She's exceptionally giddy about the prospect of turning him into her little bitch, and he can't help but find it funny. He really shouldn't—this is so embarrassing—but she's fucking adorable, and he'll do whatever she wants him to.

Percy pushes them to the liquor aisle, and her eyes light up like a kid in a candy store. "This is home," she sighs, content, and she climbs off her noble steed to inspect the various brands. She ends up tossing two bottles he's never seen into the cart, and he just rolls with it at this point.

"Are you going to get me drunk, Miss Chase?" he breathes.

"Maybe," she says coquettishly, and she bobs one shoulder noncommittally.

"And now you're flirting with me."

"I always flirt with you," she points out.

"That's true," he agrees as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Annabeth holds up one of the bottles from the cart, inspecting it once more. "What do you think, charlatan?"

He snorts. "I'm not a con man, Annabeth."

"You pretend you're a connoisseur, but I've seen you drink cheap vodka."

"There's nothing wrong with cheap vodka. It does the job."

"God, why did I wait so long to fuck you?" she ponders out loud, smiling to herself like no one's looking. His heart does flip flops.

"You were in Austria," he points out helpfully.

"Yes." A frown mars her lovely expression, but she quickly recovers, no sign of her change in mood showing at all anymore. "Anyway. Your thoughts, sir?"

Whenever she says 'sir,' he's pretty sure he's dying. "It looks okay." He warily glances at the bottle. "Never had that one, though."

"You're right. Let's get something else." She nods, and she goes to put it back, but he stops her.

"Hell, Annabeth, we can try it. Just get another one also."

"Three bottles of wine?" She looks at him like it's Christmas.

He laughs. "You're going to be so wasted. But we all have days." Forever, to be exact. The thought is sobering. She doesn't seem to mind. She enthusiastically grabs another of the first wine and puts it in the cart, and then she takes him by surprise. Annabeth drags him to her mouth by the front of his shirt, slipping her tongue in his mouth.

He's caught off guard, and her velvety mouth tastes like sweet champagne, and she hasn't even been drinking, but he thinks that's just the way she tastes. "Annabeth," he pleads. They're in public, and there's no one in this aisle, but she's shameless, and she's wearing his shirt, and he's going to fuck her right here and now if she doesn't stop dizzingly running her hands through his hair.

"Percy," she whispers mischievously, and she kisses him harder, pressing him into the cart. He stumbles, wrapping his arms around her, and he loses himself to her. She runs her fingers over his chest, and this time he doesn't flinch, relishing her touch. He kisses her so hard she groans, her eyes closed, and she lets him whisk her away to their fantasy land.

"Please," he begs. They're going to get caught. She covers his whimpers with her mouth, and he can't help himself. He evokes a moan from her, and he fucking revels in it. He makes a noise low in his throat he didn't even know he was capable of making, and she wickedly grins at him, reaching to unbutton the top buttons of his shirt. He can't even find it in him to protest anymore, so taken by her. He'll let her do whatever she wants to him. He cherishes her touch, and she makes him forget his own name. He wonders what pleasure even meant before he met her. He trails sloppy kisses down her neck, sucking at her clavicle. He wants to leave marks. He wants the whole world to know what's his. He wants… he wants…

"Fuck, Annabeth," he murmurs, resigning to her. All his troubles evaporate with her.

"Oh!"

They both freeze, turning their heads slowly to look at an old woman, the age to be a grandmother, staring at them with shock.

Percy's horrified. He curses, and Annabeth hastily fixes her shirt as he smooths down pants desperately.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," he tries. Annabeth cringes next to him.

"I—" The woman is at a loss for words. His face is so warm, and he's pretty sure he looks like a tomato. Annabeth's not much better, her cheeks the color of a rose. "You remind me of my husband and I when I was younger," she says cheerily.

Percy blinks, mortified. Can this get any worse? "Thank you?" He sounds stupid, even to his own ears. Annabeth's too embarrassed to snicker at him.

The old woman reaches past them for the cinnamon. "I wanted to make snickerdoodles for my granddaughter Elizabeth," she delightedly tells them.

Annabeth's mouth opens and closes like a fish.

"But you two are adorable," the old woman heartily laughs. "We were always doing scandalous things like this when we were younger, unable to contain our desires, much like you. So sweet to be young and in love."

They're not in love, but that's not even close to the most horrifying part of what she's said.

Percy's mind momentarily entertains the idea of two old people getting it on, his imagination getting the best of him, and he's never been so scarred.

"He was quite responsive too." She winks at Percy.

His entire face goes beet red. "Um," he adds helpfully.

"Are you making cookies?" She gestures to their cart.

Annabeth dazedly nods. "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, don't call me ma'am. You make me feel old, dear," she teases.

Annabeth's ears go red. "My apologies."

"It's beautiful outside today," the woman says finally, straining to heave an industrial sized package of chocolate chips into her cart. Percy watches with morbid fascination. How many children is she going to fatten up with that? It looks like diabetes on wheels. "Have fun, dears!" She lovingly bids them goodbye, slowly rolling her cart out of the aisle and down to the dairy section.

They watch her go, silent for a moment. Then two. Then three.

"She said you were responsive."

He looks over, and Annabeth's actually crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. She doubles over, holding her stomach. "Holy shit, Percy, how loud are you?" She howls with laughter.

He wants to be mad, he really does, but her laughter is contagious, and he begins laughing too. Soon they're both sobbing with laughter, leaning onto the cart for moral and physical support.

"She's going to feed an army with snickerdoodles!" Percy gasps, clutching his abdomen, and Annabeth chokes. Her face is red from crying. She slowly sinks to the ground, unable to hold herself up anymore, freely weeping against the bags of all purpose flour.

"She fucked her husband in a grocery store, I'm calling it," Annabeth cackles.

He joins her on the floor. He points to his eyes, and there's tears rolling down her cheeks, and she only cries harder at that.

"I fucking hate you," she gasps, and she can't breathe.

"Kill me now," he groans through his laughter. His stomach hurts so bad. He's pretty sure his abs just doubled in size from this workout.

She grins, slumping against him in defeat. He rests his chin on her head, and leaning into her as they support each other, their feet sprawled out and tangled in front of them.

"I can't believe that just happened," he whispers, closing his eyes in bliss. He hasn't laughed like that since… actually, he doesn't remember ever laughing like that. It's a jarring realization.

"Me neither," she murmurs in return, exhausted from their fit. "I don't regret it, though."

"I'm sure."

"You should've seen your face; I should've taken a picture."

"I'd never live it down."

"You won't anyways." She smiles to herself, and it's so genuine, and her eyes are closed, and he wants to cup her face in his hands and kiss her sweetly, gently, unlike anything they've ever done before.

"Naturally."

"C'mon, you big doofus. We need blue food coloring."

"I already have some," he mumbles into her ear.

"You do?"

"Have to keep it handy." He winks, and he's pleased when she flushes. "Maybe we can do something with it later."

"I'm not painting you blue, sweetpea." She always uses 'sweetie' ironically, but he still finds it adorable.

"That's kinky."

"Shut the fuck up," she chuckles.

"No." He pulls her toward him until she's nearly sitting in his lap.

"Who's the kid now?" She leans her head back against his chest, and they sit there for a while, relishing each other's touch and company and breathing together. He nuzzles her, his body naturally curling around her on its own accord. She doesn't seem to mind, shrinking into him, letting him cage her with his arms and legs, letting him protect her from worldly reminders.

Percy's phone buzzes repeatedly in his pocket. He knows he should take it, and just like that the spell is broken.

Wearily, he lifts the phone to his ear. Annabeth feels the way his chest rumbles when he speaks, indulging in the vibrations.

"Jackson," he mutters into the receiver, listening as his PA rattles off a new list of issues and demands and updates. He considers giving her a raise as she talks, and Annabeth in his arms feels so right—he can't explain it—and he's content to handle his business ventures with the sated blonde in his hold.

…

"I haven't had these since I was at least one hundred." Percy chews the cookie, and he almost moans from how good they are. He didn't know the recipe, obviously, and he'd just had to describe it to Annabeth as she tried batch after batch, using some science he didn't fucking understand until she'd nailed it.

They slump on the main couch now, sitting on opposite ends of the room, the cookies—all seven trays of variations—piled high on the coffee table between them.

"I'm glad you like them." Annabeth rolled the chocolate over in her mouth, letting it melt and do its magic.

"You never told me about your childhood," Percy remembers then. It had been bugging him, and now… now they have all the time in the world. Obviously, his phone kept going off every twenty minutes or so, but he quickly dealt with it and turned back to the girl in front of him.

"What's there to tell?" She eyes him. "You know the time we grew up in." She scowls slightly, and he's reminded of the disagreeable blonde he'd first encountered.

He frowns. "That's true, I suppose." He finds himself thinking of how far humanity has come. He can't wait to see what they do next. Sometimes it feels like they're taking a step back, but then they take three steps forward, and it feels like a victory every time. When he's lost in a sea of protestors, when he feels normal, like a part of a people—Annabeth's voice echoes in his head—he feels personal pride for every accomplishment of humankind. It's like watching a child grow up, and he knows they've fucked up so many times, but he's proud at the end. He always will be.

"I spent half my days in etiquette classes." Annabeth wrinkles her nose.

"So you were rich, even then?"

"Yes."

He nods. "That makes more sense." And then, "though it doesn't seem like the etiquette classes seem to have done any good." That's a lie. He's seen her run in heels like fucking Jane Bond, and he's seen her twist her words so sharply she could be a businesswoman, and he's seen her sip at her glass so classily, and he knows she's fucking flawless in every way, and she probably knows the difference between every utensil to every exist, and her sense of fashion is, without a doubt, the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. You know, when she's not wearing his underwear and waltzing into grocery stores like she's high. He thinks she makes him a little high too, and it's a welcome change. He's surprised by how much he enjoys her company, surprised that he likes her calling him by his name, not "sir" or "Mr. Jackson," surprised that she surprises him—like when she wore his boxers, for instance, surprised that she's witty, and not just cold, surprised by her sympathy and humanity and compassion, surprised even she has a soft side. He's surprised he likes her at all, in all honesty, and he's surprised by the extent of his affection for her.

"Making out in a grocery store is the height of all elegance, Percy."

He smiles. "But seriously." He takes another bite of his cookie. "What was it like?"

Her frown returns, and he wonders if he shouldn't have asked after all. "It was not as bad as yours," she confesses. "Not nearly as traumatic, but my mother left when I was five. For a rich family, that's odd. And so I was the odd child, the girl without a mother, who other mothers liked to pity," she rolls her eyes, "and other girls liked to tease."

Sympathy blooms inside him. "That sucks."

She shrugs half-heartedly. "I've always liked being a bit odd."

He hides a smile. "I've noticed."

"But no, the real kicker was my father. Frederick Chase," she remembers, her eyes cloudy, like she's wasting away in front of him. "He was a doctor—an apothecary back then, highly respected and all that garbage. I used to antagonize Athena, my mother, but the worst realization of my life was when I was eighteen, I believe. I used to think she abandoned us, that she left my father heartbroken, that she didn't love me, and so she left. But when I was eighteen, I… I got sick."

Percy looks up then, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. This he didn't know.

"Really sick." She sits back, tired, like the sickness still eats at her now, but he knows it doesn't. At least, he doesn't think it does. "Smallpox." Nevermind, it doesn't. He winces. He remembers what it was like to have smallpox in the 1500s; it was fatal, not like now with modern medicine and vaccinations.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"Fuck," she agrees. "I was supposed to die, and I honestly can't tell you to this day how I recovered. I think something in me just decided it wasn't ready to give up yet, and here I am today." She smiles weakly, and his heart constricts, pained by her pain. "Point is, I was on the verge of dying, and I don't know, my father just always liked to see me as strong, unneeded. I raised myself, you see."

He nods. He raised himself, practically, as well. He never wanted to cause more trouble for his mother than she already had on his plate. But this… this to him is worse than all the abuse he and his family went through. Annabeth grew up, unloved and lonely, and even now she dawdles in loneliness.

Percy's life may have been painful, but he always knew he was loved, even if it was only by Sally Jackson at first. In his head, he can see an empty, blonde little girl with large, grey eyes, and he feels like crying.

"He didn't understand I was sick." She shakes her head. "He told me it wasn't a big deal, told me I'd be fine in a few weeks. I wasn't, obviously. I needed doctors, not that they could've done much back then, I needed help, and he didn't allow me any. It was that very week I got a letter from my mother, wanting to talk, wanting to see me, wanting to see who I'd become, and I realized at that moment he wasn't the poor, abandoned fucker I always thought he was. He drove her away. He belittled people, made their problems seem insignificant. I recovered seven weeks later, a long and hard, frankly miraculous, outcome."

He doesn't want to ask, but he kind of wants to, and just—

"And your father?"

"Caught the smallpox from me, ironically, and died."

His mouth falls open. "That's horrible!" He chokes on the cookie momentarily before coughing and collecting himself.

She shrugs, her icy eyes frosty and cold like piercing, lethal icicles, but he knows her, he fucking knows her, and he knows she's hurting, and she's not as unaffected as she wants to be. "I was pretty much an orphan. All my father's money went to me, and I submitted my name as a male, pretended he'd had a son by the name of Henry Chase, into all sorts of businesses, namely wig making and gunsmithing since they were the most fruitful."

He's impressed, and he can't even hide it. He built himself from the ground up, but she's endured struggles even he'll never know, mostly misogyny and the stigma of employed females.

"It was all fine and dandy until the Mayor decided he wanted his daughter to marry Henry Chase, the rich and famed man of the town."

She grins, and he can't help but laugh. He pours them both some more wine, and she gratefully sips it, tucking a rogue curl behind her ear. "Imagine his surprise when he knocks on my door and demands my staff fetch 'Henry.'"

"What did you do?" he encourages, awaiting the punchline.

"What choice did I have? I threw on a wig and showed up at the door, and then I introduced myself as Henry."

He throws his head back and laughs. "You didn't!"

"I did," she laughs, her eyes sparkling. "His daughter, disturbingly, was quite taken with me. I imagine it was because she was a gold digger, but I had… I had lady parts, Percy. It's not like I had time to bind my chest. I imagine she was probably one of the first lesbians, at least the first I'd encountered."

Percy chortles. "I can't believe you did that."

"You'd be surprised at what little I haven't done through the centuries, Percy." She smiles sweetly, and he's entranced by her.

"Quite the impressive resumé, Miss Chase," he lauds, and he raises a glass to her. They clink the flukes together before resuming sipping. "To Henry Chase and Hippocrates," he praises, and she smiles shyly.

"And to a little fisherman," she teases, but he picks out the sincerity in her voice. "May our suffering come to a close," she whispers at the end, and it's sobering.

He looks up at her, and for the first time in five hundred years, he feels a rare glimmer of hope. "I think," he pauses, contemplating the words on the tip of his tongue, "I think it already has."

It might be his imagination, but he thinks her eyes become glassy.

"It has," she allows, and she drinks her wine before he can see the emotions she's overcome by. He looks down at his ringing phone. She gestures for him to take it, understanding.

"Rachel," he addresses, but he has a mission now.

"Sir, Mr. Castellan is—"

"Rachel," he interrupts. "Please cancel the rest of my appointments for today, thank you."

"Sir?" she stutters, caught off guard. He supposes it's to be expected; he's never done this before. Ever. Ever.

Annabeth gapes up at him.

"And please don't call me until…" he glances at his watch, "until five in the morning tomorrow. Please handle it as my PA and compile a debrief for me tomorrow morning. I shall come in early, say around six, to make up for my absence tonight. I'm in the middle of something right now, thank you."

"Is everything alright, sir?"

He glances up at Annabeth who is utterly gobsmacked. "Yes, Rachel, I believe it is."

"Yes, sir. Enjoy your night."

He hangs up, letting the phone fall to his lap. He doesn't bother to shut it off.

"You didn't have to do that," Annabeth whispers, horrified and awed.

He inhales sharply. "Yes, I did," he murmurs, and he sips at the wine again to ignore the serious implications of his words.

"Perseus?"

He glances up, taken off guard by the use of his Christian name. "Yes?" He frowns slightly.

Her face changes into one he doesn't recognize. "I—" she cuts herself off, obviously rethinking whatever it was she intended to originally say. "Let's get dinner. I know this great place in Koreatown."

He can't quite place it, but he feels overwhelmingly disappointed by her lack of bravery. "Alright." He makes a move to stand up.

"I hope you haven't spoiled your appetite, but I can't possibly eat cookies for dinner."

"Do you use chopsticks?" he asks as he helps her with her coat.

"Don't you?"

"Of course."

The atmosphere is much different when they walk onto the elevator. It's solemn, and understanding, and heavy, and he doesn't understand, and he wants to, and he wants to hold her, and it's frustrating because he can't. He can't hold her into the night, and he still sleeps alone at night, and it's because they defined it from day one, they promised they wouldn't get emotions involved, but he thinks he might like her more than he anticipated, and he can't lose a soul to her, he promised himself he wouldn't, but it's confusing, and her hurt hurts him, and her happiness makes him happy, and—

"Fuck," Percy whispers to no one as they walk past the doorman and into the busy streets. She takes his hand so they don't lose each other in the crowds of people, and he feels the inkling of affection spiraling into something larger than life, something that he's drowning in. He's lost in her, and there's no going back. There's no lifeboat, and he forgot his life vest, and it's too late.

She's still weaving through strands of people, oblivious to his inner turmoil, and he's fucking suffering.

He's in love with her, and she'll never love him the same, and that's when his heart breaks into five million shards, and he falls apart.

…

"Percy." She sensually caresses his name in her mouth, sprawled across her own bed—her apartment is closer to here than his penthouse, and it feels different this time. Different because he knows he's hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her.

He wants to sob in her shoulder, to beg for forgiveness from himself. He can't do this. He can't sit by and love her until she decides she's tired of fake dating, and she decides to move on, and she leaves him a friend in the dust. She's everything to him. Everything. And he would give it all up without hesitation to hold her into the night, for her to confess her love to him, for her to mean it like he means it when he cries out her name, overtaken by his senses, overwhelmed by the feeling of her, and everything he loves about her.

"Fuck, too fast," he hisses. "Slow down," he pleads, and she looks at him mischievously, but he doesn't want to tame her now, not now when he's splitting at the seams. Because he knows when she forces him to find his release, and he gives in, and it's all over, the mind-numbing ache of loneliness will come, and he will go to his penthouse, and drown in loneliness, and wonder if he should end it before she can end it and hurt him.

She deviously does it again, sending his brain into overdrive. The serene expression on her face makes him unravel, how she pretends she's not doing anything wrong at all, and it's tearing him apart inside.

"Annabeth," he pleads. "Please."

Stop fucking with my heart, stop kissing me if you won't stay the night, stop making me love you.

He knows if he confesses his love, she'll run. She has commitment issues; that much has been obvious since day one, and he never complained because this was supposed to be casual sex and maybe a friendship as they hid from the media. She'll run right out of his life and stomp all over his heart. And fuck if he doesn't feel fragile, like a baby bird, his heart in the palm of her hand. She alone has the power to destroy him entirely. It's a terrifying prospect.

"This," she whispers amorously, "this belongs to me." She puts her palm flat against his chest, and he hisses at the contact. Her touch is almost painful at this moment. It usually hurts anyway, physical contact where he was grossly abused, and he relishes the physical pain. He'd take it over emotional annihilation any day.

"Let go, Perce," she cajoles, and he releases on command, falling apart to her skilled touch and words.

"Annabeth." In this moment, he is more vulnerable than he has ever been. She sees it too.

"Percy? Are you okay?" Concern laces into every word. "Percy, no," she gasps. "No, don't cry."

He doesn't even mean to cry, and he knows she knows he doesn't even remember the last time he's cried, but he can't help himself, and it's a cathartic release to finally feel as he does. He cries for his mom, and his sister, and a dad he never knew, and Paul, and his friends now who will die before he does—Nico, Thalia, Piper, Jason, Will, Leo, and for Annabeth, who he loves with all his heart, however small, and who's taught him to look at the world different, who's gone through so much, and finally for himself. Because he never imagined love would be this painful. He'd spent his whole life looking for another half, another piece of him he was always missing, and now that he's met her, he doesn't want it.

He wants a simple life, he doesn't need this shit, and yet the idea of leaving her tears him to shreds, leaves him horrified. He can't even remember life before her. It sounds dramatic, and he hasn't known her, really and truly known her, for very long, but it feels like he's been sleeping for the last five hundred years, and he's only just woken up, taken in the technicolor world around him and really and truly appreciated it, and he's shed the black and white world he used to know. He was stuck in shades of grey, and now that she's shown him the sun, he doesn't think he can ever go back, infatuated with her, hanging onto her every word. He can't possibly go back to a world of coldness and emptiness and the void filling his heart, leaving him concaving. Not since he's learned what it means to really love.

And he is catastrophically in love with her because he knows there only comes a great downfall after this.

"Percy!" She shakes him.

He tears himself out of her grasp, and he only cries harder, and she looks like she's about to cry, probably because she's confused and terrified, and he thinks he's dying. He's already given her a piece of his soul. He knows it. He feels emptier inside. He wonders if she feels fuller with his soul in hers. She's won. She has his soul, and she doesn't have to deal with him any longer.

"I need to go." He says it before he can change his mind.

Her face drains of all color. "Are you okay?"

"No," he says, and it feels good to confess the truth. Loving her will destroy him, and he needs to leave now. "I think we need to end this." He's aware his voice is cold as hell, but it's the only way he knows. He's ceased crying, but now she's crying, and he knows he's the reason why.

"What the hell are you going off about?" Her eyes blaze. She's pissed she's crying.

Good. Hate me, please. It'll be so much easier if you hate me. "I can't fake date you anymore." He swiftly stands, leaving her open-mouthed on the ground.

"What?"

"You heard me." He pulls his shirt over his head, ignoring the way his voice cracked.

"But, but—why?" she sputters, and she sniffles. Her eyes are wide with surprise and the inability to fathom his confusing mind.

"I just can't," he says, backing away when she reaches for him. Her arm falls to her side, and she stares at him through tear-filled eyes.

And then she's angry. Her expression scrunches into a pained fury. "What was this, then? You're the one who suggested fake dating in the first place!" She rips him apart.

He flinches back, but she's not finished.

She stands to her feet, bare before him, but she's unfazed. "Was this some grand ploy for you to steal a soul shard from me?" she demands. "Was this for your pleasure, to pain people around you? You're a fucked-up son of a bitch."

It's nothing he doesn't already know. "I told you I didn't have a heart once," he says stiffly, and it takes everything in him not to burst into tears again.

"I agree, fully." Her eyes blaze charcoal. "I can't believe I was so stupid." She rakes her nails through her hair until she's bleeding, and he's conflicted—he wants to wash the blood away, and kiss her hand, and cherish her until she can't remember her own name and can only scream his. She laughs bitterly, glaring at him. "So you make me unravel my entire history to you, you make me tell you my life's story, you make me let you in, and then you just up and leave."

He hopes to god he's making the right decision. He growls, trying to channel his despair into anger. "It's not like your intentions were entirely honorable either! I know you only agreed to fake date because you thought you could pull me in. You thought you could take my soul and boast to the world you'd finally conquered me, the man who never loved at all!"

She barks out sharp laughter, and she half-sobs, wiping away her tears. "They're right then," she hisses. "You can't love at all because where your heart should be, there's just a dark, black stone."

He heads for her door, angrily grabbing his jacket. She follows, draped in an expensive silk robe. He'd peeled it off her one night, forcing her to beg to be touched. It had left her breathless and spent, and she'd nearly fallen asleep right then and there afterwards. Now he is sorry, only ever sorry.

"You were wrong," she chokes out, tears leaking down her face, her eyes blown wide as he steps into the elevator.

His face is puffy from crying. He doesn't want to hear it. He's tempted to plug his ears, to pretend he can't hear her, and what she says next kills him. Nothing could possibly hurt worse. No, he reminds himself. If she says she doesn't love me, never loved me, that would be infinitely worse.

"You said you were Satan, but you were wrong!" she screams her throat raw, muffling her cries with her hands. She's gasping, desperate for air. "If I'm Lilith, then you're God, exiling me for being too strong, for exposing my heart, for giving my all to you and only you. You sit high up in your penthouse and you fuck over the first and last girl to ever be foolish enough to believe in you, and you leave me lonely in the end. You punish me for—for loving you!"

All the color drains from his face as she falls apart in front of him.

"The next time I see you, I'll kill you, do you understand me? I will rip you to shreds and then bury you alive," she snarls. She looks at him through blurry tears, and his vision is equally hazy, and she sobs one last time. "I trusted you," she hoarsely whispers, and she slams the close button on the elevator, the doors obediently sliding shut, sending him shooting down the passageway to the ground floor and out of her life forever.

…

Percy cries. It's not pretty at all. He fucking sobs and hugs his pillow to his chest every night, and he goes to work with bloodshot eyes of a man afraid to sleep every day. And he doesn't come home until it's three in the morning, and then he goes back at six. He doesn't sleep; he runs off pure adrenaline and caffeine, and even Rachel takes notice, concerned, but he can't stop.

It shouldn't hurt this much. After all, he was the one to walk out on her. But it does.

It fucking hurts so much, and he thinks he's finally dying, and he hopes to god someone will shoot him soon. He even considers doing it himself because he can't do this anymore.

He can't live another five hundred years alone. He wants to end it all, and he just wants the pain to end.

The only reason he's never tried to kill himself despite all the aches of living forever is because he always told himself pain was temporary. And it was. Until his pain was self-induced, until he walked out on the best thing to happen to him because he was afraid. He's a coward, and he'll die of grief for it.

His nightmares are worse than ever because instead of Gabe, it's her, and she's beautiful. She's smiling, she's laughing, and then she's not. Then she's screaming at him. Her words haunt him every moment of every day, and he knows he's finally lost entirely. He's lost everyone he ever loved, and he's lost her, and he's lost himself.

You punish me for loving you.

And he thinks he's done with everything now. He's done trying. He's all cried out. She loved him—she never said it, but she did, and he told her he hated her and left. He didn't know she loved him, he didn't feel it, thought she would never fall for a broken man like himself, and yet she did anyway. She believed, even when nobody else did, and he did exactly as she said. He punished her for trusting him, and he fucking hates himself. His self-loathing has never run as deep as it does now.

Percy crumples outside the elevator at work, giving up.

"Sir!" It's Rachel. "Mr. Jackson! Should I call an ambulance? Sir? Sir!" She's shaking him, and he flinches away, fearing her touch. Only Annabeth knew how to touch him.

And he sits, unmoving, his head in his hands, hunched over his spilled papers. He's given up entirely now. And once again there is no going back.

…

"Tell me what you're feeling, Percy."

Percy blinks at Dr. Atlas. It's strange to have a shrink, especially when Annabeth joked about charlatans so long ago, but he can't breathe sometimes, and his PA thinks this is good for him.

"That's the issue, isn't it Doctor? I'm not feeling at all," he blandly whispers, staring at his fingers. He feels silly. He's never expressed his feelings before, not like this, and he feels small and invalidated and hopeless.

Chiron frowns, writing something down on a notepad. Only that gives him anxiety because what is he writing? Is it judgement, is it medicine, is it something bad?

"Try not to focus on my note-taking," Chiron says kindly, but Percy shifts uncomfortably anyways. "Talk to me, Percy."

"I love her," he admits.

Chiron nods slowly. "Still?" he notes Percy's reluctance to use past tense.

Percy smiles hollowly. "Always," he says, and it's the most honest he's been with himself in at least a week.

…

"Do you feel guilty, Percy?" Chiron asks him.

Percy blinks.

"For feeling loved," Chiron clarifies.

Percy purses his lips. What kind of ridiculousness is that? "No," he says hastily, but then he thinks about it and—it makes so much sense. He's never felt worthy of love. Not from his angelic mother nor his goddess of a sister, not from himself, not from the world, and he never felt it from others either. He sticks out like a sore thumb, married to his work, and as much as he loves work, he can't do it for another few millennia.

"Do you feel guilty for loving her then?" Dr. Atlas is kind as ever and patient.

Percy swallows thickly. "Yes."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

"I think…" Percy licks his dry lips. He feels empty and so unlike himself it hurts. He doesn't even remember what it's like to be himself anymore. He doesn't remember a Percy Jackson he respects. "I think because she's too good for me."

Chiron falls quiet.

"She's well… she's strong and beautiful and faithful and hopeful, and I'm just… not. She was right when she said I was a con man. I can see why it looks like I conned her in her eyes, and she'll never know."

Chiron writes something down again, unnerving him once more. Percy stares at the pen dubiously.

"I walked in front of a car this morning." He doesn't know what possesses him to say it, but he's always felt this way, not just because of Annabeth. He's tired of being alive, he's tired of letting people down. His money is as empty as he is, and he's despairing. Dr. Atlas insisted on honesty, and he is being as honest as he can possibly be. "But I jumped to the curb, and I don't understand why."

Chiron pauses, his hand stilling.

Percy sinks lower in his seat, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. "I need this to end." He still remembers the headlights at dawn, bright and yellow. Blinding. And yet—he'd jumped to the curb. It was a revelation. He'd always thought the moment death came flashing at him he'd give in, and yet he hadn't.

"Exactly what is it you need to end?"

"How I feel."

"I'm very glad you told me about the car accident. Honesty is part of our deal. And now we need to do something about this."

"With all due respect, Dr. Atlas, if a patient wants to kill themself, you can't really stop them. It wouldn't be your fault."

"Just as you claim I can't stop you from feeling a certain type of distress, Percy, you can't stop me from feeling as I would if you killed yourself."

Percy blinks. "Are you trying to guilt me?"

"I don't guilt my patients, Percy," he patiently acknowledges. "I am simply being honest with you in return. Percy, what made you jump back on the curb?"

There's a long silence. "I don't know."

"There was a study of people who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived. The moment after they jumped, they regretted it," says Dr. Atlas.

"I wouldn't regret not having the flashbacks of abuse, Dr. Atlas. I wouldn't regret not having to deal with myself and my bullshit every time I fuck up. I wouldn't regret not remembering the way she looked and sounded, telling me she loved me without really saying it, telling me I crushed her and her faith in me—the best thing in my life—as she slammed the elevator closed and rightfully threw me out of her life." Percy inhales sharply. It feels good to get off his chest.

"You've said yourself we've made lots of progress," Chiron points out. "Those are things we can continue to work on."

"But can you bring her back? Can you change my past? Can you make me fix my mistakes? No, Doctor, you can't," Percy points out. "I agree we have made progress, but sometimes I wonder if the struggle is worth it, especially when it would be so easy to not feel at all."

He watches as Chiron battles internally with instinct and ethical duties. "I won't call 911, Percy, and have you committed. I should, but you would only be out in a few days, and it would be hard for you to trust me again."

Percy presses his lips tightly together.

"I need you to have a medical consultation."

"I don't want fucking meds."

"Yes, but now you had this impulsive moment that you could not have come back from. Now it is more dangerous than it was before, and to protect both of us, I need you to do this for me."

"And if I don't?" Percy hesitates. "I don't want to become someone else. I don't do drugs, Dr. Atlas, prescribed or otherwise. I refuse."

"You won't become someone else, Percy. Medications lessen the burdens that caused you to jump in front of a car, and it helps you concentrate on and nurture the instincts that reminded you to jump back to the curb."

"Doctor, please."

"I need you to promise me you will make the appointment and that you will not harm yourself before our next appointment. If you feel hopeless, I want you to call me, or the suicide hotline, or anyone, Perseus, before you act rashly."

Percy swallows hard. "I promise," he whispers.

The good doctor glances up to the clock. "I believe our time is up, Percy. Remember what I told you."

"Yes." He's quiet. "I'll email you as soon as I've booked that appointment with the psychiatrist." And he walks out of the door, watching the odd look on Chiron's face as he leaves.

…

"Have you ever considered talking to her, Percy?" Chiron inquires.

Percy scowls slightly. "Sir, she would never talk to me."

"Have you tried before?"

"...no," he reluctantly admits.

"Well, then."

Percy's scowl deepens, etched into his flawless skin. "I'm not sure I could handle that type of rejection, Doctor."

"Would you rather never know what would have been then?"

"No," he murmurs. The thought of never speaking to her again is torturous.

"Maybe you consider calling her then, or emailing, or however you prefer to communicate."

Percy makes a noncommittal sound low in his throat. "What if she really does kill me, like she threatened?" He would deserve it.

Chiron smiles weakly. "I'm sure she didn't mean it, Percy. Based off the way she told you she trusted you afterwards, I would say she was simply hurting and feeling betrayed."

"I'm sure," Percy agrees. "I saw her the other day."

Chiron looks up, his interest piqued.

"I went by her apartment. I couldn't help myself. She wasn't there, obviously. I asked the receptionist, and she said Miss Chase was not home at the time. Even if she was, I'm sure I would not have gone up to see her, but it was still surreal."

"Did you want her to be there?"

Percy pauses, thinking. "Yes," he decides.

"So you are not entirely closed off by the idea of seeing her?"

"I think it will hurt. Very much. But yes, even if I can see her, even if she ignores me, even if she slaps me or stabs me, I would like to see her face in person again. At least one more time."

"I see. Do you believe you have a high tolerance for pain, Percy?"

"I like to think so. My stepfather sort of ensured that, didn't he?"

"I meant emotionally, Perseus. Your stepfather beat you, yes, and that was traumatic, but I mean of being emotionally vulnerable."

Oh. Percy bites the inside of his cheek. "No, sir. I think my emotional tolerance is very weak." It hurts to admit being weak in anything.

"Percy, I think you must face your inner demons as you faced your stepfather's demon three weeks ago."

The memory leaves a sour taste in Percy's mouth.

"I think you should try talking to her. And if she rejects you, then you let it go, and you can cry and express yourself, and we will discuss it at your next session, but perhaps she would be more willing to listen to you, to forgive you, if you don't abandon her, if you explain yourself."

Percy frowns. "That's terrifying," he protests. He's not sure he can put himself out there like that.

"Matters of the heart are rarely not intimating, Percy."

"I see."

"But, I think, before she forgives you, it truly depends on how you feel."

"Doctor?"

"Have you forgiven yourself, Percy?"

They sit in silence for nearly four minutes. He watches the hands on the clock go by, but it does nothing to give him the strength. Chiron watches patiently.

Percy opens and closes his mouth.

Have I? Have I forgiven myself for enduring abuse, and allowing my mother to go through it as well, and for watching my sister die, and for seeing people fade out of existence, withering away before me, and have I forgiven myself for hurting her? For loving her?

"No."

Chiron raises an eyebrow. "Do you believe you ever will at this moment of time?"

He doesn't hesitate. He had always been this way, self-deprecating and self-abhorrent. And he doesn't know how to be any different.

"No."

…

"Annabeth."

She blinks at him. He hasn't seen her for at least two months, and she's here now as he stands at her door, begging to be heard out, begging for her forgiveness, for something to chase the nightmares away. Two months no longer feel like two days without her presence.

"That'll be Miss Chase to you," she quips, and he catches the hurt in her voice. Thankfully, she hasn't carved out his eyes yet.

He swallows thickly. He lost the right to say her name when he left her lonely. "May I come in?"

She swings the door open wider. "Do as you like." And she flounces away to her kitchen where she's stirring something aromatically delicious in a tall, earthy clay pot.

He numbly follows her. "I need to talk to you."

"Well, I don't need to talk to you," she bites out, and it stings, but he had it coming. She angrily stirs some more. He thinks that, regardless of what it is now, it will be soup by the time she's finished beating it to death.

"Please, Annabeth."

She spins to face him, her eyes rimmed red. His throat tightens at the sight. "I've already cried so much, Percy. Please don't." Her voice is tortured.

"Oh, Annabeth, no," he whispers as she falls apart again. She tears up, furiously wiping her tears away. And she reluctantly goes into his arms, sniffling as he squeezes her, holding her tight to his heart and his chest.

"You hurt me so badly, and I don't even know why."

Percy feels misty-eyed, and he shuts the stove off, collapsing to the floor. She sits with him, caged in his embrace again. He had thought she would behead him, but no. She dampens his shirt with her tears, but he doesn't care at all.

"Annabeth Chase," he whispers, tasting the way her name sounds on his tongue. "To become God is the loneliest feat of them all."

She cradles his jaw in hers hands, but he holds up a finger to her lips before she can speak.

"You told me that night I have a heart, told me you believed in me, told me I was good." He hesitates. "And you can't say things like that, Annabeth, you just can't."

"Why not?"

Because I might believe you.

"Because my heart is not that big, and we made a contract, and I am—I am…" He exhales harshly. "I am hopelessly, and completely, and disastrously in love with you."

"Percy—"

"And every moment that passes it multiplies tenfold, and every minute I think I have reached my capacity for love, and that I have run out love to give, my present love shatters my past love for you, and with each passing hour, I will love you more desperately then I loved you then, and I can't—I have spent the past two months fearing the fall, fearing what comes when I realize you will never feel for me as I feel for you, and then I have come to the conclusion that there are worse things that that. I have realized it is alright to love someone with unrequited feelings, so long as they deserve the love, and you deserve every gram of what I hope for you, and so much more, and I—I have realized, despite your violent threats, that you cannot kill me in a way that matters, for even in the unknown, even what comes after this, even in the end I have so desperately reached for all my life—I will love you then too. And again. And again. And again. And again. There will never be anyone else for me, and I am sorry, only ever sorry you believed in me."

He smiles like Lucifer must have before he fell, and Annabeth knows he is no God, and he is no Satan, and he is a mere immortal man with baggage to rival hers, and he is in love with her, and that is his truth.

"And so you fled?" she realizes. "You ran because you didn't know how to face it."

"I never claimed to be bigger than a coward, Miss Chase."

"You are no coward, Percy Jackson," she fiercely proclaims, her hands tightening on his face. "I was not entirely honest with you either. Did it ever occur to you that you were not the only one to breach the contract?"

"I—"

"And did it not occur to you that I too am utterly and irrevocably in love with you too?"

"You're going to make me cry," he whispers.

"You've already made me cry so much. I'm sure it's only fair, Percy," she says, and she kisses him so hard he nearly hits his head into the cabinets behind them. She twists in his hold to pin him against the small doors, pouring all her love and pain and frustration into her passion. "And besides, you have five hundred years' worth of tears to catch up on."

"You were right."

"I'm rarely mistaken," she echoes her old words, tilting her head at him.

"You said you had read too many books to know how fake relationships end."

"With murder?" she guesses, and they both half-laugh, half-cry together.

"No," he chastises, and she caresses his face with her soft hands.

"It blossoms into something real."

"Does this mean we'll die now?" she asks, and Percy considers this carefully.

"I'm not sure. I don't think we've lost enough soul to die quite yet, but—but I am grateful, I think."

"Is that so?"

"I spent so long trying to die I forgot to live," he admits. "And happiness is living and dying by your side, Annabeth. Relief is knowing we have eternity to break each other's hearts and rebuild them again."

"Spoken like a true Medieval man," she teases, and he melts because this is exactly where he wants to be. Perhaps not on her kitchen tiles while his ass slowly falls numb, but with her clutching onto him just as desperately as he holds onto her.

"I never want to leave."

She smiles shyly. "That's encouraging, Mr. Jackson, considering I never want you to go."

She kisses him again and again and again and again until he feels lightheaded and dizzy with unwarranted, unexpected affection. And he has to beg her to stop so he can breathe, so he can find his sanity again because this type of love is not his norm, but he thinks it can be.

He has forever to learn and grow and change. And the promise of forever has never felt more comforting than it does now.

…

And then it doesn't. He remembers why, at first, he hated living forever.

He remembers when Nico dies. And then Thalia. And then Jason. And it's been another five hundred years, and all his friends are dead, and it feels like he can't breathe, and he swears he's never making friends with anyone ever again because his heart can't handle it.

He's grateful Annabeth has taught him to love again, but he also hates her for it because now the losses cut so much deeper than they would have a century ago, and the century before that, and the century before that.

And he's reached his first millenium. And it's horrifying. "Answer me again… Tell me you don't need anyone when you're all cried out over the people you've lost, and you realize there are worse things in life than death."

He hears her voice in his head everywhere he goes, and it's comforting, and it's especially comforting when she comes by his penthouse, or he hangs around her apartment, and she kisses him soundly without thinking, and he knows he's got her, if not anyone else.

It's August 18th, 2530, and half the time he forgets it's his birthday, but she remembers every year without fail.

"Happy Birthday, Seaweed Brain."

He hears her before he sees her, and then she's letting herself in with the spare key, smiling brightly at him. "Welcome to the 1000s."

He smiles weakly as she peppers kisses down the side of his face, but he can't fight the emptiness.

"What's wrong, kiddo?" Annabeth frowns at him, sitting on his kitchen counter. "I think you need to see the good doctor."

At least that's a constant in his life. Chiron, by some miracle, lives alongside them. An immortal in hiding, Percy supposes. He won't expose Dr. Atlas for his secrets, even if he hasn't seen him in at least two hundred years.

"I'm one thousand," he whispers, his eyes wide. "That's a longass time. That's—that's…" His breathing goes shallow. "They've been dead for hundreds of years, Annabeth. My mother's been dead for almost one thousand years. I'm not sure I can—"

"Breathe, Percy," she insists, taking his hand in hers. "With me," she instructs, and they breathe together, in and out, in and out, in and out. His anxiety reduces for a moment.

He feels awful for the rest of the day, and then he feels worse because she made him cake—blue frosting and blue vanilla, his favorite—and he can't even fathom where he is right now enough to joke around with her.

They eat the cake in silence, and it's really good. He tells her so.

"Thank you." Her words are overly crisp, and the guilt returns, flooding his senses.

"Would you like to go somewhere?" Percy inquires.

She looks at him quizzically. He hasn't traveled outside of business means in three hundred years, says it interferes with his routine too much. Because Percy Jackson adores routines. It keeps him sane, and she's not like that, but she respects his wishes, and she does something crazy and exhilarating, and she comes back to him and tells him all about it.

"I always like to travel," she points out. "I am concerned, however, by your sudden interest in it."

They eat in silence again. "Let's go to Greece," says Percy. "And Rome. We can see the Colosseum under reconstruction again." It had burned down only fifty years prior, and they were almost finished refinishing it.

"When?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Okay," she agrees, but she worries her bottom lip, skeptically scanning his face. She reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers. And he squeezes it so hard, hoping to feel again.

…

"She made me come, Chiron." Percy scowls at the ground. They've grown close in the years, and Percy adores this man, he really does, but that doesn't mean he wants to be here.

"I'm sure Annabeth's just worried, Percy," Chiron kindly reports. He doesn't write on notebooks anymore. He knows Percy like the back of his hand, and they've already talked about why he is the way he is endlessly, and now they like to focus on the future and the present and how to reduce this anxiety gnawing at Percy, eating him alive; they focus on how he can get where he wants to be, and how he can stop stressing about things that have yet to happen.

Percy says nothing to that.

"How was Greece?" Chiron inquires, and it feels like his doctor's an old friend at this point. A friend who knows his darkest, deepest fears.

"Lovely," Percy murmurs. A hoverboard screeches outside, and he cringes at the obnoxious sound. Kids today. "The water's not as blue as it used to be, though, and there's a lot more trash on the beaches, and the Parthenon is crumbling to pieces, and the Colosseum isn't the same." He frowns.

Chiron nods patiently. "Is there anything you enjoyed about your trip?"

Percy hesitates. "Not really." His pessimistic outlook knows no bounds. Everything was much different than it was the last time he went to Greece, and it's terrifying. Percy already knows he fears change—not the little things—but the universal, life-altering shifts. Well, he usually doesn't mind the small shifts, but he might be going crazy.

"I argued with her about cereal last week." His consultations with Chiron are only once a week now, no longer three, but that doesn't mean he doesn't freak out sometimes.

"I see. What happened exactly?"

"Raisin Bran changed the amount of raisins they put in. It's three scoops now for 'triple the delight.'" Percy pauses, thinking. "She found me at three in the morning, counting out the raisins and throwing out a third of the raisins."

Chiron blinks. "What did she say?"

"She said that was wasteful, and I need to get a grip because it's 'just some damn cereal.' And then I think she took some raisins back up to bed."

"And how did that make you feel?"

Percy sighs. "I don't know," he admits. "She's right. It really is just cereal, and I don't know what came over me."

"Is she always right?"

Percy offers a rueful smile. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. But I would say I get things wrong. A lot."

"Why do you think the extra raisins bother you?" Chiron gently redirects Percy to the main story.

"Because Raisin Bran hasn't changed at all in the four hundred years, even if they kept introducing new flavors, and they can't just fuck up the original like that and then still market it as the original. It's not the damn original. It has too many raisins, and that's stupid because it's Raisin Bran; I need more bran. It throws the whole ratio off, and it's an insult to humankind."

"Did taking the raisins out make you feel better?"

"Not really, not if they're still producing and selling that shit."

"Did it taste much different?"

Percy pauses, and they stare at the clock again. "No," he mumbles.

"So then it's safe to say this isn't really about the cereal, is it?"

"No." He frowns.

"I understand you recently turned one thousand. Happy belated Birthday," he adds. "Is that change bothering you?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to elaborate as to why?"

"I thought I'd be dead by now." Percy shrugs. Simple as that.

"Do you wish you were?"

"Yes."

"How are your antidepressants working for you, Percy?"

"You think we need to change them?" Percy inquires coolly. He honestly doesn't give a shit at this point. He's got the whole fucking list: moderate depression, moderate anxiety, and mild OCD. He feels like he's in Pokemon; he's gotta catch them all, and then he wonders if anybody even remembers that reference anymore. It's a sobering thought.

"Well, they've begun to lose effect, so I would imagine that yes, we probably should. However, given your current state, I'm not sure if the idea of even changing it will be beneficial to you, or if it'll only cause more stress," Chiron admits openly.

Percy sighs. "We can try it. What do we have to lose?"

Chiron looks at him seriously. "A lot, Perseus. But I think you already know that."

Percy swallows. "Yes."

"And in the meantime, perhaps you should try an entirely different brand of cereal," Chiron encourages.

Percy's mouth goes dry. "I think that might be too much for me."

"Maybe you'll find your tastes have changed throughout the years. Every seven years, your tastebuds change," Chiron reminds him.

Percy stands up anyways. "Honey Nut Cheerios Original hasn't changed a stitch, or so I've heard. Maybe I'll test that."

"That sounds great, Percy. My great-granddaughter loved those."

Percy smiles, but it feels more like a wince. "I'm sure." He walks out the double doors, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, anxiously playing with the stress ball Chiron gave him four weeks ago after he popped the first one. It's blue and shaped like a fish, and it calms him down as he flags down a taxi cab.

…

Percy counts the levels in the elevator as he goes, watching the light flicker with different numbers. It's comforting to watch the black digits fluidly go through until it reaches the top floor. He steps out, and the lights are on.

"Annabeth?"

"In the kitchen!"

He sits at a barstool, watching as she shuffles through cereal boxes. They spike anxiety in him, just looking at them, and he squeezes the fish harder, exhaling slowly.

"How was it?" She looks up at him, and he's grateful for her. She never changes; she doesn't look a day over twenty, the same as she's been forever now, and it eases the ache in his chest.

"Fine."

"Want some cereal?" She eyes him warily, but he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and he quickly shakes his head no. "Suit yourself."

"I'm sorry about the raisins," he blurts out. She's probably not even thinking about that, but he feels bad anyways.

Her expression softens. "It's okay. Do you want to get pizza tonight from that little place off Prince Street that you like?"

He appreciates her effort, and the pizza down there is a staple. It also hasn't changed. That helps him breathe. "Sure. Do you want me to send the staff to get it?"

"Have a nice night in? Sure," she agrees, and she pulls him toward her, hugging him tightly to her heart.

"Annabeth, do you ever fear death?" he whispers in her ear as they embrace. She stills in his arms.

"No."

"Do you fear it will never come?"

"No, I know it will." Her voice is soft.

He pulls away, looking at her curiously. "None of it ever gets under your skin?" He finds that hard to believe. She's only human, after all, although she's been human for long, and it must hurt sometimes in some way.

"No," she says, but she doesn't disclose any more, and he lets it go.

…

"Will you read to me?" Percy asks in the silence. He's been sprawled on the bed next to her for at least three hours now, and she, as usual, has her nose buried in her book. Sometimes she reads to him—she knows it eases his anxiety to lie still and listen to the sound of her voice—and she obliges now too.

"I'm reading The Lovely Bones." Annabeth wrinkles her nose. "Are you sure you want to hear this? I'm almost done, anyways."

"That's okay. I don't really care about the words anyway." He just likes the sound of her voice, the musical rise and fall of it, the comforting, warm tone.

She shrugs. "Alright." She noisily turns the page. And she speaks for some time. He has no idea who half these people are: Abigail, Lindsey, and Samuel, and Susie. The book sounds dreadfully boring, but he won't tell her so. He doesn't want her to stop. He silences his phone and listens as she flips to the final page. He always loves the way her voice grows quiet as she comes close to the end because she feels the book with all of her, and she feels the emptiness of ending a story she loves so dearly. He doesn't love books, but he loves her, and it's enough.

"His wife poured him some water from the sink as he fingered the tiny bike and the ballet shoe, the flower basket and the thimble. He held out the muddy bracelet as she set down his glass," she reads. He has to strain to hear her. "'This little girl's grown up by now,' she said. Almost. Not quite."

Annabeth pauses, shutting the book. She doesn't need to see it; she's memorized it by now. Her voice catches on the final words, and when he hears it, he understands why, understands why it pains her so deeply.

Annabeth closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the headboard.

"I wish you all a long and happy life."

…

Percy's one thousand three hundred when him and Annabeth take a 'break.'

It's not that they don't love each other. It's that it's too hard to watch the world change and feel the exact same.

They don't cry when they part this time; they're all cried out, and it's hard to remember what it's like to feel.

Percy watches a car whizz past his window, and he fucking hates the youth, and he never wanted to be a bitter, old man, but there's no end in sight, and he's not as hopeful for the next generations as he used to be. He's waiting for the world to end, but it has yet to come.

It's almost worse than crying. To be numb is to suffer like no one else has ever suffered before.

He doesn't see her face for another six hundred years, and then he runs into her in Germany in 3442.

They sit outside Café Hauptwache in Frankfurt, splitting a Belgian waffle and sipping on coffee. She's as elegant as he remembers, and he's fascinated by her reflective skirt. Even as fashion evolves, she sets the trends, one step ahead of the rest of the world.

They don't ask each other how they've been. They're both possibly shitty, as good as one can ever be, and so they don't dance around social expectations.

"I miss sugar," Annabeth says wistfully, and he looks at her oddly. "Nobody eats sugar anymore, Percy," she tells him, and he rolls his eyes.

"Why do you even care about the trends?"

She falls quiet, and he understands immediately. They know each other better than they know themselves. She keeps up with the trends because it is her sanity, her tie to the mortal world.

They don't talk about getting back together. She goes off to Berlin, says there's a funeral she's here to attend, and he goes to the teleporters to go home, to New York.

…

In another fifty years, she shows up at his doorstep.

"Annabeth," he sputters, unable to disguise his surprise. She's been crying; he can tell. "Want to tell me what's happened?"

She sobs about her latest French lover who broke her heart, took a soul shard, and died only two weeks ago, and Percy doesn't feel jealous at all. He's not sure if that should frighten him, but it doesn't. They've held each other through thick and thin, and he loves her enough to want her to be happy, even if it's not with him.

He lets her cry against him, lets her tears dampen his shirt. They sit under a blanket with the dog he adopted only four weeks before: Mrs. O'Leary. He always refused to get pets—they die much too fast, and it kills him—but he's lonely, and he loves this dog with all his heart. She fills the void, and Annabeth pets his dog affectionately, snuggling against him and his dog until she stops crying.

"I'm sorry about Jules," he tells her, and he means it.

She shrugs. "Thanks."

"How low are you on shards?" he finally asks, unable to hold back his anxiety about it. He doesn't know how many people she's loved since she met him. He suspects it's not many—before him, it had only been two—but it's still enough to scare him. If she dies, he will kill himself, and he doesn't care what Chiron says. If she goes, he goes too.

"I don't know. I'm going to the doctor this weekend," says Annabeth. He holds her tighter to his chest.

…

He sees her again twelve years later when his dog dies. They do the same. She holds him, they mourn together, they watch Old Yeller, a terrible idea, and then they cry a bunch because he's never lost a dog before—people, yes, but not a family member like a dog.

She kisses his pain away, and it's the first time she's kissed him on the mouth in almost another millennium—they only indulge in innocent forehead kisses these days—and it startles him because he's forgotten what it's like to be kissed by someone he loves.

It's not like he hasn't been active without her. He wouldn't call his flings lovers like she likes to, mostly because he didn't love them at all, but it doesn't feel the same as she does.

When they retire to his bed, they don't do anything. They really don't need to in order to feel intimate. With her hair strewn across the pearly sheets, she's beautiful just like this, and he watches her sleep in the most non creepy way possible, relishing every breath she takes, reminding him they're living together.

…

"I'm dying."

"What?" He's very aware of the panic in his voice. "Annabeth?" He moves closer to the iris message, hoping he heard her wrong.

She shows him her hair through the screen. There's a grey streak in her hair. She's aging, and that means… that means she's low on shards.

He can't breathe. She's not supposed to go. She promised she'd stay with him.

"No," he gasps, horrified.

She's sympathetic, and he knows they only have another hundred years together at best unless she starts stealing souls again, and he knows she won't. And he can't ask her to. She's tired, and she welcomes this end with open arms.

"Annabeth… please." He doesn't know who he's praying to anymore, only that he knows he can't do this without her.

She wipes a stray tear away from her face. "I'll come visit tomorrow, okay? We'll talk." Her voice turns up, hopeful.

He nods dazedly because what else can he really do, and he falls to his knees when she hangs up. He smashes his fist through glass later, and he welcomes the blood and the pain.

…

He sobs into her hair when she comes to meet him. She's his world, and she'll be gone in maybe a couple years at best. When she loses her final shard, she'll be gone, and he doesn't know who she'll lose it to, but he knows it's coming, and he selfishly never wants her to fall in love again, even if he knows it's impossible, just because he doesn't want her to abandon him.

His shards are almost half-way full still, and that means he's going to live at least another three thousand years after him, and he can't do that. He just can't.

"It's funny," she whispers, and she peers at him through red-rimmed eyes. "I always thought I'd be the one to outlive you."

"I thought so too." He chews his bottom lip. "So you're down to one?"

She nods.

"And nobody else is falling in love with you anytime soon?"

She half-smiles. "Not that I know of."

"So this is really the end?"

"It's been…" she trails off, unable to find the words. "It's been an honor knowing you," is all she says, and yes, of course he breaks down again, and she holds him as he weeps.

One shard per person. That's how it's always been. She lost a shard to him so long ago, but he's sure you can lose a shard to people more than once if you fall out of love and then fall in love again. He's four thousand now, and it's 5783. The world should have exploded by now. The sun barely shines through the atmosphere. It's really and truly the end.

He's lost four shards to her through the years. It's not that he fell out of love, really, his love just changed to a friend, and then back, and it was a cruel cycle they both went through. He feels guilty for every shard he took from her. He wants to transfer them into her, but he knows that's not how it works.

…

They're sitting outside a pond when she begins to choke a little.

"Annabeth? Annabeth!"

She coughs, and blood spits out of her mouth. He stares at it fearfully. He doesn't know how he knows, but he knows he's losing her, and he doesn't even know who she's loved.

"You said you didn't have a lover," he accuses, holding her close to his chest, cradling her tightly. She doesn't look as confused as he does, and it infuriates him. "Annabeth!"

"Percy," she whispers hoarsely.

His heart breaks into two. "Don't tell me…"

"I can't help loving you one last time." She shrugs a shoulder, and the wind gently strokes his hair as he starts crying all over again.

"You… you… no!" he cries out, frightened. Fear has nothing on him anymore; fear is a distant memory. This is life and death. He remembers the day he met her, remembers what it was like to be drunk, and young, and in love, and not in love, and making out in grocery stores, and in bathrooms, and kissing her in the erotica section of Barnes and Noble because she thought it was funny. And she's losing her life because she loves him. He might as well have stabbed her in the heart, and he sobs.

"But—but I love you!" He breaks down. "Why doesn't that give you a shard?" he panics. "Why doesn't that balance it out and keep you here with me?"

"It doesn't work like that, Percy. You haven't fallen out of love in a while, and so you don't need to re-give me a shard," she patiently explains. She coughs again, and the blood is darker. He frantically tries to do something, anything, and he knows it's useless, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try. He tries to sit her up, to squeeze her hand, threatens to blow air into her even if she's not in need of CPR. He knows he can't do anything, and he hates her for loving him because now she'll die.

"Hey, Perce?"

He can't breathe. His vision blurs with tears.

"Remember when you asked me what I fear?" She shivers uncontrollably, and he hugs her tight, hoping to warm her up. She shudders against him.

"None of it ever gets to you?," he had asked in disbelief when she denied fearing neither death nor the idea that death will never come. He remembers now, what she had said: "No."

He tries to shush her, expand her life even by the smallest of seconds, but she's insistent.

"I was afraid," she admits now. She looks up at the beautiful blue sky, the water lapping at the shore peacefully. Her grey eyes blend with the beautiful blue, and she grimaces. He remembers when he first saw her, debating if it was a brilliant blue. "I was afraid, not of life nor death, but of wasting it like I had never existed at all."

"And now?" he dares ask, probing at her demons one last time.

She looks at him, shaking again. His grip tightens on her. "I have never felt so light," she whispers, smiles, and exhales one last time.

Her eyes are grey when she goes somewhere even he cannot reach her. He closes them tenderly, delicately, looking up to the sky as if he can catch a glimpse of her soul as she disappears from her body. He sees nothing, and he can only hope the Gods are watching him.

…

Percy reaches half a megayear, half a million years, when he runs into a young lady in the streets of London—he couldn't bear to stay in New York, couldn't bear to stay anywhere too long after Annabeth died.

He's not really sure what it is about her, but he recognizes the fire in her green eyes, and it's odd.

"Have I met you before?" he asks her, and she looks at him oddly.

"No." She can't be older than twenty-five, and he can't possibly think of where he might have met her. "And that pickup line's been done to death, honestly."

He blinks. Once. Twice. "I'm sorry—you just… you remind me of someone I used to know." His heart throbs painfully, and she shrugs half-heartedly.

"I get that a lot," she says in a delightful British accent, and she flounces away, her heels clicking loudly against the cement. Her short brown hair swishes with the silky fabric of her dress, and he just watches her go, dazed and confused.

…

Percy leans back in his armrest, listening to her voice in an old tape-recorder. He can't believe he still remembers how to use them—they're ancient now, probably worth millions—but it's second nature to him. Annabeth recorded stories for him so long ago, back when she was just as indestructible, just as immortal as he is.

He's thinking of upping his therapy sessions up to four times a week now. Chiron is his only friend, and he needs him desperately.

He listens to her voice over the recording. She used to read to him often. Even now, she diminishes her anxiety over the tape. Her voice is beautiful, and it's a depressing thought when he realizes he can't quite remember the exact shade of her eye color without scouring for a photograph, and he can't remember the way she felt under him, and the way she laughed, her grin infectious.

She reads The Lovely Bones to him now over the recording, and he awaits the last line, sipping his wine with his eyes closed.

He never used to listen for the words when she used to read, only listening for her voice, for her comfort, but he listens now. It's actually a beautiful book, and it makes him sink lower in the cushions, comforted only by his bottle of wine and the great grandfather clock on the wall they chose together, ticking down, timing his future for him, mocking him for still being alive.

But she is still immortal in the way that matters. She will be remembered for all time; he will carry her with him for the rest of his endless life.

"And in a small house five miles away was a man who held my mud-encrusted charm bracelet out to his wife. 'Look what I found at the old industrial park,' he said. 'A construction guy said they were bulldozing the whole lot. They're afraid of more sinkholes like that one that swallowed the cars.' His wife poured him some water from the sink as he fingered the tiny bike and the ballet shoe, the flower basket and the thimble. He held out the muddy bracelet as she set down his glass. 'This little girl's grown up by now,' she said."

Him and Annabeth never married, but somehow he thinks they're closer than any married couple anyway. Even with the stretch of death parting them.

"Almost. Not quite."

His eyelashes flutter shut, listening intently for the final words. Her voice is already soft now, as it always was as she approached the end.

"I wish you all a short and happy life."

His eyes fly open almost immediately, his fingers tightening on the stem of his wine glass. It has certainly been a while since she read this to him, but he knows this isn't how it goes. It's a long and happy life. That's what Susie Salmon says, and that's what made Annabeth hollow every time she finished the book.

Percy hastily rewinds the tape, but she says it again, and her voice isn't quiet this time. It's strong, and warm, and loving. His mouth parts in surprise.

He slowly sits back in the cushion, pondering the words, letting them swirl around in his mouth, in his palette, tasting them hesitantly. He looks out the window, and it's just as blue as the day she died, bright and warm and summery. He opens the patio door, letting the wind flow in, caressing him gently, and he thinks for a moment he can feel her again. Some child is laughing outside, and a basketball bounces loudly in the distance. He has so many regrets, but—but nothing in this life is promised, and he doesn't want to dwell on the past when he has so much more to go. He can only reminisce on the good and the bad and move forward, as all of humanity does time and time again.

Percy allows himself to remember what it was like to feel again, no matter how painful, and he finds the memories don't hurt as much anymore as they did only a hundred years after she left. He flexes his fingers, stirring what has been asleep inside him for so long.

And he closes his eyes, letting the sun glow on his face, thawing his cold heart.

"I wish you all a short and happy life."

A/N: My neighbor just screeched, and I'm vaguely concerned, but she's kinda irritating, so not really, you feel me?

Like I'm sympathetic to your pterodactyl noises, ma'am, but you also yelled at me like three years ago for my basketball accidentally rolling into your weepy, pathetic excuse for a vegetable garden, so idk fuck you too, man?

Anyways, I'm still taking a break from multi-chaps, but I've wanted to release a oneshot like this for some time now, and oddly enough, I don't know how to feel about it.

My stories are always sad. I know that. I know that because you guys cuss me out in the reviews lmao (which is really fucking funny), but this is a different type of sad. Usually my endings aren't sad, but rather they're… empty. I don't know how to explain it. It's like they still have a glimmer of hope shining through the unhappiness, and Percabeth has been together in the end every single time so far. And in this one, they're not. And I don't know how I feel about that. This story was… heavy, despite the interspersed humor, and there was just a lot to it. And the ending is not only empty, but it's also sad, and it's an odd feeling for sure. I just feel like people romanticize the idea of living forever, and I've just always contemplated how much it would hurt to be immortal, and I would never aspire to live that way, and I suppose this is just how I chose to play with that idea.

On a lighter note, you know what I think is hilarious? Someone asked me about two weeks ago if I'm religious, specifically if I'm Christian or something like that, since I make so many biblical references in my stories. I think I laughed for like five whole minutes. My parents are literally Hindu, and I don't really identify as anything, and I think the reason I make so many references is because of my obsession with all things Cassandra Clare lol. (Also the Bible gives some of the best angsty analogies, periodt).

Anyways, let me know what you've thought, including my cringy attempt at soft citrus; I know this is a bit different than my usual work, but I hope you're satisfied with it anyways.

Kit xx