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He was a product of somebody else’s war, and when it was over, the power running through his veins, the hardness of his skin, everything that was a part of him for the purpose of fighting, for surviving a god’s war, did not go away. There was just no longer an outlet for it. He spent a lot of time in the arena. When the arena wasn’t enough, he left the boundary of camp to take his anger out on any monster brave or stupid enough to get anywhere near him.
For the first few years, until they could gather themselves into being able to present some sense of normalcy to the outside world, Percy and Annabeth threw themselves into camp. There was a lot to do, afterall, between rebuilding, training the younger generation, and dealing with the emotional and physical aftermath of everything they experienced.
He didn’t sleep much anymore. The bags under his eyes and the dullness of his once vibrant skin evidenced the toll his nightmares took. When he did sleep, he dreamed of Tartarus. He dreamed of the fall, he dreamed of the strange river that sapped his energy, he dreamed of the fear on Annabeth’s face when he learned he could control poison - of when he discovered his darker side, he dreamed of how she trembled when she was blinded, terrified and alone, and he dreamed of dying.
When he dreamed of things that he knew, or when he didn’t remember what haunted him in sleep, Annabeth would usually shake him awake, woken up herself by his violent thrashing. A few times she’s had to wrestle riptide from his clenched fist. She would wrap her arms tightly around him and stroke his hair.
“Hey Percy, it’s ok. We’re out. We’re safe. We’re back at camp. It’s just me here, open your eyes, Percy,” she would say. “I love you,” she would whisper as they both cried.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He woke up shaking, a sheen of cold sweat coating his face and chest. Annabeth shifted next to him, turning to push her fingers through the damp hair sticking to his forehead. He didn’t always remember his dreams, neither did she. Often, only the sickening feeling of fear and the lingering sensation of acute pain remained upon waking. Neither of them remembered everything that happened down there, but they didn’t fight the gaps in their memories, grateful to lack the knowledge attached to the worst of their scars.
When he awoke to some new horror, though, some new memory to match one of his now healed scars, or worse, one of hers, Annabeth couldn’t console him. No amount of whispered I love you’s, or we’re safe now’s could temper the fire in his blood. He learned a long time ago that he has to hold back in the area, few people can handle him at his worst, and none for long. So when his eyes burn with a liquid green flame and power radiates from his bones like light from the sun, he shoves riptide into the pocket of a pair of jeans pulled from the floor and slips out of bed, hands still shaking, and leaves the magical boundary encircling Camp Half-Blood. Annabeth lets him go.
He became a living nightmare to monsters, something to avoid at all costs because when he awoke in the late hours of the night, there was no sympathy in those burning green eyes. Any monster he could find lurking in the shadows of the night often found themselves back in Tartarus before they had a chance to scream or beg. For those that didn’t die such an immediate death, well, they wish they had.
He was leaning against a building, riptide loosely gripped in his hand, and with the echoes of Annabeth’s screams playing in his head, he listened to the group of empousa chatting in the alley.
“Did you hear? Isthandra got to kill a son of Apollo the other day. He was only 12, I’ll bet his flesh tasted so sweet!” The other 3 Empousa didn’t have a chance to respond before Percy tore his sword through all of them in one clean swipe as they rounded the corner. The fearful recognition in their eyes before they died is what left a smile on his face as they crumbled to dust.
He enjoys it. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he didn’t have to, the others already knew. It was a twisted sort of revenge, to take his anger out on monsters, to revel in the fear in their eyes when they recognize his shadowy figure, but there’s nothing he can do about the real object of his animosity. Fighting a god is off the table, not that he wouldn’t do it if he were left to his own devices, but he cares about Annabeth too much. Too much to risk his life in that way.
When he returned to bed, the sun just peeking over the horizon, hair dripping from the shower, Annabeth rubbed her hands over his skin, teasing the tension out of his shoulders, and he kissed her. Brushing his lips down her neck, teasing the tight peaks of her nipples, ghosting over healed scars as sweet gasps and moans fell from her lips.
He told her everything with his touch, I’m sorry for leaving, he said with his lips wrapped around a pink nipple, teeth brushing against her sensitive flesh. I’m here now , he said by sucking a dark mark into the crease of her thigh. She cried out at that and he pulled her leg over his shoulder, fingers pressing marks into her soft skin. We’re alive, he said, tongue on her clit, his long fingers splayed against her stomach as she arched her back and fisted her hands in the sheets.
They took solace in each other’s bodies, making the other feel something other than the desperate pained frustration, the agonizing apathy, and the lingering soreness of their old injuries.
This is the only way they sleep peacefully anymore, having reminded each other that they are indeed alive, that they can live for each other, that there are other things to be felt than their anger and fear, and apathy. She fell asleep on his chest, their legs tangled together, his hands on her waist, their breathing soft and even. They slept late into the day, no one daring to wake them up after the last time someone tried.