Chapter Text
In New Rome, there was just one unofficial rule to surviving and thriving for demigods and mortals alike.
Avoid the son of Neptune. At all costs.
If that wasn't an option, due to one's job or bad luck, it was still possible to walk away from an encounter with him alive and unscathed. When in the son of Neptune’s presence, it was always the best practice not to draw his attention in any significant way. Nothing good ever came out of that man knowing your name and face.
But if your prayers to Fortuna went unanswered and he did take notice of you, what then?
Well, it was best to be courteous and deferential – not overly so, as the son of Neptune hated fawning, but a certain level of respect was necessary when addressing him. He had, after all, saved New Rome and it was by his mercy that they all continued to live in peace. It was never wise to question his authority and disobeying him was out of the question.
And if you insulted him? You might as well pick out a plot and dig your own grave. If the son of Neptune didn't kill you first, one of his fanatics would get to you next.
Within a week of moving to New Rome, Annabeth'd had this rule and its various intricacies memorized. Everyone she knew – her neighbors, her boss and co-workers, friends who had moved to the city before her – had stressed the importance of the son of Neptune to her straight away.
Even the cabbie who had picked her up from the airport had said, “Ah, a pretty girl like you? You'll do fine, so long as ya stay out of that Neptune bastard's way.”
So, it wasn't like she hadn't been warned about him.
Still, it would have been much more helpful if someone – anyone – had bothered to show her a picture of the city's shadowy tyrant at some point during her first few months in New Rome. Annabeth had little interest in seeking out the son of her mother's most hated rival. But it would've been nice to know what the guy looked like, on the off chance she ran into him at the supermarket or at a social event.
Or, y'know, before she had a bad day and did something enormously stupid... like rip him a new asshole and then challenge him to a fight in the training arena.
In hindsight, that picture really would've saved her a lot of trouble.
+
Annabeth's Thursday started with an awful email.
An email from her ex, to be specific. Dave, the mortal she'd had a decently serious relationship with almost a year ago, had included her in an email chain announcing — what else — his engagement to the woman he'd cheated on her with.
Oh, and surprise!
They were going to have a baby and there were nauseatingly cute engagement/pregnancy announcement photos attached to prove it.
Asshole.
She'd never been in love with Dave, but she'd cared for him and he'd been the first man she'd trusted in a relationship, post-Luke. And what had he done with that trust? Betrayed her, like the rest of the men in her life. That smarmy motherfucker didn't serve to be happy, let alone have well-composed engagement photos, a drop dead gorgeous fiance, and a goddamn baby.
Worst of all, someone idiot had started a reply-all chain to Dave's email. She'd be getting alerts for it all day .
Annabeth threw her phone off the bed and buried her face in her pillow, letting out a scream of pure, primal rage.
Everything just got worse from there.
The heel on her favorite pair of boots caught in the grate at her subway stop and snapped clean off, sending her sprawling on the pavement. She twisted her ankle, tore a hole in her dress pants, and scraped her palm up something good, so she had to limp three blocks back to her apartment to change and dress her wounds.
Plus, she'd landed on her phone (which had survived the toss off the bed) in the fall and shattered the screen. Yay.
Not only was she late for work on the day she had to present to a VIP client, but somehow, she managed to spill her coffee on that draft designs for said client. She then realized she no back-up copies because her project partner – a lazy legacy of Mercury whose uncle owned the firm and primary job objective seemed to be getting in her way – had assumed the request was optional, like all tasks she assigned him.
Because she wasn't a talentless hack, she managed to salvage the presentation and sell the hastily made plans she'd drawn up from memory. But that didn't save her from being the only one called into the corner office for a dressing down for her unprofessionalism. She'd also been reminded that the firm had yet to see the top-notch designs and work ethic she'd promised when she's accepted their generous – and very temporary – fellowship.
By the time she left the office for the evening (late, of course), Annabeth's skin crawled with the need to hit something. It seemed like her standing reservation for a sparring field at the Fields of Mars training facility was the only fortuitous part of her Thursday... until she left the locker room and discovered that said field had been Bogarted by two Roman assholes who didn't understand how sign-up sheets and deposits worked.
She should've just called it a day and gone home then and there. A pint of coffee and chocolate chip ice cream was stashed in her freezer for days just like this, and Piper would come over with an expensive bottle of wine if she called and whined badly enough.
However, Annabeth wasn't her mother's daughter for nothing. If she wanted to make herself feel better by beating the shit out of someone, then by the gods, she was going to do it.
"I think we're going to have to reschedule," Gwen said by way of a greeting as Annabeth approached the bleachers. "All the other fields are booked and they're not going to be finished any time soon. Sorry, Annabeth."
"How long have they been at it?" she said stiffly, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at the men on her field.
She and Gwen were among a small crowd of people who had gathered to watch the two spar, which wasn't unusual. No matter how good of a fighter you became, it never hurt to watch and learn from others. Annabeth had learned just as much about Roman fighting styles from watching other training sessions than she had while sparring with Gwen. She recognized a few of the faces in the crowd, but not the men on the field.
Within moments, it was clear that they weren't ordinary legionaries. Their combined skill and power was visible in every move they made, with each clash of their weapons; these men were good – elite, even. Though the tall Chinese man was the most formidable opponent on the field, Annabeth's eyes were drawn to his shorter, dark haired companion.
He cut a striking figure in his armor and sparring gear, but that wasn't what had caught Annabeth's attention. There was a... wildness about him that other Romans lacked, an unmistakable aura of power. His footwork wasn't as graceful as his partner's, his strikes were fiercer and parries rougher, but every move he made was just as effective, if not more so. He'd clearly been trained within an inch of his life, but even that couldn't stop all that wild, raw power from seeping out.
And then, there was his sword.
All the Romans she knew fought with Imperial Gold weapons or nothing, but this man... he fought with a Celestial Bronze blade as if it was an extension of himself. He was surely capable of wielding any weapon that was put in his hand, but Annabeth instinctively knew that sword was his favorite. What kind of Roman had a Celestial Bronze sword?
“They were on the field when I got here, so probably at least an hour?” Gwen said, interrupting her thoughts. “I can talk Dakota into giving you your deposit back, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Annabeth's frowned deepened. She could handle the loss of a few drachmas, but that wasn't the point. No matter how good those inconsiderate Romans were, they had stolen her field and she wasn't just going to giveit to them without a fight.
“We’re not rescheduling,” Annabeth growling, watching the men move across the field. “They can finish this set and then I’m kicking them off.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “Oh, Annabeth, I wouldn't. Really. I don’t mind waiting another day or two if they want to keep going.”
Annabeth stared at Gwen, surprised by her reluctance. Gwen wasn't big on conflict, but she also wasn't particularly meek – or so Annabeth'd thought. If the Roman men got huffy and macho when she kicked them off, well, too damn bad for them. Annabeth had reserved the field last week through the proper channels; they were in the wrong here, not her.
On the field, the fight was winding into its desperate conclusion. The man with the Celestial Bronze sword had backed his partner into a corner and, quick as a flash, sent his gladius spinning out of his hands and into the dirt a few feet away. The Chinese man held up his hands and panted out an audible, “Yield,” as the point of the sword pressed under his chin.
The second man accepted his partner's surrender with a nod and pulled the sword away, and a smattering of applause broke out in the arena. The Chinese man waved to the spectators as he retrieved his sword, but the second ignored them, heading toward the opposite wall where their things were piled.
Annabeth watched as they each grabbed water bottles and began to talk, presumably about their fight, her annoyance growing with each passing moment. She waited for one of them to look at their phones and realize they'd gone over time, to put their weapons aside and start packing up, but no. They were gearing up to fight – again.
“That’s it,” Annabeth snapped, slamming her bag down on the floor and startling Gwen. She double checked that her knife was securely fashioned to her hip before she walked over to the arena's retaining wall and swung her legs over.
“Annabeth, don’t, please — ” Gwen hissed in alarm, reaching for her. Annabeth’s shoulder slipped from her grasp as she pushed herself off the edge of the wall.
She dropped onto the field gracefully, despite the twinge from her twisted ankle that made her inhale sharply. The two Romans on the field didn't notice her, of course, but an anxious murmur rippled through the spectators as she started to stalk toward them.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Are you two just about finished?”
The Chinese man turned toward her, confusion wrinkling his brows. It only took him a moment to recover and then he was stepping in her path, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
“Miss, you can't be down here.”
“I don't care,” Annabeth growled. It hadn't escaped her notice that he'd deliberately blocked her view of his sparring partner – what was he, some kind of bodyguard? He certainly was burly enough for the job. “You and your buddy have overstayed your welcome. The field is mine now.”
She could make out emblems on his armor now that she was closer; at one point in his career, he'd been one of the Twelfth Legion's centurions. Annabeth spotted a hint of his legion tattoo under his vambraces – the tips of two crossed spears. Oh, that figured. Members of House Mars weren't known for relinquishing the battlefield, even in practice.
“The field is... yours?” the centurion said, that confused wrinkle appearing once more. His deep voice had a trace of a Canadian accent. “That's not right. You must be mistaken.”
“I'm not. I've reserved this field every Thursday at 7 p.m. for the last six weeks,” Annabeth glanced at her watch and gasped sarcastically. “And, would you look at that, it's 7:15. I want my field.”
Judging by his frown, the centurion didn't appreciate her sarcasm. “Like I said, there was some kind of mistake. We've got priority for the rest of the night. I can – ”
“If you say refund my deposit, I will explode.”
“ – adequately compensate you for your lost time,” the centurion grit out. “But you can't have the field and you can't be here while we are. If you need someone to explain it to you, graecus,” he jerked his thumb at the gawping on-lookers, “ask one of them. Now, get.”
Annabeth did not, as he had suggested, get. Instead, she took a step forward, practically vibrating with rage.
“I've had an extremely shitty day, and I don't need your particular brand of Roman condescension to top of it. I am going to have to field and if I have to fight one of you to get it, then so be it!”
His eyes went wide at her declaration – not in fury at the challenge, as she'd expected, but panic. Before he could reply, a dark, derisive laugh echoed throughout the arena.
“You? Fight one of us?”
The centurion grimaced at the sound and Annabeth felt the entire mood of the training arena shift from eager anticipation to cold, wary tension. He shot her a look that clearly said, Now you've done it, before he reluctantly stepped aside.
His training partner stepped forward.
Up close, he was even more striking – a strong jaw, lined with dark stubble, high cheekbones, untamed dark hair – and his mere presence commanded attention in a way few men could. Annabeth couldn't stop looking at him if she'd wanted to. Despite the relaxed set of his broad shoulders and his casual stance, every inch of his muscled form screamed threat.
And not just a threat if she came upon him on a battlefield. If she met him in a board room or while crossing the street or at a bookstore, she'd think the same thing: threat. He could upend her entire world if she let him.
Which she wouldn't. She had learned her lesson with men like him.
“Yeah, me,” she replied, throwing her hand on her hip. “You think that's funny?”
The Roman circled her, taking her in from the tips of her boots to the knot of curls at the top of her head. Annabeth tried not to stiffen under his gaze. He had eyes the color of sea glass; a girl could get lost in them, if she ignored the sharp edges the ocean hadn't yet soothed away.
“You're nothing but a graecus,” he said simply. His gaze lingered on the silver owls dangling from her ears, and he smirked. “And a daughter of Minerva, at that. You wouldn't stand a chance against a true child of war like Frank here, let alone someone like me.”
“Athena,” Annabeth corrected, bristling. She didn't know where the Romans had gotten the idea that Greek demigods were lightweight warriors, but she'd had with being dismissed by them. And that went double for their constant mockery of her mother. “And we'll see if you're still saying that when I knock your ass into next week.”
He arched an eyebrow at her and then traded a look with the centurion, Frank, as if to ask, Can you believe this chick? Frank shrugged and shook his head. The Roman turned his gaze back to her.
“You want to fight me ? You do know who I am, don't you?”
He had no identifying emblems on his armor and his long shirt sleeves covered his legion tattoo, but the rankling arrogance in his tone implied that he didn't need those things, that she should know him on sight. She didn't. That should've made her pause, made her think about who, exactly, she was trying to pick a fight with, but Annabeth's hubris was already raising its ugly head and lashing out.
“The better question is,” Annabeth said, stepping into his space and poking him in the chest, “do you think I care who you are?”
Like something out of a movie, the entire arena gasped as one – someone might've even screamed. The Roman looked momentarily shocked that she'd touched him, his eyes darting to her finger and then back up to her face. Those green eyes narrowed, his expression darkening as he knocked her hand away. His casual front vanished in an instant, and Annabeth got a full taste of that raw power she'd sensed from afar. She could practically feel it surging under his skin, waiting to be released.
If she were a lesser demigod, his power might've sent her to her knees. But for someone who'd run with children with ozone and lightning their veins since she was seven years old, it was nothing she hadn't seen before.
“Fine. A fight it is,” he said in a low voice. “Three rounds with your weapon of choice. Best two out of three gets the field. Frank will be the referee. Are those terms acceptable, daughter of Athena?”
“Perfectly,” she said, baring her teeth. Her gaze darted to the sword at his hip. “That your weapon?”
He nodded, his fingers dancing across the hilt of the blade. Her knife wouldn't do her any good against him, so she turned and strode over to the arena's sword rack to mull over the middling selection of Celestial Bronze blades. Knives were her specialty, but Annabeth knew her way around a sword, too. She hadn't grown up in the shadow of Luke Castellan, the greatest Greek swordsman of the last century, without picking up some skills of her own.
She hadn't killed Luke without first becoming a match for him.
Annabeth grabbed one of the blades she'd worked with before; it was a bit shorter than the Roman's, she guessed, but it was good sword in a pinch. She swung it around once and then again before she was satisfied with her selection, and turned back to the center of the field.
Frank and the Roman were having a hushed conversation – the latter looking mighty uninterested in what Frank was telling him. Frank broke away as she approached, shaking his head in irritation. He fixed her with a glare as he passed.
“I hope you know what you're doing,” he said, nodding his head in his companion's direction. “Once you start this fight, you're his until he decides he's done with you... and he won't take it easy on you 'cause you're a pretty blonde.”
“Is that so?” Annabeth replied, lifting her chin. “Then I guess I won't take it easy on him because he's got a good looking face.”
As far as comebacks went, it wasn't her best, and Frank rolled his eyes.
“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he muttered ominously, and took his place on the edge of the arena.
Annabeth glared over her shoulder at him one last time before giving herself a good shake. She needed to focus on her fight, not get distracted by an off-hand comment. The Roman might be powerful, but it took more than power to defeat a child of Athena, especially one who had already seen her opponent fight.
She smirked to herself, rolling her shoulders and stretching out her arms. The Roman had no idea what he was going up against, while she'd already cataloged the strengths and weaknesses in his fighting style. This first round would be hers, easily.
He joined at her at the center of the arena, pulling his sword free from its holster and twirling it lazily. Annabeth dug her shoes into the sand and set herself in her starting form. The buzz of the arena faded as she met his gaze across the way.
“Fighters at the ready?” Frank asked. She and the Roman nodded at each other. “Begin!”
He was on her in an instant, sword swinging toward her head. Annabeth caught his strike with her blade, the impact rattling her down to her bones. She grit her teeth and pushed him off, meeting each of his next strikes with ease. The Roman came at her hard and fast each time. He was clearly hoping to scare her with his ferocity and then overpower her in a few moves. Another demigod might’ve succumbed under the pressure; Annabeth thrived on it.
Annabeth let him keep her on the defensive, using each blow to get used to his strength and speed. She was being driven back toward the retaining wall where, above, his fellow Romans jeered in the stands. Annabeth took note of his expression him as she dodged a particularly difficult move and… noticed he looked bored.
Bored! With her!
Annabeth’s eyes narrowed, fury licking at her. Was he holding back against her? Did he really think he could beat her with anything less than his full strength?
Well, she’d show him.
She waited until he came in for a close hit and she struck, locking the hilts of their blades together and twisting. Luke had taught her this disarming move when she was a kid, and it never failed.
Sure enough, the Roman's grip broke and he dropped his sword. At the same time, Annabeth landed a hard punch on his jaw and then followed it by slamming her boot into his outer thigh, dropping him to his knees. She kicked his sword out of reach and pointed the tip of her own blade to the vulnerable skin of his throat.
“Yield,” Annabeth said simply, her voice echoing in the sudden, shocked quiet of the arena.
As soon as the stars cleared from his vision, surprise flickered in those green eyes, followed in quick succession by disbelief and then, anger, as he stared up at her. He looked her over once again, as if he was actually seeing at her this time, and, when his eyes met hers again, he had settled on an emotion that made her heart skip a beat: interest.
“I wasn’t expecting that. Impressive,” he said in a low tone, only met for her. Annabeth arched an eyebrow and pressed the blade a bit more forcefully against his throat. He sighed and then said, louder, “I yield.”
“Uh,” Frank said incredulously. “First match point goes to... the daughter of Athena!"
Annabeth kept her blade where it was for two or three more seconds, just to make her point, before she pulled it back and allowed him to rise. She dug her foot under his sword and kicked it hilt up into her hand.
“Hold back in the next round,” she said disdainfully, tossing it to him, “and I'll embarrass you even faster.”
The Roman caught his sword and let out a bark of laughter, just as dark and deep as before. “You can certainly try, daughter of Athena. I welcome the challenge.”
And a challenge it was.
Their second round started off slower, more a show of style and skill than brute strength, each of them testing the other’s limits of swordplay and sparring. They challenged the other’s weaknesses and found their strengths, landing inconsequential hits as they adapted at each new level. His blade caught Annabeth’s cheek, leaving behind a painful scratch; she returned the favor a moment later, ripping a shallow, three-inch wound on his right arm.
Annabeth forgot her anger, their bet, and the crowd, becoming lost in the joy of the fight. It had been so long since she’d fought like this, free of restriction and with an opponent that was truly her equal — maybe even her better in some areas. It thrilled her, made every part of her that lusted and loved battle cry out in ecstasy, and she knew, just knew, it was the same for the Roman.
“What’s your name?” he asked during a lull in their fight as they circled each other, contemplating their next move.
“Annabeth,” she said, wiping blood from her face. “And yours?”
A slow grin crossed his face. “I thought you didn't care who I was.”
“Well, now that I'm kicking your ass,” Annabeth drawled, shrugging casually. “I thought it might be polite to ask.”
“Percy. My name is Percy,” he said. He paused, as if waiting for some sign she recognized his name When she didn’t, he twirled his sword and continued. “The sword’s name is Riptide, in case you’re wondering.”
Annabeth couldn’t help herself — she laughed. “I wasn’t.”
“Pity,” he sighed dramatically, before he charged at her once more.
The fight’s intensity began to build, faster and faster as both of them hungered for the win; the hits became almost brutal in their physicality, designed to bring their opponent down. Percy landed a kick to her gut that would've punctured something, had she not been wearing armor — as it was, it drove the breath right out of her.
She had to end this. Now.
Annabeth swung away from him, bringing her blade back around in a swift arc designed to take off heads. Percy ducked and then surged up quickly, locking their hilts together. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and forced her arm down; she half-expected him to break her arm. Instead, he tore her sword from her hands and whirled, reeling her in as he slid her sword behind her neck. Percy raised Riptide and pointed it at her throat.
“Yield,” Percy demanded as soon as he caught his breath, chest heaving.
Annabeth knew there was no way of getting out of his hold without getting her head chopped off. His wrist was a heavy weight on her shoulder and she felt his grip flex as he pressed the flat of the blade closer.
“I yield,” she panted out reluctantly, trying to catch her own breath.
Distantly, Annabeth heard Frank announce Percy’s win and the answering cheer from the crowd, but she could only focus on the man in front of her and the tension crackling between them. Even though she’d yielded, he kept her pinned with the blades, as if he waiting… waiting for what? He stepped infinitesimally closer, almost certainly unconsciously so, and his eyes darted down to her lips. Annabeth’s eyes widened in realization.
He wanted to kiss her.
Oh, gods . The dumb Roman was thinking about kissing her while he had a sword to her neck and she — she wanted him to do it! She wanted him to drop that sword, bury his hands in her hair instead, and kiss her senseless. If he kissed anything like the way he fought — if he fucked anything like the way he fought —
Annabeth shivered and closed her eyes.
Seconds later, Percy let go of her and stepped away. She opened her eyes and he handed her sword back to her. Whatever had passed between them in that moment was gone, wiped clean from his face and replaced with an arrogant smirk. Heat built in Annabeth’s cheeks. Had she imagined it?
“Next round wins,” Percy said, walking back toward his side of the arena. “Think you can keep up, Annabeth?”
Of course she had. She was undoubtedly a mess, covered in blood and dirt, ponytail and bangs matted with sweat. No one would want to kiss her looking like that, let alone a man as handsome as Percy.
Annabeth glared at him and spat on the ground. “Watch me.”
They squared off again and the tension returned almost immediately. She didn’t even care about winning the sparring field any more; her pride would not let the Roman win.
“Final round,” Frank called. “Begin!”
If the second round was a challenge, the third fight was all out war. Annabeth and Percy were a whirl of motion, a glorious study of brutality and strength, each of a master of their own fighting style. It wouldn’t be a long fight — they’d already pushed each other toward the edges of their endurance — and it wouldn’t be pretty, either.
Annabeth disarmed Percy, but before she could even feel a flash of triumph, he’d knocked her sword out of her hands, too, leaving them both weaponless. They stared at each other, momentarily at a loss, and then charged again, flawless exchanging punches and kicks, blocking more blows than they landed. They were so evenly matched, so good at reading the other — if this was how they fought against each other, Annabeth wanted to know what they could do together.
Their sparring quickly became grappling when Annabeth managed to sling her elbow around Percy’s throat and pull him into a choke hold. His hands scrabbled at her arm as she yanked him down, causing his back to bow, and started to squeeze the air out of him. Annabeth laughed. She had him. She was going to win this if she just —
Her sore ankle, which had held up well throughout her fights, chose that moment to decide that bearing Percy's additional weight was too much and gave out. Annabeth wobbled, her grip loosening, and Percy took immediate advantage.
His hands locked around her wrist and then he reared forward, flipping her over her head. Annabeth slammed on the ground with enough force to drive all the breath out of her — and to crack a rib or two, if the sharp pain blossoming up her side was any indication. She wouldn't be going anywhere.
But Percy didn’t take chances, bending down and pressing a knee to her chest. To add insult to her injury, he pulled her knife from its sheath at her waist (how had she forgotten the knife?) and pointed it at her heart. That tricky bastard.
“Yield?” he panted, his throat red and tender from her choke hold. He looked like the descendant of pagan gods, split lip and all.
Annabeth nodded, wheezing out a pained confirmation. Percy lifted his knee off her chest and raised her knife. For a brief, panicked second, she thought he might kill her — but he slammed her knife into the sand next to her head instead. He stood, a bit wobbly on his feet and raised his fist triumphantly. The arena erupted into cheers.
“Final match to Percy Jackson!” Frank’s voice declared over the noise, somewhere to her left. “The son of Neptune wins the set over the daughter of Athen — oooh!”
As Frank spoke, Annabeth used the last of her strength to swipe Percy’s legs out from under him. He fell hard into the sand beside her, landing on his side with an undignified grunt.
“You yielded,” he groaned, voice full of pain and disbelief.
“I’m a poor sport,” she replied, pushing herself up onto an elbow. “That was for… stealing my knife, asshole.”
“Noted,” he said, wincing as he sat up. “Ow. I’m going to feel that one in the morning.”
“Good,” Annabeth said, reaching for her knife. Each breath she took was accompanied with a sharp stab of pain; she’d definitely broken something.
Annabeth would’ve easily suffered through the broken ribs with a win under her belt. She was annoyed that she’d lost, naturally — daughters of Athena never liked losing — but her earlier anger was nowhere to be found. Aside from her physical aches and pains, she actually felt betterthan she had in weeks. Maybe even since she moved to New Rome.
And to think, all she had to do was pick a fight with… with…
Annabeth’s brain screeched to halt as Frank’s earlier words finally pushed past her fading adrenaline and pain, and her logical side reasserted itself. Her eyes immediately swiveled to Percy, who had risen to his feet once more.
It made sense now — Gwen’s deference, the large crowd he and Frank had drawn, his arrogance and skill. Every detail that had vied for her attention and she'd ignored out of frustration. That wild, raw power of his alone should’ve clued her in immediately. How many times had she felt that same energy coming from Thalia or Jason or Nico?
Di immortales. She was a moron. A soon-to-be dead moron.
“What Frank said…” she began quietly, drawing his attention again. She swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat. “You’re… you’re the son of Neptune?”
Percy’s brow furrowed as her stared down at her. He looked almost normal now, as if all that power and authority of his had been extinguished at the end of their fight.
“You really didn’t know?” Annabeth shook her head. “Huh. I had wondered… I couldn’t decide if you were suicidally arrogant or just dumb when you poked me in the chest like that.”
Hysterical laughter bubbled in Annabeth’s throat; her broken ribs made her giggles sound like gasping sobs. “Both, apparently. Holy shit. And I… I called you an asshole — to your face!”
“You wouldn’t be the first one,” Percy admitted with a grumble, holding out a hand to her. "I wouldn't go around bragging about it."
Still giggling in disbelief, she took his hand and Percy pulled her to her feet. Their chests bumped together and Annabeth locked eyes with him once more, her laughter dying as that heavy, heady tension from the battlefield washed over them again. They were close together now, their clasped hands the only thing keeping them apart. It would be so easy to surge up on her tiptoes and kiss him; Annabeth’s sure he’d let her do it.
“You are, however, the first to fight to a standstill in a very long time,” he murmured. “Feel free to brag about that as much as you like.”
His calloused thumb gently traced over her knuckles, just once, and Annabeth blushed. Then, he dropped her hand and took a step away, breaking the spell between them. She felt the briefest pang of disappointment.
"So I take you're going to let me live?"
"For now. You've got me curious, daughter of Athena," he said, smirking. He cocked his head as she stepped back and gave her a final once over. “Do all Greeks fight like you?”
“No,” Annabeth answered honestly, turning, her chin held high. She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder and called back, “I’m one of a kind.”
+
She’d been warned about him.
And Annabeth would be lying if she said she didn’t know what was coming next.