Climb (Percy Jackson x Reader)

thirteen

✺ A CHANGING TIDE ✺

"Hello?" (Y/N) asks, poking her head into the hallway of cabins below deck. She creeps along quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone who may be resting.

Silence meets her, the emptiness of the hallway staring back without response. She frowns slightly, focusing her hearing on the cabin doors—sure enough, steady breathing patterns make themselves known, accompanied by the gentle shifting of bed frames and mattresses as her friends undoubtedly catch up on rest.

Lightly gnawing on her lower lip, she steps forward, the pressure of her foot prompting a soft creak in the metal floor. She cringes, the sound infinitely loud in such a quiet expanse of space.

One set of breathing hitches, and (Y/N) tilts her head to the left, staring at the third door down the hall. She waits, her foot poised on its toes, as the person in that room seems to do the same.

Grover would complain about the noise, flip off the door, and turn back to go to sleep.

Clarisse would yank the door open and give a piece of her mind to whomever the culprit was.

Tyson would probably keep sleeping without a clue.

Annabeth would instantly get up, grab a weapon, and prepare for when her victim was to pass by.

But Percy just waits for (Y/N) to walk past, to shut herself into a room and sit with the memories of everything that they'd all been through; she wouldn't sleep, she wouldn't eat, she would just wait, and wait, and wait until the others were ready to confront what had happened.

He knows her well enough to understand how she would approach it all. And he hurts deeply enough to make her hope without resolution that he'll greet her or welcome her or give her any indication that he knows she's arrived.

All he does is stare at his door, watching with tired eyes and a choked throat and a twisting heart.

And she does exactly what he wants her to, keeping her footfalls quieter before walking into an empty room and locking herself away.

(Y/N) scrunches her nose at the room's humidity, its small porthole window slightly dislodged as condensation gathers on the wall around it. An idea strikes her when she looks at her dirtied skin, and her eyes flit to the backpack she'd left behind before docking on the island. Rummaging through her first aid kit, she fishes a small roll of gauze out, ripping off a piece and holding it up to the window.

Her eyes glimmer with a sheen of light as the mist from outside sucks itself into the gauze, and she closes the window once satisfied with its absorption. She uses the dampened fabric to scrub at the dried blood and ichor that cling to her forearms and sternum. This attempt at cleaning herself makes little progress, but the results are satisfactory enough to relieve most of her discomfort. She changes into a fresh pair of clothes, tossing her ripped and bloodied ones aside (she makes plans to burn them later), before running her fingers through most of the tangles in her now-shorter hair.

Giving up on presentability, she crawls onto the bed, shifting with discomfort at the stiffness of the mattress underneath her. Sighing, she lies there, keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling and her ears on the hallway.

And she waits.

— x —

"So, what exactly . . . how did you . . . you know, how did you come back?"

Annabeth's words are reserved, low and hesitant, as she barely looks at her best friend. Fiddling with her hands, she keeps her attention on them while awaiting an answer.