Your new roommates au is so so good! Do you think there's any chance of continuing? Love all your writing by the way :)
I can’t believe this thing that I wrote on the fly has over 500 notes right now??
I mean, I made a tag for it, so I guess it’s official. And something I gotta work on some more. Percy and Annabeth are ridiculous and I love them, so here’s that. I also love @insidiousmisandry, who is the best.
And you. Thank you so much! :)
“Hey, have you seen my–?”
Percy stops, hands up, in the doorway of Annabeth’s dimly lit room, as if the motion might pull his words back into his mouth. She’s lying on her stomach on the floor, surrounded by notebooks and pens and flashcards, nearly face-down in her textbook. Her hair is pulled into a half-hearted braid, and her nose is pink, and there’s a scattering of used, balled-up tissues tossed toward the trashcan next to her desk.
She’s wearing the hoodie he’d been searching the apartment for–his hoodie, soft and blue, the one he’d gotten his freshman year and has worn to every swim practice since. She’s got the sleeves pulled up over her fists, one of them tucked close to her face, and she looks–
He filters through his adjectives for a moment, knowing that she’d hate the word cute, and especially vulnerable, and decides upon the most objective of the bunch, which is, easily, sick.
Carefully, he steps around her messily-ordered chaos of graph paper and kneels next to her, rests a hand on her back. He rubs his thumb over the line of her shoulder blade. “Annabeth? Hey, wake up. Annabeth.”
She frowns in her sleep. Blinks awake. Focuses, first, on the twist of the cloth between her fingers, and then the blur of words beneath her head, and then Percy, looming above her. She blinks again, and he thinks she almost smiles before her eyes start watering.
A smile–that, he’d almost be prepared for. She’s smiled at him before, maybe a handful of times, each one more meaningful and memorable than the last. A smile at a stupid joke he’d made, or something he’d done around the apartment, or leaving her a container of fudge his mother had mailed them. But crying? That first tear has something awful clenching in his heart, and he gives in to the urge to touch her, to cup the back of her head, to reach for her wrist.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
Her face crumples. “I don’t feel good.”
“Okay,” he says, and helps her sit up. “Here, c’mon.”
She nestles herself immediately into his chest, and it takes him a long minute to actively kick-start his brain and force himself to rearrange her into a position that makes it possible to lift her. (Has she ever leaned into him like this? Has she ever touched him in a way that wasn’t a punch, or a kick, or one terribly executed noogie?) He hefts her up and over to her bed, kind of shuffles her between her sheets, gets her blankets situated. He tugs his hood up and over her head. She hums, pleased, and gropes blindly for his hand.
“One sec,” he tells her. He fishes in his pocket for his phone, and leans a little easier against her headboard once he has it in hand. Annabeth pulls herself up and makes herself comfortable, her head against his chest, her arm slung over his waist, and he supposes that’s that. Especially when he calls his team captain and tells him that he won’t be making it to practice tonight, so sorry, he’s come down with something, and yes, absolutely he’ll be back in the pool in a day or two to make up the laps he’s missed. Yep. Sure. Okay, goodnight.
And then he’s looking down at his roommate, who is sleeping soundly against his chest, her nose a little crusty, her face a little damp. He’s not sure she’ll remember this in the morning, but even so–he presses a kiss to her forehead and holds her a little closer, just for good measure.