ᴄᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴀɴᴇᴍ: ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴄᴀʙᴇᴛʜ/ꜱᴏʟᴀɴɢᴇʟᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ

xɪ | ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇꜱ ᴛᴜʀɴ

She takes a sip from his IPA, and it's good, but more alcohol than Percy should be drinking with little to no tolerance.

"Okay," Annabeth says, "make sure you take slow sips, not too much at a time."

He nods and presses the glass to his lips.

"Don't crinkle your nose; I know that face you make when you don't like things." Their cover is not going to be blown just because Percy isn't used to the taste.

"I don't not like it," Percy says. He drinks a little more. "It's just... different."

Annabeth continues to walk him through her beer crash course: eat those bar peanuts as a last resort, but maybe order fries or something first, try to keep the alcohol content at a low percentage, don't leave your drink unattended, and of course-

"Beer before liquor, never sicker."

"Excuse me?" Percy asks.

"You heard me."

Annabeth is in for the longest bar crawl of her life.

***

By the third stop, Annabeth regrets taking that IPA from Percy. She's not drunk per se, although she's definitely reached the healthy buzz she likes to get in her before going out clubbing with Will. It makes her fun and flirty and gives her the confidence to pull out that dance move that makes her little leather top threaten to flash her date.

Fun and flirty is not the vibe she's going for, and with good reason, she left that leather top at home. It's probably in New York with the rest of her stuff that Will offered to hold for her. Hold for her where? She has no idea, but if retrieving her clubbing wardrobe and other personal items involves going to Camp Half-Blood and retelling a bunch of war stories that involve an Annabeth Chase with a special interest in architecture, she's out.

Oh fuck, Drew Tanaka might see her clothes. If that's the case, Annabeth hopes she dies on this quest because she does not want to have an embarrassing conversation about a few select outfits with that particular daughter of Aphrodite.

Percy is on his way to what Annabeth likes to call The Wasteland. She can practically see the stick coming out of his ass with every glass he drinks. Under normal circumstances, she'd be pretty happy for him. He deserves to let loose a little. However, this isn't the time or place to do so.

Well, this should be both the time and the place, but knowing that Pothos may be looming somewhere waiting for his chance to strike is sort of cramping their style.

Annabeth orders a basket of fries and a glass of water for her—yikes—fiance. That's the story, anyway. Her name is Giselle and she and her husband Peter Johnson canceled their wedding last minute so they could go to Europe for their—gag—honeymoon, and they'll elope when they get back to Canada.

They were American grad students studying abroad, and her fake name was going to be Victoria, but Tipsy Percy decided it would be better if they were Canadian circus acrobats madly in love despite their parents' disapproval.

"C'mon, Peter," she says, passing the bowl of bar peanuts to Percy. He needs to be eating a lot more if they've got more stops to hit.

"The last place had pretzels," he whines.

Annabeth rolls her eyes. She's not like this when she's drunk, is she? "Babe, you have to put something in your stomach."

"I don't wanna..."

"Yeah, you do," she says. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

"Zebediah says you're a-"

"Don't finish that." Annabeth cannot take shit from a starfish. "Seriously, Percy, are you feeling alright?"