Climb (Percy Jackson x Reader)

forty-one

✺ PART OF THE BARGAIN ✺

"I'm telling you, (Y/N)—I don't know anything about your father. Nothing more than what you were told."

Chiron tilts his head down at the daughter of Persephone, his eyebrows scrunched with concern. He'd barely had time to process the events that (Y/N) informed him of, from her training with Lupa at Camp Jupiter to the dragon's attack on the orphanage, before she had begun interrogating him. Each time she asked what he knew about her father, her parents' relationship, and his death, her eye held the characteristic glint that she bore when confronting an enemy. Someone who couldn't be trusted.

But more so than that, he could see her desperation. She had lived with a particular set of knowledge for all of her eighteen years, and without warning, it had been turned on its head. She needed to get closure on something, anything, before the rest of her life became unspooled into a tangled mess.

(Y/N) shakes her head, staring blankly at the dark sky outside the office window. A few clouds pass over the twinkling stars. "They told me he was a criminal," she says, her voice dead and hollow. Chiron sighs. She looks at him, tears on her lower lashes sparkling in place of the stars. "What if I was wrong to accept that so quickly? What if- if I . . .?"

"(Y/N)," Chiron starts, keeping his words gentle, "you know that nothing has been confirmed."

"I need it to be," she snaps. A flash of gold glimmers in her eyes. "I need to know the truth about that orphanage, because what if everything that I've believed for my whole life has been a lie?"

Chiron steps closer, reaching to hold her shoulder. He kneels before her to meet her level, and he holds her gaze with a firmness that she'd become familiar with over the years. Any time she doubted herself, any time she needed the reassurance that she was as good of a person as she could be, he would look at her just like this. Under his hand, apprehension squeezes her muscles.

"Then I want you to remember," he says, tightening his grip, "that it is not your fault."

— x —

Evander runs a hand through his curls, releasing a long exhale as he closes his door. He maneuvers easily through the darkness, leaning back against the kitchen counter and staring into the shadows of his living room. Outside, bats chitter as they travel in swarms across the sky.

The skin on his arms pricks with goosebumps. He fixates his gaze on one of his armchairs, watching as the cushions become more pronounced while his eyes adjust. Slowly, he reaches for his knife block.

Something moves.

The glimmer of metal flashes for less than a second as Evander pulls a chef's knife free and flings it towards the chair. The blade meets its mark, halting in movement.

Stalking forward, Evander squints at the chair's silhouette, searching for the figure of his target.

"Right idea," someone says from the shadows. Evander's heart skips a beat. A lamp flicks on, filling the living room with warm light. The knife's handle juts out from a cushion, and Evander looks to the armchair's match, where (Y/N) casually leans back. She tilts her head, offering a wry smile. "Wrong chair."

Evander glares.

She rolls her eyes. "Relax, dude." With a flick of her hand, the knife vanishes, returning to the knife block as the cushion repairs itself. "I just want to talk."