It was a moment of weakness. That's Annabeth's story and she's sticking to it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! She scolds herself in the mirror. She smacks her forehead with her palm for emphasis. She had a chance to escape this physically and emotionally painful quest—a quest that's almost gotten her and Percy killed a few times—and she told Percy she'd stick around with no hesitation.
Is she regretting this? Kind of, but she meant what she said about having nothing left to lose. She already lost her home, and her best friend, and she's on her way to losing her job. What more is there to lose?
Just her life.
Annabeth traces her finger over the stitches Percy gave her last night; she doesn't remember much from the encounter. She feels bad because she's pretty sure she went off on him earlier. Nobody deserves to see her when she's hitting a low; that's what Will calls it—hitting a low point. Usually, it happens in her sleep, when she's having the dream turned nightmare from her childhood again.
Other times, it happens when something reminds her of the monsters she hasn't quite sent to Tartarus—the kind that may not exist anymore, but always come back to haunt her dreams.
She's thankful she slept like a rock last night, even if it was only for—she checks the time on her phone—three hours. This is the way to keep the monsters from coming out at night. You stay up until the asscrack of dawn and then your body just shuts off when it decides it's done with your bullshit.
Annabeth knows that's technically not the healthiest habit of hers. Will tells her every morning when she all but injects caffeine into her veins. It works though, and she knows better than anyone that if it ain't broke, don't fix it!
She hears the sound of the water starting in the shower—Percy's shower, to be specific, where he is naked and cleaning his very toned muscles and stuff, which have absolutely nothing to do with Annabeth refusing his offer to go home.
Something about playing cards in a bathtub with your ex-boyfriend is just messed up, but she didn't think it would be as intimate as it was. Annabeth doesn't do intimate, not even when she's having sex. That's why she opts for casual hookups with minimal eye contact; no strings attached means no intimacy. Everyone is comfortable and nobody catches feelings.
Maybe there's something intimate about a guy who's seen you naked putting stitches into your face.
What's more likely is that it was a moment of weakness. Annabeth's paranoia got the best of her, and she let Percy get a little closer than she should have.
If that was your emotions getting the best of you, then what was that on the train? a voice in her subconscious asks.
She asks herself this question after she freezes up. Last night, when she saw the eerily familiar cut on her face, she could have looked away.
On the train when she was pinned by the dog—a clone of Laelaps, according to Percy—she could have made some effort to fend it off with her chopsticks. She keeps them in her hair for situations like this!
When that blond-ish guy with a charming yet cunning smile hit on her a couple of weeks ago at the club, she could have refused the drink he offered to buy her.
But here's the thing: Annabeth couldn't act in any of those moments. Some people have a flight or fight response. Annabeth has a freeze response.
She was a fighter; that was her schtick. Annabeth Chase was a good fighter. She still is good at fighting, but it's not always the first thing that comes to mind when something catches her off guard. Put her up against the Erymanthian boar—some version of it—and the knives come out with no problem. Other situations... Well, she'd rather not think of those.
Annabeth finishes the wing on her cat eye and admires her handiwork. Before she perfected her favorite bold makeup look, she used real blades to draw her lines straight. As badass as she felt, it's a lot easier doing eyeliner freehand.
She slept through the continental breakfast, so she supposes it's pretzels for breakfast.
Percy's backpack sits on his side of the bed. Yes, they slept in the same bed last night. No, Annabeth does not want to talk about it.
She sits down on her unmade side of the queen-sized bed and opens the zipper of the largest pouch in the bag.
So Percy wasn't kidding last night when he said Poseidon gave him a starfish. In his mesh backpack pocket, where one might normally store a water bottle, is a mason jar filled with murky saltwater. Maybe if the sand hadn't been jostled so much, Annabeth would be able to take a better look at the starfish inside. Oops—that's probably her fault.
She has an ADHD itch to scratch. She is going to see this starfish if it is the last thing she does. They can regenerate if they lose limbs, right? She'd like to know if this starfish has lost any. Is it going to be pink like a cartoon, or maybe some other color? She can't say she's had too many recent encounters with starfish, especially since she broke up with Percy.
She purses her lips, gripping the jar with her dominant hand and giving it a nice twist, except she's a little sweaty from the thrill of her mini heist. Wow, she is being a shitty roommate. She never goes through Will's stuff like this. Then again, Zebediah, the starfish that is allegedly in this jar, is supposed to help them on their quest, as in both of them. That means Annabeth has every right to open this jar of murky saltwater.
The lid is sticking; how long has this poor creature been in this jar?
Annabeth tugs on the jar until her fingers turn white, and then she grabs the washcloth Percy forgot to take into the bathroom and uses that for some leverage.
Nothing. She's starting to doubt that there's even a starfish in here. "Goddamned jar," she swears.
She drops the towel on the bed and tugs even harder. "Note to self," she says aloud. "Don't get into canning."
She's already in a mildly compromising position on the bed, so there's no going back. She is going to get this jar open and find out once and for all if there is a starfish in here, and if it is nice to look at.
The door to the bathroom opens mid-tug, and Percy asks, "Annabeth, what are you doing?"
That jumpscare is exactly what the jar needed because as she squeaks in surprise, the lid comes right off, splashing some of the water onto the sheets. "Oops?"
"That starfish is swearing like a sailor," Percy says as he towels off his hair. "Like, more than you, even."
"Gee, thanks," says Annabeth. She peers into the water. It's hard to see the starfish with all the sand floating around in there, but no doubt, there's something in there.
She looks up at Percy, trying not to stare too much at the beads of water rolling down his abs.
"Can I touch?" she asks. And then after realizing what that might insinuate, she adds, "The starfish, I mean."
"Technically, the oil on our skin can hurt the starfish," he says, going full marine biology mode. "The starfish's body has these, like, channel things that absorb the oxygen in the water, so it's a little risky."
"Huh." Interesting.
"Granted," Percy continues, "this is a magical starfish cooped up in a mason jar, so you're probably fine."
Annabeth screws the lid back on the jar. "Better not take any chances."
"You've got more self-control than me," he says, suddenly red in the face. "He uh... Zebediah just called you some not-so-nice things."
"Like?" she prompts.
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable repeating any of that."
Annabeth holds the starfish up to eye level. "Zebediah? Fuck you."
"You just cussed out his asshole."
She doesn't think she can live that one down, so she changes the topic. "What's our next move?"
"We'll check another country off your tattoo list, and then Prague, right?" he asks. "Unless you wanted to go home."
"You're an idiot if you think I'm not going to get a tattoo in every country," she says. "Plus, I heard the beer's cheap in Prague."
"Do you even know what you're going to get?" Percy asks. "I mean, you have to be running out of ideas, right?"
"Uh..." Shit, she has no idea. Well, she's had a couple of ideas come in and out, but once she gets one, it usually fades after a couple of days. She pulls her sketchbook out of her backpack. Maybe Past Annabeth can give Present Annabeth some inspiration that'll have Future Annabeth looking super hot.
***
Prague is nice, if not the only discernable feature of the Czech Republic that Annabeth can think of besides Communism. Like, she's more attuned to hearing "Prague" than "Czech Republic."
The Czech Republic?
Do you mean that place that has Prague? The beer's cheap there, right?
Yep, just call it what it is: Annabeth Chase is cultured, although her t-shirt sleeve tied up with dental floss probably gave it away. Well, maybe not the rolled-up sleeve on its own, but the tattoo currently covered in plastic wrap does. Annabeth wasn't sure about the laurel leaf crown, but Percy practically insisted. He said she'll have earned it when they finish the quest. That's not logic you can argue with, so now Annabeth has an intricate laurel crown of ink wrapped around her bicep like a bracelet or something. It's just above the sun, but close enough to make her wonder if she should start some kind of Greek mythology-inspired sleeve.
"I could rock a sleeve, right?" she asks again. She has to know for sure before making a decision that big.
"Yeah, probably," Percy says, although he doesn't seem to be paying attention. That just won't do!
"Did you know," she says, reading from her travel brochure, "that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart lived here?"
"I... Ugh," Percy grunts. "Zebediah did. He wants to know if you have any useful contributions to make."
"Ouch," says Annabeth. "I mean, does he have any useful contributions to make? I thought he was our guide or something?" Never did she ever think she'd be thoroughly annoyed by Percy's ability to speak to ocean creatures, yet here she is.
"He says to stop by that kiosk thing," Percy says.
"That one?" Annabeth asks, pointing at the sandwich sign with the balloons tied to it. The text is all in English and it's blasting some tacky song about how tonight is the night. The night for what? A party on the rooftop top of the world, apparently.
"Yup," says Percy. "Zebediah says we might actually find Pothos here."
"Then it's a trap," Annabeth says. "There's no way it'll be that easy." She approaches the vendor and smiles cheesily before taking a pamphlet for whatever tourist-trappy experience they're selling.
"A brewery tour?" Percy asks, reading over her shoulder.
There's the catch! "That would be our trap, Percy," she explains. Pothos is going to lure them into a brewery tour and take advantage of them while they're trashed!
"Oh, well, it's a good thing I don't drink," Percy says.
Annabeth sighs. That doesn't fit into the plan she's piecing together in her mind. "Listen, you not drinking would be a dead giveaway. What kind of person pays for a brewery tour and doesn't drink beer?"
He sighs. "You're right."
"Luckily, I can hold my alcohol. I'm a pro," she says, praying that he'll somehow forget about all the times he's taken care of her drunk self this past week.
He scratches his chin. "I guess you do have experience..."
Shit, she shouldn't be asking him to do this. He doesn't drink for a very respectable reason!
"I mean," she says, "we could try to find another way. I don't want to force you to do something you don't want to do. That wouldn't be cool."
He scratches the back of his neck and knits his eyebrows together like he does when he's nervous.
"I know you have a very good reason, and I wouldn't want you to think I don't respect that," she explains frantically. "Hell, I think it's very admirable that you-"
"I'll do it," he says.
"It's okay, Percy, I can come up with another... Excuse me?" she asks. Did he just agree to that? Granted, it's much easier this way, but she didn't plan on asking him to abandon his morals on this fine morning in Prague.
He sighs and nods to himself. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do this."
"You don't have to!" Annabeth says.
Percy smirks. "Now it sounds like you don't want me to."
"No—I mean—yes? Look, I just don't want you to feel like you have to do this because of me."
"I don't think there's anyone I'd rather do this with."
There's this tingling feeling in Annabeth's stomach like the pretzels she stole from Percy's backpack are throwing a rager inside of her. He wants to drink—quite possibly for the first time ever—with her?
She's sure it has nothing to do with it being Percy; she'd be just as flattered if some other abstinent person trusted her to guide them through something so uncomfortable. Except now it won't be uncomfortable because Percy's comfortable with Annabeth—her of all people!
"I guess you have to do alcohol safety training to be a bartender," he says.
He's right; she knows that. Still, he burst her bubble. Percy isn't okay with doing this because he's come to trust Annabeth as a person. He's only doing this because she's an expert in all things alcohol and can make sure he doesn't get sick or anything.
And he's right. He's thinking with his head, which Annabeth should be doing right now.
She shoots finger guns. "Hell yeah! I even know what those lines on Solo Cups are for."
"Wait, those aren't just part of the design?" he asks.
"Well, no, unless you're just drinking root beer," she explains. "There's a line for beer, a line for wine-"
"People drink wine out of Solo Cups?"
"No, they don't, I guess..." Annabeth says. She doesn't usually keep Solo Cups around the house, but even still, she would be using her stemless wine glass if she did.
Percy retrieves the trusty credit card from New Rome and turns back towards the kiosk. "Are you sure about this?"
"I just said-"
"Not you," Percy says. "I'm asking Zebediah."
He sighs, likely having received an answer he doesn't want from the fucking starfish. "Let's get it over with." He leads Annabeth over to the kiosk and goes through with this mundane exchange that she probably could have done in half the time, not that she's complaining.
She is complaining, however, when the operator says that the tour doesn't start until the evening.
"You mean I didn't need to wake up so goddamn early?"
"Act like we love each other..." Percy says through clenched teeth.
"What? Why would I..." And then she takes another look at that pamphlet.
The fine print reads LOVERS' TOUR.
"Fuck me in the ass..." she mutters, even though she knows she is already thoroughly fucked in the ass.