Percy Jackson Oneshots

best of times

this is 100% inspired by the wedding scene in Pirates of the Caribbean

6 P.M.

Half-Blood Hill.

The air is metallic blood; the rain, hardened steel. He's not sure how he keeps up with this. With the battles. The surprises. The gods. The monsters. But he couldn't back down, Percy supposes, not when other demigods are in danger. They're all over the hillside, surrounding Thalia's tree with their swords slashing at the incoming monsters.

Chiron had sounded the alarm not too long ago, after a group of fresh demigods and hunters had returned with a fleet of monsters in their wake. And, well, at twenty six, Percy is still figuring his life out, so now he's here, helping out as best as he can alongside Annabeth. But he admits, at least, he and Annabeth wouldn't have been here if they hadn't taken a break at their summer home in New Athens in the first place. He enjoys camp, after all, despite the violence that it brings. Here is where he belongs, where he doesn't have to hide away and lie and think too much. Normalcy gets too boring from time to time, he supposes.

Besides, defending this hillside means more than just past memories of quests. It reminds him of all the work that was put out: he was there when Annabeth spilled coffee over blueprints and when she meticulously inspected the grounds. He was there in the red-eyed mornings and as his girlfriend stood there in a barren land, amazing as ever, rebuilding an entire town from scratch with only brains and determination. Normalcy doesn't matter, he supposes, when home is here, glaring in the sunlight. So really, they'd signed up for this mess, monsters and all.

Through all this, there is a tiny box. A ring taking the place of a pen. He glances over his shoulder to find Annabeth. She is there as an avenging warrior, sleek and unmerciful. But she has other sides to her image, like her smiles and her jokes and her tears. Percy's life has ripened, has taken meaning where there was none, just by having her accompanying him along the way, by having the privilege of knowing her.

So, there is a ring, one that Tyson had crafted and gifted to him just months before. He'd placed it in his pocket, had taken it with him everywhere he'd gone. He'd hesitated, though, not sure when would be the right time to pop the question.

Today, however, he feels like it's time, even as he gores monster after monster like he'd always done in times like these. Times that have expanded to more than a decade.

Maybe that's why he calls for her in the first place.

"Annabeth!"

The fight goes on, and her name is lost in the poundings of the storm, in the battle cries and the monsters and clashes of metal.

"Annabeth," he repeats, grasping her arm.

She looks at him then, panting. With her hair darkened and pressed to her face from the rain, he thinks that he's never seen a more glorious sight. She is angelic, in a strange, paradoxical way, her grey eyes the color of the clouds from the heavens and her skin glistening with torrients of icy water. The ring weighs in his pocket.

"What is it?" she gasps.

His heart beats in a harsher way than the rain, and yet, at twenty six, Percy has never been more sure of anything in his life.

"Marry me." The words leave in a breath of wind before he can stop them.

He's sure he imagines it, but it's like the world stops, for just one moment. Why not, really?

If Percy has learned anything from his life, it is that demigods never get the luxury of predictability. Why not ask her here, with the essence of themselves thrown about like the daggers of rain?