Alternatively

Guess That Means You Love Me

It started with a stuffy nose, and he thought that was hell.

He hadn't been sick for awhile, not since high school when he was out with mono because he had accidentally drank from someone else's water bottle. All his flu shots were up to date, he drank so much orange juice it wasn't funny, and he got plenty of exercise coaching his basketball team of second graders at the Y; everything had kept him ship shape and virus free for years.

Then came the nausea, which swept over him in a matter of minutes when he walked into work. He had stumbled into counters and spent an indefinite amount of time hunched over the bathroom sink (running water soothed him, alright?). It was as if every fiber of his being was twisting in knots, simply waiting to eject via copious vomiting. His mouth was constantly watering, a warning sign he tried ignoring until the end of his shift, but when he finally bolted for the bathroom, his manager decided that maybe he should go home to rest.

Annabeth blinked curiously when he fumbled his way into the apartment, glowing eyes concerned. "You're early, what's-"

He immediately turned to hurl into the kitchen trash; he was disgusted with himself.

"Percy?"

"M fine," he spat residue into the garbage before standing uneasily. "Just need sleep."

She wasn't satisfied with that, setting aside her book to loosely shadow him en route to the bathroom. "You look terrible."

He heaved a laugh, yanking on the sink. "Thanks, babe."

"I mean it," she crossed her arms in the doorway. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just sick," he muttered, rinsing his mouth out. "Should pass soon."

"Hm. You look hot."

He turned to raise an eyebrow, hoping to be more suave than sickly. "Do I?"

"Come on," she rolled her eyes, taking his hands to lead him out. "Does this happen often?"

"Not really."

"How can I help?"

His response was muttered and incoherent and he focused on collapsing in his bed instead of the floor.

It was then did the fever begin to burn through. Everything was hot and cold, chills wracking through his body as sweat beaded across his skin, and he could tell Annabeth was getting worried. Her lips were pursed as she brought in glasses of water, eyes tight as she sat at his bedside. It didn't occur to him at the time that this was the first time she had encountered human illness before, that this was probably extremely unsettling for her to see.

He did, however, hazily comment on how pretty she was, which made her lips quirk ever so slightly. As he floated in and out of consciousness, he was repeatedly taken aback by just how pretty she was and dazedly wondered why she stayed with him. Why she didn't just find a way to kill him after he accidentally summoned her, why she bothered to stick around when he insisted he wouldn't enforce their bond.

There used to be a time he wondered if their relationship was a result of said bond, but it long since left his mind. It didn't so much as cross, especially as she gingerly held his hand with tightly drawn eyebrows and gently raked back his sweaty hair with her deadly claws that no longer posed him any threat.

He kept drifting in and out of sleep, the nausea and fever yanking him between two extremes. At one point, Annabeth was hunched over his laptop, pensively scrolling and furiously typing. He paid that no mind, instead turning over in bed and pulling the covers to his nose.

His dreams made no sense, a mess of colors and muffled voices, and he wasn't sure what was real or fake. At some point, his mom had called, and that whole conversation had been fuzzy. She told him to drink lots of water and rest up, sweetie, and he dropped the phone trying to get it back on the nightstand. When he faded back in, however, the phone was back on the stand and plugged in.