Sorry these edits took so long, but maybe I can make up for it with an extended chapter?
By mid-May, Percy had been staying with the Avengers for a few months.
After the initial interrogation with snacks, brief though it was, had been enough to ward off further questions. There would always be the underlying suspicion of deceit, of duplicity becoming entangled in the boy's words, but still.
What if it was the truth?
What terrible people they would be, to push and push and push at a traumatized teenager who put of smiling masks for the sake not only himself, but others. To bulldoze his walls, forcing their way in, past his barriers that were clearly there for a reason, as was the vizard. He wanted to keep people out, and to protect himself, and how could Steve blame him for that?
How, in good conscience, would he be able to press this issue, worrisome though it was, to the point of a child's breakdown?
But.
How, in good conscience, would he be able to continue on without at least trying to unravel a few secrets, all in the best interest of a child's wellbeing?
To just leave Percy as he was went against his morals. His purpose. Steve was here to help and to serve, and to just ignore such blatant signs of distress, of past horrors carved into a young mind only growing with the boy they were adhered to, was absolutely unforgivable.
So he tried to get closer.
Steve went on more morning runs with Percy, even if he grew breathless far too quickly for his tastes, and even if Percy didn't feel like talking, and even if the boy only agreed every once in a while.
Steve asked to learn how to cook without instinctively selecting preservatives and rationable foodstuffs as his ingredients, even as Percy obsessed over never wasting any food at all, even as he refused to spend more than he needed to, even as he insisted upon paying for everything himself, instead of making use of his billionaire acquaintance.
Steve drew pictures to go along with the classic stories he'd tell Percy on occasion, even if a dozen drafted drawings and speeches littered his floor at night, even if his words were still stilted and awkward, even if he didn't know why whenever he offered to just give Percy the eloquently worded, prettily composed books he took the stories from, the boy looked pensive for a moment before reluctantly declining.
Steve was the one who spent the most time around the kid, and certainly the only one to do so entirely voluntarily. He went out of his way to try and find things that would help Percy open up to him about something, anything, and allow Steve to help.
And yet, there was no response. Nothing but strained silence and feedback.
Tony always said Steve was an optimist. So why did this feel so hopeless?
Steve had told him about growing up in Brooklyn, about wanting to fight and being forbidden from doing so. About believing he was going to die, right before the ice swallowed him up. About being content with it, save his regrets about leaving Peggy behind.
He'd spoken of the hopes he had, the aspirations his companions had told him of, the miserable outcome of wanting to fight too badly. Percy seemed to respond to that. He also seemed to be familiar with it.
It wasn't expected, but it wasn't exactly a surprise, and Steve felt odd thinking about that.
Percy's past was dark and twisted, and that was that.
If Steve couldn't punch through the shadows, then he'd bring a flashlight to force them to dissipate*.
As it was however, Percy seemed to be actively protecting the shadows. Holding them near and dear to his heart, as much as they hurt him.
YOU ARE READING
Beating Hearts
AçãoPerseus Jackson. The name that sent chills down monsters spines, and that sparked hope in demigods everywhere. But beyond that, this name belongs to a boy. A man. A man who has seen so much, too much. Who has watched as his friends were killed, murd...
