sally's boy [post-tartarus, percabeth]
cw & tw for angst, ptsd, suicidal thoughts, unhealthy attachment
post hoo! sally's perspective.
sally doesn't know what to do with them, but she can't say anything. she turns a blind eye with an aching heart every time she hears the balcony door swing open in the middle of the night, annabeth's footsteps soft because she's trying not to be heard.
the first time she noticed it happened percy had been home for two days. it's three in the morning when she hears a muffled scream from her son's room, and she hurls herself out of bed, something primal welling up inside her as she runs for her boy, her lovely, traumatized, beautiful--
it's not percy who was screaming. she jerks to a stop right outside his door (two months later, when it's still happening, sally will call it their door) and gingerly waits as she hears voices, shaking and hoarse, from inside.
"--safe, beth," she hears percy whisper, over and over with the thickness and depth of someone who knew what unsafe really was like. his voice is strained, like he's trying not to cry. "i love you, i love you, shh, love, i love you, i love you--"
and sally claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her own sob as she hears what annabeth retorts with, like the daughter of a goddess can't help it, like the grisly words are ripped brutally from her throat. "i should've died, i should be dead, you should have let me die, percy, i want to--"
and percy cries, then, an ugly choking sound that annabeth mirrors, and sally can picture them grabbing onto each other, gripping each others' forearms and ignoring the nails that dig into skin. the mattress creaks like they've pressed together, too aware of what would happen if they were ever apart.
then it's muffled again, like they've thrown a blanket over themselves, but sally has heard enough.
it hurts, the next morning, when percy drags himself into the kitchen and blinks blearily at her. he blushes a little at the two coffees that sally has set out, but takes them both with a grateful half-smile. he says nothing, but kisses sally's cheek and accepts a scrunch of his hair before he disappears back down the hallway. he has scratches up his forearms that weren't there yesterday (sally always knows).
it hurts more to think that this is the best sally can do. make two cups of coffee and tousle her son's hair when she doesn't even know what happened to him, other than it was horrible and so terribly other.
so she turns a blind eye, heart heavy, salt drying on her cheeks, limbs aching from a newfound weariness she feels guilty for even having. sally pretends she doesn't know that every night, annabeth heaves her broken body over the balcony railing to come cry in tandem with her broken son.
