#ambiguous relationship

The sea was calm tonight.

Too quiet for Percy Jackson's racing heart.

Standing barefoot at the edge of the old cove, his toes curled in the cold sand. The tide whispered just short of his feet, as if it dared not touch him without permission. No boats came here anymore. No campers. Just jagged black rocks, stubborn sea grass and the soft depressions of long-ruined sandcastles that only Percy remembered how to build.

The stars hung low and sharp above the water, their reflections broken by the waves' slow breathing. The night smelled of salt and rust, and of something older — memory, perhaps. The ocean felt restrained. As if it were holding its breath.

Percy rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension lodged there. Years had passed. Wars won. Monsters had been defeated. Prophecies had been fulfilled and then discarded like empty shells. He had stood against Titans, giants and gods themselves.

But time was the one enemy he could never defeat.

The sea was the one thing that could never be defeated.

He crouched down, unzipped his backpack and hesitated before reaching inside. The glass clinked softly as he drew out the bottle: green, thick and weathered from years of handling. Its neck was wax-sealed, cracked and re-melted so many times that it looked scarred.

Inside was a single folded note. The ink had faded. The paper was creased and felt as fragile as skin.

“I’m sorry.”

That was all. It had always been enough.

The memory rose without mercy:

Moonlight on water. Your laughter was bright and reckless, daring the tide to chase you. You had swum further than usual that night, your hair slicked back and your eyes shining as you called his name as though it were a challenge. Percy remembered the way his chest had tightened – not fear, not yet, but something like knowing.

"Don't go too far!" he shouted.

You waved him off and dived beneath the surface.

The sea closed over you.

Seconds passed. Then more. Percy ran into the water, shouting and calling, but his voice was torn apart by the surf. He dived in, his senses flaring and his power thrumming through him as he searched through the shadows and currents of the dark places where the ocean hid its secrets.

Nothing.

No scream. No struggle. No body.

Just a ripple. Then silence.

The gods gave him shrugs and half-truths. Fate. Balance. The will of the sea. Poseidon's eyes were stormy when Percy demanded answers, but even his father could not provide them. "The ocean took you."

And it did not give back what it had taken.

Percy refused to believe that. He searched wrecks and trenches, ancient caves and forbidden waters. He hunted for the myths whispered by naiads and sailors consumed by grief. His control over the sea grew sharper and stronger, but so did the emptiness inside him.

Somewhere along the way, the bond between the two water-born souls had twisted into something deeper.

Love, he realised too late.

Not the idea of you. Not the memory, polished smooth by grief.

You.

Remember how you used to sit on the shore and swear that the sea would never take you from him?

But it did.

Now, years later, Percy stood again at the edge of that promise.

He rose to his feet and held the bottle up, the moonlight catching in the glass. His reflection was distorted in the glass: older, sharper and more tired than battles could explain.

"I hope you hated me a little," he whispered to the water. "For not saving you."

He hurled the bottle with all the strength he no longer used. It arced across the night sky like a dying star, then vanished into the black water with a muted splash.

Percy didn’t wait for the sea to answer.

He turned his back on the cove and walked away.

Something stirred below the waves.

She had watched him for years.

From coral gardens lit by a bioluminescent glow. From kelp forests that wound around forgotten bones. She had observed him from the liminal spaces where the ocean blurred into something older than language. Now, she drifted between worlds – no longer human, yet not fully mythical either.

The sea had claimed her, reshaped her and silenced her.

She was a siren – not the painted myth of sailors' doom, but the ancient truth: drowned girls bound to the water, cursed to sing what they could no longer say.

She remembered the boy.

The salt on his skin. The way he laughed when she splashed him. His eyes always searched the horizon as if he was afraid that something precious would disappear if he looked away.

When the bottle sank, she followed it – not out of hope, but out of instinct. It was the last part of him that she could still touch.

She cradled it in her hands beneath the waves. The wax was warm from his grip. She could not read the note, but she didn't need to. Percy Jackson carried guilt like an anchor, and she had felt its pull long before the sea took her.

She lingered for hours, listening to the currents humming around her and letting his sorrow press against her like a tide.

Before dawn, she rose.

She placed the bottle gently on the sand where he had once built small, crooked castles that always collapsed too soon. Not as forgiveness. Not as a farewell.

A refusal.

She would not accept his sorrow.

Then she slipped back into the sea, her song dissolving into the morning tide.

Percy returned at sunrise.

He didn't know why. He only knew that his dreams had been restless, tugged by something familiar — like a ripple in still water; like a hand brushing his ankle beneath the waves.

The cove looked unchanged.

Except for the bottle.

It was lying in the sand, exactly where the tide should have taken it.

The wax seal was untouched.

There was no new message. No note from beyond.

Just the bottle.

Returned.

Percy's breath caught. The sea breeze chilled his skin and, for the first time in years, he felt as though the ocean was watching him back.

He picked up the bottle and pressed it to his chest, his heart hammering.

"You're still out there," he whispered.

The waves did not answer.

But they didn’t need to.

Smitty can tell when something is going on in Mack’s head. He pretty much has always been able to. They spend so much time together that it would be crazy to suggest that he can’t recognize the small tells in his friend’s behavior.

These, however, are not small tells.

Will’s eyebrows furrow as he watches Mack snap at Toff, not joking around like he usually is.

Toff seems to think he’s still joking and shoves the brown haired boy playfully. Instead of being met with a joking shove in return, Toff’s eyes go wide as he is slammed into the boards, Mack yelling at him as he does.

Will immediately makes his way over, pulling the younger boy away by the back of his practice jersey.

”Hey, hey! What the hell are you doing, Man?” He asks, raising his voice to make sure he has Mack’s. attention, “Hey, Macklin! Listen to me! What’s your problem?”

Mack pulls himself out of Will’s grasp, skating towards the other end of the ice.

Mack’s combativeness doesn’t end there. He picks a fight with pretty much everyone there, causing the rest of the team to eye him warily and with a hint of frustration.

Even Will isn’t safe from the anger radiating from his friend. He gets shoved and pushed 7 times. He counted.

Mack is the last person into the locker room after practice is done, but Will waits.

He has a feeling he needs to.

Mack storms into the locker room, completely missing Will who is still sitting there. He beelines his way towards the showers, angrily stripping out of his gear. He turns the water on as hot as it will go, gritting his teeth as he stands under it.

Will silently watches, his concern growing.

It’s only when Mack begins to dig his nails into the pink skin of his forearm that Will clears his throat and makes his presence known.

Mack jumps, his eyes wide. He drops his arms back to his side quickly.

Will moves forward slowly, eyeing the sheer amount of steam coming from the water from the shower head.

He clears his throat, “You should turn that down. You’re going to burn yourself.”

Mack sucks in a breath, making no move to fix the water.

Will is still for a moment before he steps forward to turn the temperature down himself.

Mack’s hands shoot out to stop him.

”No!” He says loudly, his voice echoing off of the walls of the showers, “Don’t! I need it that hot…”

Will pauses, eyeing him warily.

”Mack, your arms are pink. You’re burning yourself,” He says slowly.

Mack sucks in a breath, but again makes no move to fix it.

“I know,” He says.

Will purses his lips. He turns the shower off entirely.

”You should get dressed.”

Mack nods, finally leaving the shower and drying off.

Will watches him. He starts walking towards the locker room, hearing Mack follow. He waits a second before turning around and starting to talk.

”Okay, what’s going on?” He asks, “That shit today during practice? Not cool. And not normal.”

Mack stares at him for a minute, his eyes seemingly taking Will in.

Then his bottom lip trembles and tears fill his eyes.

Will startles at the sight, and even more so when the tears fall and Macklin lunges forward to wrap his arms around the blonde man. Will freezes for a second, but wraps his arms around Mack tightly.

He can feel Mack beginning to sob, and he rubs the brunette’s back.

”Hey, hey. Talk to me,” He says, “What’s going on in your head?”

Mack can’t talk, too busy taking shuddering breaths and sobbing into Will’s shirt.

”Breathe,” Will says softly, “Slowly, okay? In… and out…”

Will continues this until Mack matches his breathing, the sobs subsiding for now. He looks down at Mack.

”What’s going on?” He asks again, voice softer, “Why were you biting everyone’s heads off?”

Mack bites his lip.

”I’m going to mess up,” He says.

That makes Will pause, looking at Mack curiously, “That’s okay. Everyone does. It’s… It’s being human.”

Mack shakes his head.

“No. Not like this. I’m… I’m supposed to be this great thing thats going to make everything better for the team, but I’m not,” He says, “I feel like I’m not doing anything to help… I’d just… I’d rather they’re pissed at me than disappointed.”

Will is quiet, sensing more to it.

”I just… I’d rather they hope I get traded or… hit by a bus or something than feel bad for me and what I’m not able to do,” He continues quietly.

That makes Will’s eyes snap open.

”Macklin.”

The way he says it makes Mack look up at him.

”Please tell me you’re not planning on hurting yourself,” He says.

Mack is quiet, but he shakes his head.

Will looks at him. Really looks at him.

”Do you promise?” He asks, “And I mean really promise?”

Mack nods.

Will lets out a breath.

”You know people don’t want that, right?” He says, “The team wants you here. Yeah, they were pissed that you were snapping at them, but they were worried. They want to make sure you’re okay.”

Mack doesn’t meet his eyes.

”I mean it,” Will says firmly, “The outcome of the season doesn’t rely on you, and everyone knows that. It’s a team effort. They’re frustrated with how things are going, too, but they aren’t blaming you.”

Mack doesn’t respond verbally, but Will can see his bottom lip begin to shake again.

Will pulls him in tightly, not caring about the fact that Mack is still undressed and slightly damp from the shower. That doesn’t matter right now.

”Come on. Let’s get dressed, okay?” Will says, “We can get food and you’ll stay with me for a bit.”

Mack thankfully doesn’t argue.

The car ride is quiet and Will hates it. He misses Mack talking a mile a minute about anything and everything.

He pulls off to a parking lot, turning to look at Mack.

”I’m making sure you’re okay,” He says, “You can’t… You can’t make me hate you. I don’t care. I want you to be okay. I don’t give a shit if you ‘ruin it.’ You can’t leave me.”

His voice cracks on the last part.

Mack inhales sharply. His bottom lip starts to tremble again, but hes not self conscious about crying this time. He can’t be when tears are already streaking down Will’s face.

”I can’t lose my best friend,” Will says, voice cracking.

That’s what tips Mack over the edge. His own tears start to flow.

The two of them cry with each other for a few minutes before Will sniffles and wipes his eyes, Mack following suit.

”You don’t… You don’t need to tell me everything if you don’t want to,” Will says, not looking at Mack, “But I’m here if you need to talk. I want you to be okay.”

Mack nods.

”Thank you,” He says. He hopes Will can hear how much gratitude the two words truly contain.

Will is quiet for a few minutes.

”Reach out, check in, make contact,” He says after a moment, “That’s for the, uh, Shoulder Check thing. I remember seeing something about it. I, um, I started reading up on it recently. I can send you some stuff if you want. There were some good articles about stress and healthy ways to cope with it… Just let me know and I can send it your way.”

The conversation is dropped after that.

Mack appreciates it. He can see how much attention Will is paying without being suffocating about it. It makes him want to start crying again, and he’s sure Will would start as well.

A holo-screen appears before his face, stopping him from nearing your concentrated form. A flurry of data scrolls by and a pop-up appears with a few dates.

With a few final taps you swivel toward him and the screen. “According to your record in my data bank, you’re not due for your checkup for another nine weeks,” you state matter-of-factly. With a few taps and a swipe, the screen is gone and you meet Boothill’s gaze for the first time. “So, what’s the actual reason you’re here? Surely not just a friendly visit to the resident witch or whatever they’re calling me these days on this planet.”

“Recent scrap didn’t end too well. Leg’s been acting up.”

Your eyes scan him briefly, humming in thought as you enter new data and access his file.

“I definitely noticed a few new scratches to your outer shell armor,” you note, speaking more to yourself as you log the new data. “I’ll run some tests and analyze further.”

You roll back in your chair near him, gathering a few tools here and there and holding an emesis basin in front of him. Boothill squints at you in confusion, a frown pulling down his lips in a glimmer of dangerous, sharp teeth.

“Here. Spit them out—all the ammo you have. Now.”

His eyes sharpen, but he relents with a grunt. The metal of the bullets hitting the basin is all that fills the silence as you return to some screens and rummage through rows of drawers and drawers that line the walls.

It’s a chaotically organized yet unorganized lab, to say the least.

“There’s an empty box near you. Go ahead and remove all of your outerwear and any other weapons so we can get started,” you instruct as you prepare a table nearby.

Boothill begins to protest. “Doc, it’s just my leg. I don’t need–”

When he turns back to your desk you’re gone from sight. It unnerves him and you appear behind him seemingly from thin air.

“Hey–!”

You plug several chords into a few outlets on his hip. The feeling of the data processing through multiple base drives makes his entire body feel like numbing static courses through it.

Your face is close. Too close.

“Let's get a base-read on what’s going on here for now. I’ll leave the room so you can get undressed if you’re modest like that.” Your eyes flit down and you smirk. “Not like I haven’t seen your full model before.”

His face flushes a bright crimson and he sputters, shoving you away. You laugh out loud, unsettling and loose as you go back to your screens. It’s become more apparent with each visit that you aren’t entirely sound of mind.

“I still wonder why your face flushes red when your synthetic blood is blue. Perhaps I’ll find out today,” you grin, looking up and being met with a metallic click and the barrel of a gun between your eyes.

There’s a fierceness in Boothill’s glare, red cheeks betraying his threat. Though his hand is steady, your monitors signal increased levels of core maintenance and adrenaline. He doesn’t know how to handle your teasing— never will.

“I don’t have time to be yer forkin’ lab rat,” he sneers.

Your expression remains calm, unbothered as a lazy smile makes way to your lips. It’s an irksome sureness that makes the ranger’s eye twitch and teeth grit. Perhaps that’s simply your insanity creeping into him as well.

It draws him in like a moth to a flame. And he convinces himself that he hates it.

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“And what makes you think I wouldn’t put a bullet in yer head for crossing me?”

“Plenty of reasons. But really I only need one.”

“Yeah? And what’s that, sweets?” He scoffs, patience running thin.

You gently tap a knuckle over his heart core, the area making a soft metal clank as you do so. Boothill falls silent for a moment as you say nothing more. The mental gears turn a little harder than usual and suddenly his face is hot. Too hot.

“Wh– What– Who ever said I liked ya like that?! A ranger doesn’t get wrapped up in those feelings, ya hear?!”

And you fucking smirk.

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating. All I meant was that you wouldn’t get rid of your one and only mechanic on this side of the galaxy, would you? Who else would be stupid enough to take all your last minute tuning appointments and repair jobs after reckless battles? You need me, ranger.” You pause and shift your gaze directly at him. “No reason to get so defensive. Unless… you have feelings for me?”

“Negative feelings,” he seethes.

But you’ve seen right through him. It’s an act of pity that you just chuckle and resume your work on diagnosing some of the sensors around his midriff. Still enough to keep the cowboy grumbling and red in the face.

“Feelings nonetheless,” you chuckle under your breath as you swivel back to the flurry of incoming data. “I’ll head to the back to grab a few things I’ll need and see if a few spare parts are lying around that are similar to some of your fractured hip joints. Do not touch anything.”

Once you’re out of sight, Boothill grumbles and removes his hat and jacket. The bright industrial lights only serve to irk him more— never was one to like hospital settings.

It’s a bit more of a predicament when the wires attached to his hip get in the way of removing his bottoms. He clicks his tongue and listens as your fumbling in the distance remains constant.

Whatever. Damn cables are in the way. What is he to do? He yanks them off and removes the last of his articles, shoving them in the box off to the side you left for him.

“Fork me,” he grumbles. There’s an unruly mess of cables on the floor, most of which look the same and range in color. Naturally, none are labeled.

Just his luck.

One of your monitors beeps and a few pop ups come up as the data flow abruptly ends. In a panic, Boothill grabs a red and a black cable and plugs them in. He clicks a few of the pop ups to make them go away and resume whatever they asked. He didn’t have time to read whatever jargon it said, not that he would have understood it anyway.

He’s seated and on the examination table by the time you walk back in with a few boxes stacked in your arms.

A warm hum settles in his core with his data processor kicking in. It’s pleasant, albeit an odd sensation.

You set down the boxes and glance at the screens, humming with thought. The pause is a beat too long and Boothill can only hope you don’t prod. You tap a few things on the screen and approach him with a smile.

“Alright. Pain receptors are off and your maintenance mode is on. Let’s get started.”

—

Only about forty minutes have passed but it’s becoming increasingly clear to Boothill that something is clearly wrong. He’s used to certain processes being shut off while you work on him— that part is normal.

Right now, he can’t seem to take his eyes off you. And you won’t spare him a glance as you work, much too engrossed in his guts— literally. He huffs and you don’t bother looking at him. It pisses him off.

“If you’re feeling discomfort use your words, ranger,” you mutter without missing a beat. “If your pain processors kicked in due to something that went wrong I need to know before you blow up on me.”

Your tug at a particular wire makes him gasp, his grip on the edge of the table warping the metal.

“Fork– Watch it!” His breath shakes with a gasp, face flushed.

“You didn’t exactly come with a manual.”

“Please don’t say that while yer hands are in my guts.”

You snicker, ignoring his glare as you continue to work methodically.

“I could always give you new insides if I mess these up,” you tease smoothly, fingers deeper still in his abdominal cavity. “Would you like it if I gave you a womb?”

Boothill huffs with a shiver as you tug at that same wire again, his back arching slightly off the cold, metal table. His mouth hangs open, unable to say a word. It’s overwhelming, an intense sensation that he feels in every artificial nerve end.

You call his name once more— so sweet and full of concern. The auditory hallucinations have begun from the wrong dataset he hooked himself up to earlier. Your voice in actuality is much more nonchalant than he processes.

“Booth? Ranger? Are you still with me?” You tap his cheek, his eyes darting shakily around the room. Red hearts for irises replace his usual programmed eye setup when he blinks to glance at you. You sigh. “I told you not to touch anything didn’t I?”

“Yer… my soulmate.”

“No,” you deadpan, flicking your wrist to bring up a holo-screen before you. Seems the neuro-processors couldn’t sort the wide range of the artificial emotion dataset and developed a love bug. “Boothill, if you can still understand me beyond the love bug, I’ll be turning on your standby function for a few minutes to finish.”

You’re not sure if he heard you at all, watching as whatever he heard in his bugged brain makes him red in the face and shiver.

Then, he blue-screens and all is quiet after his metal body clangs against the table.

You walked into the TARDIS control room, hoping that the familiar hum of the ship might calm your anxieties. The Doctor was busy with the console, fiddling away with the controls. He became aware of your presence once you got a few steps into the room before promptly faceplanting. 

The thump made him turn towards you before rushing to help you up. You met his flustered concern with your own exasperation, accepting his outreached hand begrudgingly. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding on to you. 

“Just my luck,” you groaned to yourself, adjusting your footing. “I’m fine,” you grumbled, pulling your hand from his to brush off your shirt. “It’s just one of those weeks.” 

“The kind where absolutely nothing goes right?” he asked, leaning back against the console casually. Your eyes drifted to the floor, his dirty Converse catching your eye. He was wearing the white ones today, his ankles crossed gently over each other. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, really feeling the weight of the week. 

“I think I have just the thing.” He grinned brightly. You loved his smile, it was always lopsided and giddy. It reminded you of a kid on Christmas or a serial killer. It depended on the day.

“I don’t really feel up for an adventure,” you admitted, slumping into the control room chair. You didn’t have the physical or emotional energy to run after the Doctor. He had promised “stress-free” trips in the past, and they always ended with some form of chaos. When you traveled with the Doctor, there was no such thing as a “beach vacation”, at least not in the traditional sense. Usually, such expeditions ended with something blowing up.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “we don’t have to leave the TARDIS for this.” 

You watched him move about the console in his regular manner. He did this for so long, that you started to think watching him was supposed to be the activity for the day. Before you could question his motives, he made his way over to you. He was holding something, but he hid it behind his back so you couldn’t see. 

“Please tell me that’s not a duck,” you groaned, remembering the Doctor’s last surprise. That one left the ship in shambles, and single handedly destroyed your favorite shirt. 

The Doctor frowned, “What’s wrong with ducks?” 

“Nothing,” you laughed lightly, “I just don’t want to have to chase after another one.” 

The Doctor nodded sheepishly, remembering the hassle you two had when he brought a rouge duck onto the ship. He still hadn’t put the kitchen back together, and that had been months ago now. 

“Well, it’s not a duck,” he explained, moving his hands to the front of his body to show you what was in them. He held the large, bright pink button under your nose excitedly. 

“What exactly is it?” you asked, peering at the strange object. For all you knew, it could be the TARDIS self-destruct button. You didn’t trust big red buttons, and you certainly didn’t trust pink ones.

“Just press it.” he grinned. You searched his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out if it was safe or not. After some deliberation, you rested your hand warily over the button. 

The Doctor nodded, encouraging you to push down. You squeezed your eyes shut and did as such. 

When nothing blew up, you opened your eyes warily. The ship transformed before you: the lighting was different, a disco ball lowered from seemingly nowhere, and the floor tiles began to light up in synchronized patterns. In a matter of seconds, the TARDIS had turned into a magnificent disco. 

You raised your eyebrow, clearly confused by the change of decoration. You didn’t know the TARDIS had a disco mode. You could only assume it had been installed in the '70s. 

“Emergency party button.” He smirked. “Press it again,” he urged. 

Gently, you pressed the button again, and music started to fill the room. The distinct opening beats of your favorite song brought a small smile to your face. 

The Doctor threw the button across the room recklessly before holding his hand out to you. You took it, allowing your smile to fully take over your face. 

“Emergency dance party,” he explained, grasping both of your hands. 

“With my favorite song?” 

The Doctor nodded, clearly proud of himself. He wasn’t always the most observant, but when he was it made your heart melt. He knew the little things, like how you took your coffee, what your handwriting looked like, and your favorite meal of the day.

“How did you know?” You laughed. 

“You told me once,” he smiled, his eyes showing all of the love he had for you. 

You smiled back, all traces of sadness and frustration leaving your mind instantly.

The two of you bounded, jumped, and danced your way through the TARDIS for hours, laughing and smiling until it hurt. When you couldn’t dance anymore, you collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles, simply enjoying each other’s company. 

It was the best part of your week, probably even the best part of your year. By the end of it, you couldn’t even imagine the sour mood you had been in before, basking too much in the joy of the moment.