Bow down.

It had come out of nowhere, and if he was honest. He was lucky he'd even made it to the bathroom before he started puking. He'd gone from a dead sleep to awake and moving too quickly, and it had done nothing good for the other things that had started to become apparent as he knelt there, praying to any god that would listen for it to stop.

The dizziness had come second, or, at least the realization of it had. He hadn't even noticed that being dizzy was the reason he'd nearly gone careening to the floor when he'd scrambled out of bed. Coupled with how cold he was, enough to run awful chills up and down his back, and the awful full-body ache that had settled in, he had to be realistic.

He was sick. Not just “under the weather” either, like Annabeth sometimes said, but truly and properly ill.

It wasn’t long, maybe five minutes and a few rounds of hell, before Annabeth pushed the door the rest of the way open and flicked on the lights.

To say they were murder on his throbbing head, add that to the list, would be an understatement, but he was relieved not to be alone. Especially since about a minute before, he’d rocked forward so hard to heave that he’d whacked his head on the porcelain.

“God, Perce, what the fuck.”

Mad? was as far as his brain got before he was reeling again, but he didn’t feel her hand on his back, comforting him like he wanted.

Why was she mad? Was she mad that he was sick? He knew that she had midterms coming up, and really couldn’t afford to get sick herself, and that he had a ridiculously flighty immune system compared to her rock-solid one, but she wasn’t normally hostile to him.

“Huh?” he managed, holding his head between his hands while his elbows rested on their toilet seat. He squinched his eyes shut, reaching out a hand that was shaking way too badly and trying to find the handle to flush his stomach away.

Annabeth’s hand swatted at his, and she flushed the toilet, shifting her weight back again to cross her arms.

“Why do you do this?”

She’s mad you’re sick, again, his dizzy, pounding brain chided him. He, Leo, and Jason had passed a cold back and forth most of the winter, and he’d gotten over it for maybe the fifth time just the week before.

“I…” he started, and then stopped to stifle a gag into his fist. “I’m sorry,” he eventually rasped. “I know it’s annoying–”

“You have to stop drinking so much when you go out with Angie,” she said, frustration heavy in her voice. “It sucks that I have to deal with the aftermath of you two deciding to overindulge in whatever you decide is the ‘drink of the night.’ I have drafts to work on today, and that second interview this week that I need to prepare for. I don’t have time to deal with you hungover all day.”

It was as if the wild spinning of his head and stomach stopped for a moment. Which, would have been nice, except he realized why Annabeth was so angry. She thought he’d decided to get fucked up with his sister, not that he was sick.

Which, his stomach reminded him, settling back into heavy nausea with a painful cramp, was very much the case. 

He was about to tell her as much when he was sent over the bowl again, retching violently enough to nearly make him hit his head again, which he would have if he hadn’t blocked it with his hand. 

It was a minute before his body let him rest, and he pushed backward enough that his back hit the wall, letting it bear his weight as he dipped his head between his knees. Somewhere in his fever-brain, he recalled Cady making him do that when he was really dizzy and nauseous, but he couldn’t come up with anything else that might have helped.

Annabeth was still standing in the doorway, he could feel her presence there, and he heard himself whine before rasping, “Beth–”

“I don’t want to hear it, Percy. Seriously–”

“Beth, I– I’m not hungover,” he pleaded, closing his eyes so he didn’t feel like he was seasick. Or, airsick. It was worse that he’d ever felt on a plane, though. He definitely hadn’t been this sick in a long while. “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick.”

It was quiet for a moment before Annabeth said quietly, “Bullshit.”

“I sw–swear,” he pleaded. “Angie and I didn’t even drink last night. We decided we’re trying to save–” He took a breath, trying to steady himself so his voice would stop shaking so badly. “Money. To go see Stellie for her birthday.”

Silence hung in the bathroom again, though Percy nearly didn’t notice. It felt like nausea was pulling him under in waves, and it was hard to focus.

Then, there was a freezing hand on the back of her neck, and he heard her sigh.

“Fuck,” she whispered, and then her hand was gone, and he started to hear her move.

He couldn’t focus very long on where she’d gone or what she was doing, because no sooner had the thought come to ask her that he was sick again, and everything in his brain was focused on not falling over while he dry heaved miserably, nothing left in his system for him to throw up.

How long she was gone was a mystery, but he was slouched over the bowl, his forehead resting on his forearm, waiting to be sick again, when she came back.

“Perce? Honey, can you sit up?”

All the frustration was gone, and pity had taken it’s place. Percy didn’t even care, he was so relieved she wasn’t mad at him anymore. He took a shaky breath and sat up slowly, hoping that it wouldn’t set the world spinning even more than it already was.

He blinked his eyes open. Annabeth was a little blurry, since he wasn’t wearing his contacts, but the look on her face was clear enough. He must have looked awful.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and she shushed him, pushing his bangs back and resting her hand on his forehead.

“No, hon, I’m sorry,” she said, her frown deepening. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to that without figuring out what was going on, I’m just so stressed out with other things that I let them take over.” She was still frowning, moving her hand to cup his cheek. “That fever’s awful.”

“I feel awful,” he said, letting himself lean into the coolness of her hand. “Everything hurts and I’m so nauseous.”

“I know, honey.” Annabeth rubbed her thumb over his cheek before biting her lip. “Do you think you can get up from here? I know you prefer the couch to the bed while you’re vomiting so I moved your pillow and the quilt your mom made you out there.”

“But, you draft at the table,” he said, blinking at her slowly and trying not to let anxiety start in his chest. He really didn’t want to throw up anymore, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky. “It’ll be distracting to try to draft while I’m puking out there.”

“Honey, I’m not drafting today,” she said simply, and even blurry, he could see in her eyes that she meant it. “I’m going to take care of you.”

“Cady takes care of us when we’re sick,” he said automatically. Annabeth wasn’t really the caretaking type. Every so often she would, but he knew she didn’t love it, and it didn’t come easily to her. Usually, when he was sick, they called Cady, and she came over and dealt with him so Annabeth could still get things done. That, or she shuttled him over to her and Angie’s apartment, where he stayed on the couch until he was good to come back home.

Annabeth didn’t have time to be sick. She had so many amazing and important projects she was working on. He couldn’t take her away from them because he had what was probably a nasty stomach virus from hell itself.

Still, she was looking at him with such earnest determination that he might have fallen in love with her all over again.

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging simply. “But, maybe I want to. You’re mine.”