The infirmary is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyperaware of every little sound. And Percy… well, he’s not exactly quiet. Not intentionally.

He’s propped up on the pillows, blankets bunched around him, hair messy and damp from sweat. His eyes drift lazily, blinking in half-focus, half-confusion, like he’s watching a very slow-motion battle with something only he can see. He tries to sit up once—then immediately collapses sideways, huffing softly as if the world personally betrayed him. You reach out instinctively, steadying him before he can slide off the bed. He leans slightly into your hand, and the faintest smile drifts across his lips, even though his eyes are half-shut and glassy.

Percy waves his hands in the air randomly, as if orchestrating an invisible battle. At one point, he stares at his fingers like they’ve turned traitorous, then suddenly flops back with an exaggerated groan of exhaustion.

Every so often, he sighs dramatically, like the ceiling just delivered the world’s worst news. Then he grins, like he’s realized it was a joke, and flops down again. You adjust his blankets, gently straighten the sheets he’s twisted around himself, and keep an eye on him as his arms flail and his legs twitch in the soft haze of anesthesia.

He’s completely harmless. Completely ridiculous. Completely Percy. And for once, the hero doesn’t have to fight or save anyone.