Archive of Our Own ^beta

Arion’s hooves touch down with the momentum of a canon crashing into the Earth, and Hazel hits the ground with nearly the same velocity. Arion whinnies at her—the same gruff, concerned sounds he’s been grumbling at her since he picked her up at Camp Jupiter, but Hazel just adjusts her bag across her shoulder, huffs her hair out of her eyes, and forces a smile at him. 

“I’m fine, boy. Now that I’m here, everything will be fine. I just need to see Nico for a few days, okay?” Hazel pats Arion’s mane for good measure. He stomps the ground and stares at her, like, bitch, you really expect me to believe that? 

She doesn’t. She doesn’t even believe it herself. She feels like the entire world is crumbling underneath her, like it’s the Rise of Gaea 2.0, and she’s not ready for it. Her stomach is lurching and tumbling like she’s been cast out to sea, and all she wants to do is lean over and vomit up her insides. 

So, she does. It’s a little humiliating with Arion watching her—it’s even more so when the dryad comes out from her bush and begins to tell Hazel off for getting puke all over her dress. But she must notice Hazel’s watery eyes and wobbling mouth, because she stops mid-tirade and says, “Dear, if you don’t mind me saying this—you look horrible. Do you need me to walk you to the infirmary?” 

Hazel sniffles. The tears are ever-closer to surfacing, and she would be proud of herself for managing to hold them in all day if she weren’t so ashamed. Going to the infirmary, finding her brother and his doctor boyfriend, who will probably be able to tell just by looking at her, sounds like the worst possible idea right now. She just wants to go somewhere dark and quiet so she can curl up into a ball and sob in peace for a few hours. 

Nico still has a few hours until his shift’s over, anyway. She has time. 

So, “That’s okay,” she tells the dryad, who really is being much more understanding now, the longer she stares at Hazel’s overall pathetic-ness. Her green-eyed gaze is akin to pity, and Hazel turns away, face burning. 

Arion is still there, golden gaze piercing. “You should go,” she tells him. “I won’t need to go back for a few days.” Maybe not ever, she thinks.  

Arion chuffs at her, then tilts his head in the direction of Camp Half-Blood. His message is clear—he’s not going anywhere, and she can deal with it. 

Hazel sighs, shoulders slumping. Great. The last thing she needs is the campers at Camp Half-Blood asking about why Hazel’s magically speedy horse is hanging around their valley, eating all their grass and strawberries. Hazel had planned on this being a discreet visit. Incognito. It’s hard to be incognito with a very recognizable golden horse.

“I can take you to the stables,” she offers. “You can catch up with the pegasi. I bet Blackjack has some juicy gossip, anyway.” 

Arion whinnies, at that, trotting in place. Evidently, he likes that idea. 

Hazel doesn’t pretend to understand how horse relationships work, but she thinks that the two equestrian beings have formed a sort of camaraderie over the years. From what Percy has told her, they seem to share a foul sense of humor, and even fouler language. Hazel can believe it, given the dirty looks Arion gives her when she can’t summon four-carat gold from the ground, and the equally dirty looks Percy receives when he shows up to the camp stables without donuts. 

It’s a short trek from the clearing in the woods where Arion landed to the valley, but Hazel is so nauseous that it feels like it takes twice as long as the distance really is. She’s grateful that, when they finally reach the edge, the camp appears to be empty. Off in the distance, she sees the torches of the dining pavilion, their glow made brighter by the setting sun. 

“Okay, Arion,” she says tiredly. “Just let me drop off my stuff at Nico’s, okay?” 

Her backpack isn’t filled with much, but the toll of carrying it on her shoulders for the hours she sat atop Arion is beginning to weigh on her. Not to mention, she’s sore from the nonstop riding, and she really has to pee. 

Nico’s cabin is, gratefully, not far from the treeline. The steps creak when she reaches them, as if worn even though the cabin isn’t more than ten years old. Warm orangey-golden fire burns in the sconces outside the door—a replacement from the Greek fire, which Nico got rid of gleefully when he remodeled the entire place. He enlisted Hazel’s help in the endeavor; he said it was only fair that she always feel like she had a home at Camp Half-Blood, since she so desperately wanted the same for him. That’s why the walls and the floors are now crusted with gems, little flecks of her in Nico’s obsidian. That’s why—at least, partially—the decor is so old-fashioned, with muted floral duvets and antique furniture, kept in mint condition by their Hephaestus cabin friends. 

Hazel’s other contribution to the cabin, though—the one she’s the most proud of—is the photographs. 

She’d taken up the hobby some time after becoming Praetor, needing something to take her mind off of such a stressful position. Much like riding, she’d found photography to be calm and freeing—once she figured out how to work the technology, anyway. And she took photos of everyone. 

There are several photos of her and Nico on the walls, and another on Nico’s bedside table next to the one of him with Will. There are lots of pictures of Will—lots of pictures of Nico with the Apollo cabin, pictures of Nico with his sword-fighting students, pictures of Nico with the rest of their friends. Lots of these photos, Hazel is in as well—photos with the Argo II crew, photos with their friends in New Rome, photos with Reyna from her rare visits. And then there are photos of her with Frank—mostly decorating her side of the cabin, although she spies one of them nestled between photos of Percy and Annabeth and Piper and Leo. 

She becomes fixated on one of those photos—one of Percy and Annabeth that she remembers taking, because it was right after Cordelia was born. She’s nestled between them in it, rosy and pink and yawning at the camera while Percy grins like a fool and Annabeth hides her face in his shoulder because she had been crying. That was one of the happiest days Hazel can remember—she spent most of it crying right there with Annabeth, but it was a happy cry. The hospital had been filled with joy and laughter and so, so many tears, because everyone had cried. Percy and Annabeth were the first among them to really, truly make it to full adulthood—they had their degrees and the apartment and the security of a future, and a baby to top it all off. It’s like they were saying: look—if we can make it, so can you. This is for all of us. 

And how sweet a sentiment is that? How sweet is it that Hazel has friends with children—that she lives in a private world where their children can be safe, and there are no threats of inter-deital wars to take them? How lucky is she to have the opportunities she has, and to have done the things she has, and to be the person she is? 

Hazel loves her life, is the thing. She has her brother, and Frank, and all of her loving, wonderful friends. She has a job that she loves, and sometimes her coworkers are a pain in the ass, but she even loves the biggest asshole among them. She has a nice apartment with Frank that looks over the valley, with large windows and beautiful lighting and an extra room to use as her art studio. She and Frank have been talking about getting a cat. They’ve been talking about going on a trip this summer—to China, maybe, or somewhere tropical. They haven’t decided yet. 

And whenever she’s stressed, or exhausted from work, or worried about anything, she can always come here—to Camp Half-Blood, to get away from her life for a little while. Nico always knows how to make her feel better, and he’s always able to impart a bit of wisdom. And she can do that—she can just pick up and leave for a few days, because she knows that those she works with can pick up the slack. She can be herself, and do what she needs to do for herself, and no one has ever told her that’s wrong. 

Hazel stares and stares at that photograph of baby Cordelia, and she feels the despair welling up so vastly inside of her that it’s like it’s consuming all of her insides. And she feels scared, and she feels sad, and she feels desperate. 

She’s desperate for it not to be real—for it to just be a bad dream, a trick of the mist. She’ll sleep it off, blink her eyes shut and open them and the air will clear, and everything will be right again. 

She climbs into Nico’s bed, disrupting his neatly tucked sheets as she kicks off her boots. The pillowcase smells clean, like his laundry detergent and the expensive Italian soap he uses, and Hazel breathes in deeply, relieved when the smell does not bring with it an overwhelming surge of nausea. Instead, it brings calm, comfort. His bed smells like family, like home, and she holds tight to the feeling as she squeezes her eyes closed. 

She sleeps. 

Hazel wakes to a hand on her shoulder, shaking gently. “Haze?” an even gentler voice says. “Hey. Hazel. Wake up.” 

Hazel breathes in sharply, her senses slow to return to her. A pillow, softer than her own, because Nico is delicate and particular about his comfort. A thick duvet, which she doesn’t remember covering herself with. A cold, bony hand on her shoulder—calloused fingertips, soft touch. Nico. 

“Nico.” Hazel flings herself at her brother before she’s even fully awake—she grips at him desperately, tears in her eyes before she can stop them, and she’s shaking and she’s so relieved that he’s here and she’s so, so scared. She can’t do this without him. She can’t. “Nico.” 

“Hey . . .” Nico’s voice is soothing, like tea with honey, warm as it washes over her. He holds her back, letting her tremble in his arms, and he doesn’t give it away if he’s alarmed or worried. He must have had a lot of practice after all these years working in the infirmary. 

He doesn’t tell her it’s okay, because he knows that he doesn’t know. That’s something she’s always appreciated about her brother—he doesn’t need lies in order to make someone feel better. He doesn’t feed her useless platitudes that will work for two seconds until she remembers her life. He just holds her, and she is so grateful. 

“I’ve missed you,” he tells her. “I’m sorry I haven’t called lately. What with Will being in school, I’ve been running the infirmary pretty much by myself, and—well. It’s been chaos. The Ares cabin recently convinced Coran to incorporate this new activity into the itinerary. It’s called Fisticuff Fridays.” 

Hazel can’t help but laugh, at that. The slight annoyance in Nico’s voice is a dead giveaway to how much of a pain in the ass this new activity has been for him. 

“Missed you too,” she says, voiced muffled by his shoulder. She squeezes him tighter and wonders if he can hear how loudly her heart is pounding. She closes her eyes and sniffles. 

“What’s going on, Hazel?” he asks. “Not that I’m not glad to see you—I am. But . . . you’re here because something’s wrong, aren’t you?” 

Something’s wrong. The dread slams back into her, sharper than a sword’s blade. Her breath hitches. 

Slowly, slowly, she nods against his shoulder. 

“Okay.” Nico pulls away before Hazel can stop him—but he only goes far enough to settle his hands on her shoulders, so he can make her look him in the eyes. 

At twenty, Hazel thinks that Nico has fully grown into himself. Years of being well taken care of have fleshed him out—made him appear human, albeit still a bit of a boney one, rather than absolutely skeletal. His skin is a bronzed olive, his dark hair streaked with lighter brown from days spent in the sun. His eyes are bright, underlied by confidence in himself and his life. 

Hazel is so, so proud of her brother. 

“Whatever it is, we’re going to figure it out,” he promises her. “It’s going to be okay. Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

Hazel takes a deep breath, nods. Then she reaches for the bag at her feet and pulls out the box she brought with her. 

“I can’t do this alone,” she tells him. Just the thought has tears welling in her throat again—she swallows them down, but she can’t shake the fear. “Nico . . . I can’t.” 

Nico stares at the pregnancy test for a long, silent moment. Then he says, “Alright—then let’s do it together.” 

“So,” Nico says, after setting the timer. His tone is conversational, light—almost drowned out as Hazel turns on the water to wash her hands. “You want to talk about why you think you’re pregnant for the next three minutes? If not, we can just sit in silence. I’m cool with either.” 

Hazel slides down to the floor, out of sight from the test on the counter. She doesn’t think she could stand to stare at it, waiting until the little symbol appears. Negative or positive. She’s terrified. 

She doesn’t know how she let this happen. 

“I just don’t understand!” she bursts. She clutches her knees to her chest, but it does nothing to comfort her or quell her anxiety. “I . . . I’ve been so careful, Nico. I’m not just some—some floozy having unprotected intercourse all the time!” 

Nico crouches down to the floor with her and settles his hands over hers. His eyes are wide, dark—honest. “No one is saying that about you,” he calmly tells her. “Accidents happen all the time. Look at Percy and Annabeth.” 

Hazel sniffs. She directs her gaze to their hands, because she can’t stand to look him in the eye. He’s being so . . . so understanding. So nonjudgemental. 

“But Annabeth and Percy know how it happened,” she says. “Annabeth missed pills—she’d forget, then take two or three at a time because the packs say you can, but don’t specify how many times you can do that before it completely fucks you over. Sorry.” Her face burns from saying fuck— she doesn’t curse often, but sometimes, there’s just no other word that conveys what she’s trying to say. 

“But I’ve never missed a pill, Nico,” she says. “Not once since I was fifteen. And I’ve always been . . . you know, regular— but I haven’t gotten my period in two months.” She sniffles again. “And I’m so hungry all the time, but I’m also so nauseous, and the smell of Frank’s cologne makes me honest-to-gods want to shove him out a window and then puke out of it.” 

“. . . that does sound like a compelling list of symptoms,” Nico concedes, after a beat. “I’ve never heard you say you want to do anything violent to Frank before.” 

“Because I love Frank,” Hazel says, eyes watering. “So I don’t—I don’t know what to do if I’m preg—you know.” Just the feel of the word in her mouth makes her want to throw up. “I mean—what am I supposed to tell him?” 

“Hey,” Nico says, voice gentle, but firm. “Frank loves you. There’s nothing you could tell him that would make him not love you. Besides—you and Frank have always talked about having kids someday, right? So there’s no way he’d be mad. He might even be excited, you know?” 

Oh, gods. That’s what she’s afraid of. Her watery eyes finally begin to spill over. She shakes her head unconsciously, trying to fight them, but she’s sobbing before she can stop it. She doesn’t know what to say, how to explain. She doesn’t know what to do. 

“Haze?” Nico sounds confused, now. Hazel covers her mouth, half to try to quiet her sobs, half to try to keep the words from spilling out.

But she and Nico are always honest with each other. That’s why she came here. That’s why she knew it would be okay to come here.

“I don’t . . . want Frank to be excited,” she whispers. “I don’t . . .”

“. . . oh,” Nico says. His voice is unreadable. “I see.” 

Hazel squeezes her eyes shut. The tears keep leaking out, regardless. “I didn’t come here to ask you to change my mind,” she tells him. “Or . . . or tell me it’s a mistake. I know there are some people who think it’s murder, but I’ve read a lot about this, and right now it’s just a parasite leeching off my insides, it’s not even really alive, so—” 

Her breath hitches, and whatever she was going to say next dissolves on another sob. Nico’s hands tighten around hers, squeezing tight. 

“Hazel,” he says again. He’s back to that almost-painful gentleness. When she dares to look up at him, she finds no distaste or judgement or anger in his face. She knows there are some people who would be angry. 

She hopes, prays that Frank won’t be angry. She is so scared that Frank will be angry. 

“I know all of this,” Nico tells her. “My boyfriend’s a doctor—and even if he wasn’t, there have been enough scared teenagers that have come to me in the infirmary for me to have needed to educate myself. You have every right to do or not do anything you aren’t ready for. I would never tell you that you have to do something you don’t want to. And I would never, ever call you a murderer.” 

Hazel sniffles again. She shakes one of her hands from Nico’s so she can swipe at her eyes, with no luck. Nico reaches behind her to the toilet paper holder and unhooks the roll, handing it off to her as he softly says, “Frank wouldn’t, either. You know that.” 

Hazel blows her nose, noisily and gross. “It’s just . . .” She coughs. “It’s not that I don’t ever want kids, you know. Frank and I have even talked about it. But . . . but we were gonna do that after retiring from the legion. There’s . . . there’s this cute old house on the edge of town that needs to be fixed up—no one’s moved into it because most of the families prefer the newer condos and townhouses close to the school, but we’re going to paint it and redo the floors and—and there’s four bedrooms, and of course we want kids. But I . . . I love my job. And we’re gonna travel, and my doctor said I still have to wait a few years to see if—” Hazel clamps her mouth shut. Styx. 

“Have to wait a few years to see if . . . what?” Nico asks. Hazel stays silent. 

“What are you not telling me?” Nico presses. “You can tell me anything.” 

Hazel closes her eyes again. She clenches her snotty toilet paper in her hands and squeezes out another trickle of tears. 

“It’s . . . I didn’t want to say anything,” she mutters, eventually. “It’s probably not even a big deal, just . . . My doctor’s looking out for symtoms of severe mental illness. Said, if I have any of what my mom had, it’ll probably start manifesting in my early to mid-twenties. So . . . so.” 

“Oh . . . Hazel.” Nico takes the toilet paper from her hands, tosses it to the side. He wraps Hazel in his arms, lets her press her face into his shoulder and get her snot and tears all over him. She shudders. 

“I’ve . . . I’ve been trying not to think about it,” she croaks. “But it’s . . . It’s a possibility. A scary one. Because when you think about it, most people who are tangled up with Greek or Roman gods are crazy in some way, or they go crazy in some way. And my mom . . . even before all the bad shit happened, she wasn’t all there, you know?” 

Nico is quiet. Hazel shakes. 

“I just want to be sure,” she whispers. “Absolutely sure that I’m not going to go crazy, and wind up killing myself or my kid. I don’t want my kid to watch me deteriorate in front of them. I won’t let that happen.” 

Nico holds Hazel tighter. After a long silence, he asks, “Does Frank know about this?” 

Hazel shakes her head. Nico nods.

“I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this alone, Hazel,” he says softly. “That must have been so isolating.”

“A little,” Hazel admits. She sniffs wetly into Nico’s shirt. “Can I have more toilet paper?” 

Nico yanks more paper off the roll and folds it up for her. “Thanks,” she mutters. 

Hazel shuffles back against the cabinet as she blows her nose, then stays there. She looks up to the ceiling, hands on her knees again, squeezing them so hard her knuckles ache. 

“Please don’t tell Frank,” she pleads. “About . . . about the maybe going crazy thing. I just . . . I just haven’t figured out how to bring it up yet. But I will, eventually.” 

“Of course I’m not gonna tell Frank,” Nico promises. “Although . . .” He glances above Hazel’s head, to where she knows the pregnancy test sits on the counter top. 

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he goes on. “I can call and make an appointment and take you anywhere in the city tomorrow, if that’s what you want. But . . . I think you would feel better, having Frank by your side. And you know he will be. You know,” he repeats, when Hazel frowns at him. 

“So . . . “ Nico slowly rises back into his crouch, hands resting in front of him. Eyes on her. “Are you ready to face this? Together?” 

Hazel takes a moment to breathe—sniffing back the last of the mucus, swallowing the last of her tears. Whatever happens, Nico is here for her. Whatever happens—it’ll be okay. 

She nods. “Yeah,” she says, “Together.”