The floor fell fast within his grasp; leaving him to turn quickly to his side so his right hand held all his weight. The small child in his left arm was balanced evenly in his grasp, almost as if the boy had done this often with a child in his hand. Fury and Natasha now towered over him their features morphed into surprised looks, their figures darkened by the light on the ceiling above them. Both being rather good fighters, but neither being able to predict the boys next move, they were left in a split second hesitation, which the boy took in stride. In a single swift moment, he swung his legs around connecting with the back of Natasha's knees. Her legs gave way and she collapsed, falling to the floor too stunned to react.

Using this delay in reaction and the momentum of his kick, he pushed his whole body behind the fallen assassin. His free arm reaching out to grab hold of her torso and push her back as he slid around her so she fell back against the floor in his wake. He kicked his leg up and fell on top of her, pressing his legs against her sides so she was incapable of movement. His breath was ragged as he leaned down from his sitting spot, and placed his forearm upon her neck in a choke hold.

He could feel her struggle to swallow, the tingling warmth of her skin against his own. Later he wondered if it was the stress of the situation that had caused it. But in that moment, he had been unprepared. He hadn't felt the warning, barely defining the shouts in his head, from the ones in the room. But slowly one voice in particular stood out. One he knew wasn't real.

It never would be.

It was too late.

The world started to spin,, the figures that were shouting above him blanked to shadows. His hands started to shake in their hold. Kalliope wailed in his arms.

No.

The wailing grew louder, curling into cruel laughter that echoed in his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut, his grip slackening. He felt the assassin pull away. His hands fell empty to the cold floor.

The world tilted violently, he scrambled back, his hands burning against the floor, underneath the overhand of the counter. The shadows dived towards him and enveloped him, casting his face into darkness. His heart beat rapidly in his chest

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His vision was throbbing. He could see Steve crouching beside him...than black, than Steve again.

His sight curved, behind Steve he made out the distinct outline of Clint leaning over Natasha. It was like someone had pressed the mute button on his life, the world was utterly silent, despite the words forming on Steve's lips.

He couldn't breath, his lungs felt like they were being pressed down with an iron clamp. It was harder to draw air in, harder to push air out.

No.

Please.

Help.

Silence.

His thin legs curled tightly up against chest, the same bitter cold voice jutting into his mind like frozen knife. Carving its way into his thoughts. His hands shook, his fingers clamped over his ears, rocking back and fourth upon the wooden floors of the kitchen.

Annabeth.

Please.

Help.

Slowly the lines and shapes of the room started to mesh together, slurring like dripping water colors. His body beginning to shake uncontrollably, his pale skin glistening with frozen sweat.

Steve

Dark.

Steve.

Dark.

Steve.

Dark.

It was all his fault.

_____________________

The white light throbbed upon the ceiling, unfocused and blurry from within the sight of his partially closed eyelids. The warmth of the thing at which he lay, beckoned him back into his depths, to which he obeyed. Sinking back into the comfort of the soft material, squeezing his eyes shut. The remembrance of the brightness flashing behind his closed lids. His memory was blotted, tangled in drowsiness, he didn't know where he was, let alone his life. He turned over, it didn't matter, sleep was needed.

"Oh look whose awake."

Well I am now.

Something in him was stopping the snappy retort that wanted to slither off his tongue. He felt as if a heavy medal cage was slamming around him, encasing his happy demeanor; Locking it away. He felt suddenly cold, bitterness drifting over him like spreading frost.

He was confused.

And than suddenly it all crashed back down on him.

All of it.

He sat straight up, shedding the warmth of the covers, the cold brisk air hitting his skin like frozen water.

His breath was shaky, this always seemed to happen when he awoke. Expecting to find the warmth of his wise girls body beside him.

But it never was.

Realizing this always tore him down to brittle pieces. Every morning awakening to the same, bitter disappointment.

She was gone.

And it was all his fault.

A hand suddenly clasped upon his shoulder, jerking Percy's sinking thoughts back to the present where Steve was staring at him in concern. The rest of the avengers, plus Fury, hovered behind the super soldier. Natasha frowning slightly, her head tilted to the side as she studied Percy openly, her eyes digging daggers into his skin.

Percy met her gaze with a sturdy one of his own, locking his feelings away. The drowsiness had filtered away from him leaving him an empty facade that built itself around his face. Natasha seemed surprised when he returned her look, though she hid it well.

Slowly and liberally, Percy broke eye contact with the assassin and turned his gaze to Steve, who had yet to release his shoulder. The man was currently in a silent conversation with Fury, their eyes locked in an argument. When he noticed Percy watching them closely, he cut off the conversation and looked straight into the boys burdened eyes.

"Why did it happen?"

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