Chapter 127 127
Annabeth's POV:
It wasn’t a big smile. Not a grin. Just this small upturn of his mouth, like he'd forgotten how to do it properly but was giving it a try anyway. It changed his whole face. Made him look younger, almost. Human.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just... you smiled."
"I smile."
"Do you?"
"Occasionally." He took another sip of coffee. "It's been a while. Didn't have much to smile about."
The admission hung in the air between us. I thought about all those years, eighteen of them, spent alone and running and watching from a distance. Never getting close. Never getting to be a father. Just existing on the edges of my life, making sure I kept breathing.
"This is weird," I said.
"Yes."
"Like, really weird. I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I." He set down his mug on the counter. "I've never... I don't know how to be a father, Annabeth. I missed all of it. The parts where you learn how to do it. I just watched from far away and tried not to get you killed."
"Well, that part worked."
"Barely."
I walked over to the couch and sat down because standing was making me feel like I was at a job interview. The cushions sank under me in a way that suggested the couch was older than I was. Marcus hesitated, then sat in one of the mismatched chairs across from me.
"I don't need you to be a perfect father," I said. "I don't even know what that would look like. Aunt Sarah raised me, she taught me how to ride a bike and helped me with homework and held my hair back when I got food poisoning from bad sushi junior year. That's not going to be you. That was never going to be you."
He nodded, face unreadable.
"But I want..." I stopped, tried to figure out what I actually wanted. "I want to know you. The real you. Not just the dragon who kills people to protect me, but the person underneath that."
"There might not be much underneath that."
"Bullshit."
He raised an eyebrow.
"My mom loved you," I said. "She wrote about you in her diary. About how you made her laugh, about how you were terrible at cooking but tried anyway, about how you used to read to her in draconic because she liked the sound of it even though she couldn't understand the words at first. That person exists. He's in there somewhere."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled. Outside, I could hear birds, winter birds that hadn't migrated, doing whatever birds do in December.
"She used to fall asleep on my shoulder," he said. "Every time. We'd be talking and she'd just... drift off. And I'd stay completely still for hours because I didn't want to wake her."
I smiled. "That sounds like her. Sarah says she could fall asleep anywhere."
"She could. Movie theaters, restaurants, once in the middle of a conversation about property taxes." He shook his head, and there was that almost-smile again. "I never understood how she did it, Sammy could just... turn off. Anywhere."
"I can't do that," I said. "I'm a terrible sleeper. Always have been."
"That's the dragon in you."
"Great. I inherited insomnia from my fire-breathing ancestry."
He actually laughed. A short sound, rusty like he hadn't used it in years, but real. And something in my chest loosened a little, some knot I hadn't known was there.
"So you're staying," I said. "Here. In Emberdale. For real."
"For real. The job is stable, the cabin is paid through the end of next year, and..." He paused, looked at the fire instead of at me. "And you're here. That's where I should've been all along. Close enough to matter."
"You mattered before. You just mattered from really far away."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," I agreed. "It's not."
We sat there for a while, not talking, just existing in the same space. It should've been awkward but somehow it wasn't. Or maybe it was awkward and I was just getting used to what awkward felt like with him. Hard to tell.
"Christmas is in two weeks," I said.
Marcus looked at me. "I know."
"Aunt Sarah's doing dinner. She always does dinner. Turkey, stuffing, the whole thing. She's already been planning the menu, she has this spreadsheet she uses every year with timing for everything."
"That sounds... organized."
"She's very organized. It's kind of her thing." I took a breath. "You should come."
His face did something complicated. "Annabeth—"
"I know it's weird. I know you and Sarah have never interacted for real after my mom died, and she has questions, a LOT of questions, about the whole situation. But she's family. You're family. And I don't want to spend Christmas pretending those two facts exist in separate boxes anymore."
"She might not want me there."
"I already asked her." I hadn't, actually, but I would. Sarah would say yes. She'd be nervous and probably have a thousand questions and definitely pull me aside at some point to whisper-yell about how I'd invited my weird as fuck father to Christmas dinner, but she'd say yes. Because she loved me. And because she understood, on some level, that I needed this.
Marcus was quiet. I watched his face, trying to read it, but he was still so hard to read. Eighteen years of not showing emotion will do that to a person, I guess.
"I'm not good at... holidays," he said. "Or family gatherings. Or being around people in general."
"Yeah, I figured that out."
"I might be uncomfortable the whole time. I might say the wrong thing. I might just sit in a corner and not talk to anyone."
"That's fine. You can be uncomfortable. Sarah will probably talk enough for both of you anyway." I leaned forward. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm asking you to be there. That's it. Just... be there."
He looked at me for a long moment, those red-tinged eyes that were so much like mine when I let the fire out. And then he nodded.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll come. To Christmas."
I smiled. It was genuine this time, not forced, not trying. "Good. Dinner's at seven. Don't be late. Aunt Sarah gets really stressed about timing."
"I'll be on time."
"Bring something. Wine or dessert or whatever. She'll say you didn't have to but she'll be secretly annoyed if you don't."
"Wine. Got it."
I finished my terrible coffee and stood up. "I should go. Kaelen's probably wondering where I am."
"Okay." He opened the door for me, and the cold December air rushed in. "Annabeth."
I stopped on the threshold. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. For... this. For trying."
"We're both trying. That's kind of the point."
He nodded once, that sharp military nod I was starting to recognize. And then, before I could overthink it, I stepped forward and hugged him.
It wasn't like the desperate hug after the battle, all adrenaline and relief and tears. This was slower and intentional. I wrapped my arms around him and felt him go stiff for a second, then relax, then carefully put his arms around me like he wasn't quite sure where they went.
"Merry almost-Christmas," I said into his flannel shirt.
"Merry almost-Christmas, Annabeth."
We stood there for a few seconds, and it was awkward and weird and not quite right, but it was also the first real hug I'd ever given my father. The first one where we weren't running from danger or recovering from trauma. Just a hug. For no reason other than wanting to.
I pulled back and headed to my car. He stood in the doorway watching me go, and when I glanced in my rearview mirror as I pulled away, he was still there. Watching.
And I smiled the whole drive home. This would take long, but I wasn’t in a rush anymore.