Archive of Our Own

The foyer is different.

That’s the first thing Annabeth registers, as she steps inside and onto the maroon welcome mat that is still comically large.

Outwardly, it looks akin to her memories - the floors are still a dark, polished hardwood, the grand staircase still runs up to the second story before her eyes, and there’s still a stately chandelier hanging from the ceiling, glassy beads glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows behind her.

But there’s a different feeling in the air, a hum Annabeth cannot recall. After her brother’s death, everything had turned gloomy and grim; the hallways had felt hollow and cold, the silence of the air thick, oozing and dripping with tension just waiting to be cut.

The iron grip of grief that had clamped around the Manor eleven years ago seems to have subsided, now. It’s life, she realizes, what’s floating in the air - the space is littered with little trinkets livelihood that make it feel more genuine, true.

The morning’s post has been stacked onto the mahogany side table, but the pile doesn’t consist of only gray newspapers and urgent envelopes and bills - instead, there are magazines about dance, a National Geographic and a Vogue, all still wrapped in their plastic covers, too.

The rug she’s still standing on has one of its corners folded over, like someone had tripped over it and not bothered to smooth it back out. There’s a purple bag adorned with pins slung underneath the coat rack in the corner. There’s an earthly green hoodie thrown over the railing of the stairs. Clattering and quiet voices echo into her ears from somewhere deeper in the house.

Warmth blooms somewhere in Annabeth’s chest, as she feels it glossing over the memories of the halls emptied of felicity, shaken with whatever woe Jason had left behind in his wake. This is how she wants to remember her childhood home.

She exhales, letting her hand drop from where it was gripping the strap of her duffel, instead letting her arms settle folded over her stomach. She could stand here forever and just take the sight in, stalling what she has come to do. It’s not that she’s scared, per se, it’s just that… Annabeth likes to be in control of her surroundings at all times - sue her, it’s how she survives - and this is very much a situation where she’s at a disadvantage.

What will the siblings she’s never met think? What’ll her older brothers? What’ll her father think? At this poi, they must rationally know she was a runaway (even if they no doubt entertained the hope she hadn’t ran, because it was a different sort of agony to know you’d driven someone close to you away). What will they make of it, her abrupt and impromptu return? Will they think it selfish, how she pops up again after eleven years of radio silence, suddenly eager to push back into a life where her spot was buried years ago?

Annabeth chews on her lip, before locking away that train of thought. The trepidation her mind has supplied her serves no other purpose than to unnerve her, and she isn’t going to chicken out now. That would make her a quitter, and you can call Annabeth Chase many things, but a quitter is not one of them. Besides, knowing they don’t want her back is a better alternative than the uncertainty nibbling in her chest. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all.

So she steels her mind as she’s learned to do, and starts following the noises like Theseus Ariadne’s thread.

It hadn’t taken long for Thalia, Luke and Grover to deduce just who ‘Annabeth’ was.

“Anna Elizabeth Wayne, huh?” Thalia says to her one night, when the two of them are tending to the fire they’d lit in the fireplace. Their little hideout is run-down lodge somewhere deep in the woods, where they’re staying until Luke’s shoulder heals from the harpy attack.

Anna’s eyes widen in terror, but Thalia is quick to her reassurances.

“No, no, it’s alright," she lifts her hands up as an act of confidence. “I’m not gonna snitch on you.”

Anna stares at her skeptically, tugging the moldy blanket they’d found in the cupboard tighter around her torso. It’s the beginning of summer, but the constant rain for the past two days has left the air cool and everything either damp or downright wet.

“I won’t, Annabeth," Thalia promises, her voice earnest. Anna is inclined to believe her.

She nods, the motion small, but its enough to put the older girl at ease. Thalia breathes out, running a hand through her spiky black hair.

They sit in silence for a while, huddled close together to share body heat.

“Why’d you run away?” Thalia asks, and Anna can sense the caution in her stance. She isn’t prying out of curiosity, but because she wants to hear what she has to say.

Anna picks on her cuticles, watching the bright flames dance before her eyes.

“My brother died," she answers simply. When she looks up, Thalia’s eyes are the size of saucers.

“Sh- Jesus, kid," she says. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Thanks," Anna says quietly, turning her gaze away. It’s nice that she can blame the tears heavy in her eyes on the smoke.

Thalia shuffles the tiniest bit closer. It makes Anna feel a little better. Of course, she’s not telling Thalia the whole truth, but the whole truth is… it’s a lot, and it’s something even Anna herself doesn’t like to wallow in. The loneliness. The feeling of abandon, of being unwanted. Of not being what - or, rather who - was wanted. Jason’s death had just made everything come to a head. It’s easier to think about it like that.

“My brother died, too," Thalia says, her voice suddenly hoarse. It’s Anna’s turn to gape.

“I’m so sorry," Anna echoes back the words said previously by a different mouth.

“Yeah," Thalia says, still raspy. She clears her throat, before continuing. “Or, well, he’s officially missing, but he was two, and…”

Her face scrunches up in what Anna interprets as anger.

“I’m still so mad at my mom," she says. “That she… that she let that happen.”

“My dad blames himself," Anna tells her, offering understanding. “He blamed himself so much he forgot about me.”

The words are sharp, and it feels like they slash her mouth as she says them. It’s not like she likes them, and it’s not how she wants to remember her dad, because she believes in his goodness, somewhere deep in her heart. But Anna has never been in the belief that your loved ones are saints who’ll never hurt you - in fact, your loved ones hurt you more than anyone else ever could. What does hurt her is that she needed him, and he didn’t come. That somewhere amidst all the hurt she stopped being his loved one.

“What was your brother’s name?” Thalia asks gently, her arm snaking around Anna’s shoulders and pulling her into her side.

“Jason," Anna replies. She feels Thalia freeze around her, and when she looks up, there’s a glassy sheen over her gaze.

“What?” Anna asks, suddenly scared she said something wrong, something that freaked Thalia out.

“Nothing," Thalia blinks once, twice, before visibly relaxing, shoulder slumping and jaw unclenching. “It’s just that, uh, my brother was called Jason, too.”

“Oh," Anna doesn’t say any more, but she lets her head fall onto Thalia’s shoulder. The older girl rubs a hand over Anna’s back, and it makes her feel a little better.

“Maybe my Jason is taking care of your Jason," Anna whispers, voice so low she wonders if Thalia is even able to hear her. But the girl suddenly tightens her hold and pulls her closer so that her chin can rest on Anna’s head.

“And I’ll take care of you to repay the favor, okay?” she replies in a whisper. “Family. Promise.”

Anna lets out a shuddering breath.

“Promise.”

Her bed in Cabin 6 is nothing reminiscent of her bed in the Manor. Firstly, it’s a bunk, meaning one of her half-siblings (half-siblings!) is sleeping on top of her, and by the sounds of it, they’re tossing and turning even worse than Dick ever did, which is saying a lot. Secondly, the sheets don’t smell like the detergent Alfred always uses. Thirdly, she doesn’t have Lena to hug. She’s kind of starting to really regret not taking the owl plushie with her.

Especially if she starts thinking about earlier.

Thalia. Thalia who-

Anna squeezes her eyes shut and refuses to think about it. There are too many people in the Cabin to be able to cry discreetly, and the last thing she wants is another set of limbs trying to tend to her needs, pitying and, worst of all, telling her they understand.

Anna fists some of the fabric of her duvet between her fingers, biting down on her lip so hard she feel the skin crack, a coppery taste flowing onto her tongue. She turns on her side and tries to make sense of the pattern of the wooden panels on the wall.

She wonders if she’s cursed. If fate has damned her a lone wolf, never deserving of family. That if she dares to wish for it, the claws of destiny will just pluck another of her loved ones from her in order to teach her a lesson.

Anna swallows the hurt creeping up her throat. What she wouldn’t give for one of Dick’s hugs right now. 

If she could, would that be the end of him, too?

Chiron had asked her name, and she’d told him Annabeth. In private, she’d confided in him after he asked if it really was her name, although he made it sound as if he already knew the answer. He’d then asked her if she wished to be known only as Annabeth at Camp. Anna had told him she wasn’t sure.

She’s sure now.

She goes to Chiron the next day and confirms to him she wants to be Annabeth at Camp.

“Do you have a last name in mind?” Chiron asks her leniently.

“Chase," Anna says, because Dick had once told her that all the Waynes were chasing after something.

“This family chases things," he’d said to her. “Bruce and I… we chase different things, that’s all.”

(It had been after she’d asked about a fight of theirs. Dick, ever the big brother, had wanted to lay it to her with poetic words so it wouldn’t hurt her as much. Of course, Anna had still understood what he hadn’t dared to say aloud.)

Chiron smiles, but before dismissing her, he asks her to write down her family’s phone number. There’s a landline in the Manor, one which’s number her Dad had drilled into her mind when she was barely a toddler, so she writes that down, assuming it’s in case of emergencies (which aren’t exactly uncommon, if what Anna has already learned about being a demigod is true).

Therefore, she is slightly surprised when Chiron folds over the note and holds it out for her to take.

“Just in case," he says with a kind smile. Anna hesitates for a moment, hands twitching, before finally taking the slip of paper.

(Anna hides the piece of paper under her mattress alongside a particular key, vowing to never take it out or look at it again. A few days later, she gets the idea to burn it at the bonfire. She brings the note with her only to find herself unable to cast it into the flames. She tries again the following day, but is met with the same result.

She never burns the note.)

Annabeth’s steps are light against the floor. Stealth is one thing she prides herself at being good at - better than Percy, which is something she very gladly holds over him - and over the years, it’s slowly crept into her casual presence, too. It’s something she can no longer switch on and off.

The sounds - which she is quite certain are coming from the kitchen - grow louder with each inch she moves forwards. The butterflies swirling in her stomach have migrated into her chest, flapping their wings with such force it’s rattling Annabeth’s ribs.

She lets her movements halt for a moment, because she’s pretty sure she isn’t breathing properly. Goddamnit - two Great Prophecies and a trip through Greek hell, and this is what gets her, in the end? She’s glad the rest of Camp isn’t there to witness it: vulnerability isn’t exactly her forté, nor does she want to make it hers.

Annabeth lets herself lean against the wall, taking a moment to assess her surroundings. Will would call it distracting herself from things she doesn’t want to confront, but, lucky for her, Will isn’t there to enact any psychological evaluations.

There are portraits on the walls. It’s something Annabeth used to laugh about, first with Dick, then with Jason, how traditionally rich Bruce could be at times. She’d sat down in too-hot dresses for portraits many times over herself, whinig and unable to sit still.

None of those ones have made the wall, though. It doesn’t surprise her much, nor does it upset her, weirdly enough. As per her research, she is supposedly a sore subject among her family. Rarely spoken of, rarely mentioned, no matter how relentless the press has been about it.

Annabeth takes a step forward to inspect the largest one of them all more closely. It’s one of the whole family (sans for Stephanie, who Annabeth has understood has not been officially adopted), dressed elegantly in impeccably timeless attire.

Carefully, she brings her fingertips over the portrait, feeling every stroke of the paintbrush pressed into the canvas. It smells distantly of the rich oil paints used. There’s an ache somewhere in her core, one she’d rather not dig through right now, so she drops her hand and steps away. A horrible dread settles into her belly - what if they actually don’t want her?

It’s a possibility she acknowledges. A possibility she has preferred to view the whole mission through. A pessimist is never disappointed, after all. But Annabeth doesn’t think that her body has ever really adapted to the thought that they wouldn’t want her back. Not since she made the decision, at the least. There have definitely been bumps in the road.

Regardless, she’s only ever thought of the situation as a reunion.

They’d be stupid to want her back, wouldn’t they? The insecurities she’s turned over in her head for the past decade tumble back into her hands. Annabeth glances back at the painting. Why would they want her, when they’ve built all this without her? She isn’t part of their equation, and likely hasn’t been for a long time.

If they don’t want you, then it’s their loss, Percy’s reassurances from a few nights before float into over marring thoughts, his voice soothing, soft. Annabeth clings to the memory, more desperate than she’d realized. What really matters is that you have people here who will if they won’t. You’ll never end up alone again, Wise Girl.

“Okay," Annabeth breathes out. “Okay.”

Sparing no more thought to the portrait, she trudges on.

For three years, Anna Annabeth stays unaware of what happens with her family. It’s not that she’s deprived of the knowledge, but that she chooses not to know. It’s… easier, that way.

The Waynes make their way back into her life entirely on accident. By that time she’s eleven and already one of the most respected members of Camp. One of Annabeth’s older siblings is holding an arts and crafts class, and they’re painting plates they’d made a few days before.

They’re handed out old newspapers to cover their workstations in case any paint is spilled. Annabeth dutifully lays down her papers over her desk, only to freeze as her eyes catch one of the headlines.

BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE’S THIRD ADOPTION FINALIZED

Heart hammering at ungodly rhythm, Annabeth makes sure nobody sees, before pocketing the article.

She excuses herself to the bathroom half-way through the class, when her patience burns to its bitter end and she can no longer wait. She makes sure the door is locked, before pulling the paper out with shakier hands than she’d like to admit.

Timothy Jackson Drake, whose mother was killed tragically in a car crash and father was murdered by one of Gotham’s many rogues. The neighbours’ kid.

Annabeth stares at the picture featured with the text a little too long.

Timothy’s adoption seems to only be the beginning. Annabeth makes sure to get her hands on every newspaper since then, eyes sweeping over every word in the hopes - or dread - of catching her family name between the lines. The following year, her father adopts Cassandra Cain, a girl of Asian descent with dark eyes full of knowledge. Not long after, he’s spotted at a gala accompanied by a teenage girl with blonde hair and tan skin (Annabeth can’t help but to note the similarity to herself), sparking discourse over who the mysterious girl is. No formal adoption is ever made, but Annabeth would bet her life it’s someone her father regards as his own child.

The next year Damian Wayne appears - her father’s other biological child. Annabeth reads that article over more times than the others, because it just seems so absurd, and yet, when she sees his picture, she almost flinches at the similarity he shares with her - their - father. She can even see bits of herself in the structure of his face: the way his jaw curves, the way his eyes slot into their place.

It doesn’t feel like replacing her, necessarily. Which is odd, considering it kind of is replacing her. But maybe Annabeth just doesn’t have right to feel replaced, not when she left out of her own free will.

Nevertheless, she doesn’t quite know what to make of it all.

(It kickstarts a growing longing in her heart.)

The worst punch comes when she’s fifteen. When Jason…

Gods, she can’t even think about it without choking up. When Jason returns.

SECOND WAYNE SON ALIVE

That’s the headline for the article she finds it out from. The words run on loop in her head, repeating themselves to the point she afraid she’ll start reiterating them in her sleep.

The official story is that something left without mention placed Jason in mortal danger, so he was sent abroad in witness protection. That now, after seven years, it’s safe enough to announce his proper return.

Annabeth doesn’t believe a single word of it. Not with her family being… well, a band of nighttime vigilantes. Even if she didn’t drabble much in her family’s downstairs business, she aware enough to know not even miracles were out of question for them.

She feigns illness and stays in bed for two days afterwards, the cut-out of the article wrinkling and ripping over constant reading over. Annabeth stares at the picture depicting undoubtedly her older brother, despite the gained height and muscle. There’s a lock of pure white in his hair that reminds her of the twin strands of gray she and Percy still share after their encounter with Atlas. And his eyes are more green than the blue she’d remembered them as.

It’s a puzzle Annabeth has to restrain herself from analyzing. She can’t burrow herself into… that, not with Luke and Percy and the actual end of the world being possibly at hand! Fun times - Annabeth would rate it a perfect ten out of ten!

(She might be minutely on the verge of a breakdown with all that is being thrown her way, but, hey, that’s what being a demigod is, isn’t it? Annabeth is totally fine!)

She buries her face in her pillow and contemplates what her life has become.

Annabeth wonders if she’s a fool. It’s something she’s never questioned before, because, for one, she’s the daughter of the goddess of wisdom, and secondly, because her life has never allowed her to be one. But now, standing just shy of the doorway to the kitchen, she feels quite foolish.

She isn’t entirely certain what’s going on inside the actual kitchen. It’s hard to discern any specific conversations from the cacophony inside, though she can distinguish the different voices. Both Jason’s and Dick’s, though both have matured over the years. There’s also one female, one that sounds younger than the rest, and a fourth male one that sounds both tired and exasperated at the same time.

No Bruce, though. Annabeth can’t decide whether or not it’s a relief or not.

Just rip the band-aid off, she thinks to herself, and before her feet grow roots through the floor, she steps forward so she’s visible in the doorway.

At first, nobody notes her appearance. Three people sit on the barstools situated around the large island, all turned away from her. Timothy, Cassandra and Stephanie, Annabeth would wager. Jason’s standing on the other side of the island, by the stove. His back is to her, too. Dick is standing beside him, whisking what she presumes is pancake batter.

That leaves only one sibling unaccounted for. Annabeth’s gaze trails to the left as the fridge door slams shut.

“Richard," Damian declares with the most british accent she’s ever heard on someone who hasn’t even yet hit puberty. “We are out of the blueberry-.”

Damian’s eyes stop on Annabeth, his form immediately growing tense, eyes narrowing.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice icy in attempt to mask his wariness.

“Who’s who, Dami?” Timothy asks from his spot, not even glancing over his shoulder as he takes a sip from his mug.

“Hi," Annabeth says, voice more casual than she feels.

Immediately, five heads whip around to stare. She spares them a quick look - Timothy and Stephanie’s expressions are a blended sort of confusion and recognition, Cassandra just tilts her head quizzically, Jason freezes still and all color washes out of Dick’s face - before singling back on Damian. The kid has taken a fighting stance - ready to act in case necessary. Trained, definitely.

Well, Annabeth would expect nothing less.

“I’m Anna," she pushes out the words before they get caught up somewhere in her vocal cords.

At the admission, Dick makes a sound that can only be described as a high-pitched peep.

Damian just huffs.

“That is preposterous," he crosses his arms. “Surely you do not think we’d entertain such a ludicrous idea?”

“Sorry?” Annabeth blinks.

“Can you verify identity?” Damian demands.

It takes Annabeth back, just the slightest bit. Luckily, she’s more than well equipped to dealing with kids his age experiencing issues with trust. Besides, Annabeth can’t exactly blame him for being heedful - she wonders just how many girls have claimed to her name in the hopes of catching a slice of the plentiful Wayne fortune.

“Jason," she turns her head towards her second oldest brother. He tenses up under her scrutiny. “On my sixth birthday, Bruce and Dick started arguing, so you took me up to the roof for the very first time and read The Secret Garden to me. Afterwards Alfred gave you an earful for, and I quote: ‘Putting Miss Anna in danger unsuitable for her age’.”

Jason’s face pales a few shades, but he manages to nod.

“Yeah," he says, voice suspiciously hoarse. “We, uh, we did that.”

Beside him, Dick looks frighteningly close to just fainting on the spot. Timothy’s eyes are wide, coffee mug still clutched between his palms. There’s much curiosity in Stephanie’s gaze, while Cassandra just continuous nibbling on her toast, face eerily devoid of any emotion. Annabeth realizes she’s deciphering her, much like she was previously them.

“That proves nothing," Damian says, though he doesn’t sound quite as sure as before. “An imposter could’ve-”

His words are cut off by the sound of Dick collapsing.

The first person she tells her true identity to after Chiron is Percy.

It happens four years after the day she first arrived at Camp, in the Sea of Monsters, after… after the sirens.

He doesn’t push, but his curiosity is practically palpable. So Annabeth concedes the secret to him.

She tells him about Dick, and Jason, and running away, and Thalia, and changing her name. She explains it to him, point to point, why she is doing what she’s doing. For Percy’s credit, he only interrupts her once, to ask if her brother’s name is actually Dick (Annabeth punches him (lightly) on the shoulder for that). Otherwise he listens, and then he asks if he’s allowed to hug her. No follow-up questions, though they must be killing him, no nothing. Just a hug.

She nods and he wraps his arms around her and Annabeth lays her chin on his shoulder and suddenly the tears are renewed. They’re more graceful then her previous ones, more salty streams down her cheeks than ugly sobs.

It feels good. The crying or the admission, Annabeth isn’t sure.

Annabeth lays in her bunk, the same one she’s slept in since that first night at Camp, and unable sleep just the same. There’s a crumpled piece of paper in her fist, one that’s eight years old and has spent most of those years under her mattress.

It’s too dark to see the smooth lines of the pencil, but Annabeth doesn’t need to. She knows the string of numbers by heart.

Annabeth has never been prone to homesickness, but now there’s a burning lump of it in her stomach, making her feel feverish and all too cold at the same time. An insatiable longing has settled into her bones, an unsatisfied to feel her brothers’ arms around her again, to hear her father’s words, to walk the halls of her childhood home. She misses Gotham in all her direness, misses the memories located in the undeniably wretched city - at least the good ones.

Annabeth is sixteen today. She’s been away from home longer than she ever was there.

And now she wants nothing more than to walk to the Big House and dial the correct numbers in order, to hear the familiar click as the call is answered.

She turns on her side, furiously pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. She can’t. She can’t. Not when there are bigger things at play. Not when Percy is so close to sixteen. Not… not yet.

Yet. It’s a scary word, but Annabeth catches it, clasps it delicately between her palms. Yet. It’s almost a promise. It is a promise.

If we make it through this, she thinks, I’m going to call them.

“Happy Birthday, Anna," she whispers to the dark.

No one hears, and no one answers.

They make it through. Percy turns sixteen and doesn’t raze Olympus. Luke… well, Luke happens. Annabeth doesn’t want to dwell on that. What she does want to dwell on is the fact that the sun is setting, and it will rise again in the morning.

Somewhere between all of it, recouping after tremendous loss and celebrating victory, Annabeth tells Percy about her hopes to reconcile. He smiles against her mouth and tells her he supports her.

It feels good, to have someone unquestionably on your side.

Percy goes missing, and all of Annabeth’s plans swirl down the drain and into the abyss.

“Do you think we’ll ever make it out of here?” Annabeth asks, voice almost shy. It’s not a question to be voiced aloud, not in Tartarus, but she can’t help it. All her boundaries have not only been pushed, but stretched to their very limit. She’s like a rubber band pulled too taut, ready snap at any given moment.

“We have to.” Not we will, but we have to. Annabeth squeezes her eyes shut, her whole body aching, in pain.

“Hey, hey," Percy notices and tightens his hold of her hand. “We won’t die in this place, I promise.”

Promise. Annabeth would’ve laughed were she any less exhausted. Because promises have always equated to good things in my life.

“What about your family?” Percy inquires, his tone weary but the words doing their best, all that they can. “You’re gonna have to make it out to see them.”

“I don’t know…," Annabeth coughs. “I don’t know if they’ll want to see me.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

“You don’t know them. After what I did…," Annabeth gulps. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t.”

“Do you want to see them?” Percy asks.

“I-," she hesitates. “Yes.”

Annabeth is too tired to try to twist the truth into something less painful.

“Then it’s worth the try," he assures. “C’mon, we have to get out of here so you can see them.”

“Okay," Annabeth whispers, too quiet for anyone but the toxins in the air to hear.

She squeezes his hand and they trek on.

“Fuck," Jason says (surprisingly casually), managing to catch his older brother by the armpits as he crumples.

“Did he just faint?” Stephanie asks, Cassandra giving a slow nod.

“Should we throw a bucket of water on his face?” Timothy suggests, clearly not overly concerned.

“Just put his feet up and he’ll be fine," Annabeth remarks, leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. Her legs feel a little wobbly, now that her existence is, you know, out there. Her adrenaline levels must be crazy.

Five pairs of eyes stare at her blankly.

“What?” she asks with a frown.

“That helps?” Timothy asks. It’s Annabeth’s turn to stare.

“Yes?” she says dubiously. “Gets more blood, and thus, oxygen, flowing to the brain. Aren’t all of you literally vigilantes? Shouldn’t you know this?”

“What?” Timothy says in tune with Stephanie’s, “You know about that?”

Annabeth is starting to question her family’s wits as she tries to comprehend the implication of their reaction.

“I lived in this house for six years," she says slowly. “You think I… didn’t know?”

“B said you didn’t," Stephanie says defensively.

Jason barks out a laugh, lowering Dick to the floor and maneuvering his feet so that they’re propped up against the cabinets.

“Of course she knows," he says. “I don’t know why we’d ever assume otherwise. Anna was always smarter than all the rest of us combined. At six.”

He looks up, and there are more emotions swirling in his eyes than she can count. It suddenly occurs to her how surreal this must be to him. To all of them.

“Don’t disrespect Alfred like that," the corner of Annabeth’s mouth curls up. “Don’t you know better?”

Jason narrows his eyes at that.

“Okay, this is Anna, alright," he says, leaning on the countertop and managing to somehow look conniving.

“I would like to point out, Todd, that we have not established so as of yet," Damian states, foot tapping against the floor. A nervous tic, if Annabeth’s ever seen one. Under all his bravado, Damian is uncomfortable.

She’s suddenly struck with the understanding that this boy shares her DNA.

“And I would like to point out that Blondie is quite literally med school," Jason retorts, turning his attention to Stephanie. “Why the fuck haven’t you informed us of this before?”

He gestures to Dick’s unconscious form.

“They didn’t cover it in our classes!” Stephanie exclaims. “Though now that I think of it, it makes sense.”

She gazes into the void with a pensive expression before shrugging. “The more you know.”

“Yeah, speaking of ‘the more you know’," Timothy finally puts his mug down.  “Damian’s right. We can’t just assume you’re Anna Wayne because you say you are.”

“Yeah, I figured," Annabeth says dryly, spreading out her arms. “What do you want? Hair, saliva, blood? The key I used to open the front door? For me to spell it to you?”

Timothy glances to his side, before nodding.

“Yes, actually.”

Annabeth blinks. What? “What?”

“Tell us you’re Anna Elizabeth Wayne," he says, and there isn’t an ounce of playfulness on his face. He is dead-serious.

The silence is expectant. This is a test, Annabeth thinks, the wheels in her head spinning around. A test of what, that’s the question.

When you don’t know what is expected of you, the most sensible thing you can do is stick to what has been stated, and so, Annabeth decides to swallow her confusion and resolve to just doing it.

“I’m Anna Elizabeth Wayne," she says simply. The words are as plain as they get, because the statement is as plain as it gets. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Annabeth is Anna Elizabeth Wayne.

“She’s telling the truth," Cassandra speaks up, all eyes suddenly diverted to her. Her gaze is still intently burning into Annabeth’s skin, but there’s a warmth in it now. Acceptance, perhaps.

“See, I told you," Jason throws his hands up in the air. “Why does nobody ever listen to me?”

“Because your ideas are usually terrible," Timothy says unapologetically. Stephanie snorts.

From the floor, Dick makes a noise. Jason nudges him with his foot.

“Wakey wakey, Dickiebird," he sing-songs as the older man stirs.

“Jay?” he asks, voice slurring only the slightest bit as he blinks his way back into consciousness. “Why’re my feet up?”

“Because our darling sister here has just informed us it’s good for if you faint," Jason says. “It’s actually pretty remarkable - Anna’s been back for exactly five minutes and has already proved herself more useful than everyone else has in years.”

At the mention of Annabeth’s name, Dick’s eyes widen and his gaze frantically ricochets around the room. She takes a tentative step forward, earning a glower from Damian.

She glares back, earning a whispered: “Oh my god, she looks exactly like B when she does that," from Stephanie.

It seems to also shock Damian, who can’t quite manage to filter out the falter in his expression.

“Anna?” Dick breathes out, brittle hope twisting his features. It makes all sorts of long-repressed emotions bubble right to the surface, and Annabeth feels something crack in her chest.

“Long time no see," she says, though the last syllable of the sentence trails off as a whisper.

Then, quicker than Annabeth can fathom, there are arms around her, squeezing her so tightly she’s certain there’ll be bruises on her ribs the next day.

It’s hard to ascertain what Dick’s saying amidst his incessant speech, but she finds she doesn’t quite care. Annabeth can’t stall the tears, not anymore, so she hides her face in Dick’s shirt, mumbling an apology for getting it wet.

She sniffles, lifting her head up so that she can see something other than the fabric of his shirt. 

“Good to know the hugs haven’t changed," she says, voice slightly distorted just by how tight she’s enclosed in her brother’s embrace.

“Yeah, strangle her while your at it," Timothy nods to Dick. “Good plan!”

“Shut up," Dick says, voice muffled. “I’m cashing in on eleven years worth of hugs.”

“C’mon, Dickhead, you’ve had your turn," Jason says impatiently. Dick lets Annabeth untangle herself from his hug relatively reluctantly, so she gives her an apologetic smile in return. Something flashes on his face, and she’s half-certain it’s enough to renew his tears.

Hugging Jason isn’t as intense, but it feels like coming home all the same. Annabeth sighs contently as she wraps her arms around his warm and solid chest, relishing in the feeling of being small once in her life. It’s a selfish thought, at its core, and an odd one at that, too, because Annabeth loves being in charge. Loves the authoritative position she holds at Camp, loves the way people turn to her and trust her with solutions, loves the way she’s regarded as a good choice to ask for help because of her experience.

But sometimes it’s good to know she too has someone to turn to, when things get overbearing and just too much. When the responsibility threatens to break her back and leave her cold and shivering and alone.

She doesn’t feel cold now.

“For the record, I’m super mad at you," Annabeth mumbles. “For fucking off and dying on me.”

Jason lets out a quick laugh, but grows serious soon after.

“I’m sorry," he says, low enough only for her to hear.

Annabeth manages a nod.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“What’s going on?”

Jason stiffens against her, the way his arms are looped around her suddenly becoming more protective. He’s giving her a choice, Annabeth realizes. He can and will shield her from this encounter if she wants so. He’ll let her escape what will unquestionably involve an array of strong emotions.

“B," Timothy says, voice hesitant. Annabeth closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

This is why she’s here, after all. Just rip the band-aid off.

She steps away from Jason, feeling bared to the bone without the heat of his body steadying her.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I’m going to Gotham," Annabeth says, shutting the door to Percy’s room behind her.

Her boyfriend looks up from his current project - building a LEGO set entirely without her help - and raises his eyebrows.

“Like… now?” he asks, a little baffled. Frankly, it’s endearing, the way his brows knit together.

“Yes, now," Annabeth deadpans. “Call Nico and tell him I need him to shadow travel me there.”

Percy opens his mouth before closing it. He looks like fish doing so. An adorable fish, but a fish, nevertheless.

“I- uh, okay?” he starts getting up from the floor.

“I’m kidding," Annabeth laughs, before growing solemn again. “But… soon.”

Percy stares at her for a moment, something soft in his eyes.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes," Annabeth breathes out, and gods, it feels good to admit it out loud. “I am.”

He opens his arms and Annabeth melts into the embrace wordlessly. They stay like that for a little while, on the floor and propped against Percy’s bed.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks carefully, hand rubbing up and down her side.

“Tingly," she replies. “Like there are a thousand ants crawling under my skin.”

Percy laughs silently. “That’s just a posh way of saying you’re nervous.”

Annabeth swats him fondly on the arm. Percy’s fingers find her hair and start untangling a knot she hadn’t realized was there.

“What if they don’t want me?” she questions after a moment.

“Of course they will," Percy says, no doubt in his voice. “You’re amazing, Annabeth. You’re funny, and you’re wickedly smart, and you’re brave, and you’re compassionate, and-.”

“Stop," Annabeth straightens up, putting a hand on his chest. “They don’t… they don’t know me like you do. They’ll just see the girl I used to be. I’m not her anymore.”

Percy’s right hand comes over to cover hers.

“And if they want her," Annabeth continues. “And not me, then...”

There is no word to describe what she means, so she just shrugs helplessly.

“Annabeth," Percy’s voice is kind but firm. “Listen to me. If they don’t want you for who you are now, then they’re assholes and not worth your time.”

She lets out a wet laugh.

“If they don’t want you, then it’s their loss," he says. “What really matters is that you have people here who do. You’ll never end up alone again, Wise Girl.”

“Yeah," Annabeth bites her lip. “I just… I just want them to want me. Is that stupid?”

“No," Percy says earnestly. “If anyone has the right to want that, it’s you.”

He presses a kiss onto her cheek.

“You deserve it.”

Annabeth nods absentmindedly, sitting back down.

“Thank you," she says, staring at nothing in particular. Perhaps the sway of the curtains in the afternoon wind. “I think you’re the first person who has always been on my side.”

Over the years, Annabeth’s feelings towards her father have always been contradictory.

There are the good memories, of course. The ones that drove her back after a decade. But then there are the bad ones, too - the ones that kept her away for said decade. They’ve always been at a tug-of-war, a push-and-pull she never quite learned to manage by herself.

Eventually, the two emotions had learned to coexist in her heart at the same time. There had been times when she’d felt nothing but disdain when thinking of him, and times when all she could think of was how much she wanted to go back to him. Times when the two overlapped, when she hated what she longed for.

And yet, all of it washes away, leaving in its wake only fear, when she finally does see him again. No, fear isn’t the correct word for it, because Annabeth has been truly afraid during her life, and it doesn’t feel like this. This feeling is more anxious, more uneasy. She doesn’t feel afraid, but uncomfortable in her own skin. She deters the urge to squirm.

And so she does what she always does when uncomfortable - distracts herself.

The outfit Bruce is wearing can only be described as relaxed (if you didn’t take into account it probably cost more in total than most people’s monthly salaries): black polo shirt, light pants and a pair shoes that looked practically brand new.

His features had sharpened over the years, and Annabeth was shocked by just how much the similarity there was between him and Damian. His dark hair wasn’t quite as intensely dark as it had once been, and there were lines telling of his age indented onto his skin. The only thing that had remained wholly unchanged through eleven years worth of time was the striking blue of his eyes.

It was something Annabeth had felt insecure about, when she’d been a kid. Despite sharing no blood, both her brothers and father possessed blue eyes eerily similar. With her own being gray and colorless as they were, she’d always felt a little bit like an odd one out.

“Anna?” Annabeth can’t discern the tone of his voice, nor the expression on his face. It’s been too long - she can no longer tell apart Bruce’s gestures and habits, not with so much time having passed. It… saddens her more than she could’ve imagined.

“Yeah," the word escapes out of her mouth with a breath. “It’s me.”

Annabeth realizes, that somewhere in the back of her mind, she’s pleading and begging. Please, please, please, say that you want to have me back. Please, don’t walk away. Please, let me be your daughter again. Please-

Before she can finish the thought, strong arms encompass her. Before her brain catches up, her body reacts, and she wraps her arms around her father’s neck, clinging onto him like she’s five again.

“Anna," he murmurs. Annabeth buries her face in his neck, tears restarting.

“You’re here," Bruce says, voice choked, hoarse. “You’re here.”

“I’m so sorry," Annabeth whispers, because she can’t hold back the words anymore. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for not reaching out. It’s a litany of different things she can’t list, but she needs him to know regardless.

“It’s okay," he replies, voice tender, affectionate. “I’m sorry, too. I let you down, Anna. Over and over again.”

Annabeth holds on more rigorously.

“I missed you," she tries to breath through the sobs building up in her chest. “I missed you so so much.”

Bruce pulls away first, but never let’s go of his grip. His hands come to cradle the sides of her face to properly take a look at her.

“Look at how you’ve grown," he says fondly, though his cheeks are damp. “My sweet girl.”

Annabeth smiles at the childhood nickname despite the tears still glistening in the corners of her eyes, and brings a hand to squeeze her father’s wrist.

She holds on tight.