It is normal for infirmary medics to work a night shift.
It is normal for infirmary medics to work a night shift.
Especially if they’re in charge.
Especially if they’re a demigod.
Especially if they’re the most powerful healer in centuries and the Romans — and their war games — are visiting.
“Holy gods above,” Nico shouts, and trudges to the door.
The marble floor is fucking cold on his fucking bare feet (bare, because Solace mutters about his sleeping in boots), the fucking air is fucking frosty on his warmed skin (warmed, because Solace insists on piling his bed with thick blankets), and his fucking sword is far as fuck away in the corner of his dark fucking cabin (far, because of Solace, and his wide, teasing smiles, and his stupid raised brows and prodding questions and teasing dares).
“Fuck this camp and fuck Will Solace,” he announces, wrenching open the door.
“If that is what will make you shut the heck up!” Hazel shouts at his retreating back, pillow jammed over her head. Nico’s face burns bright red as he flees.
It is too godsdamn early in the stupid godsdamn morning for this.
By the stars, it is hardly past two. Not even witching hour. Last summer, Nico wouldn’t even dream of sleeping at this hour. Wouldn’t even consider it. The Nico of last summer would be awake, back straight, boots tied firmly on, sword held in tight, tired hands. Eyes trained on the exit. The Nico of last summer was prepared. The Nico of last summer was battle-hardened and vigilant. The Nico of last summer was badass, and not stomping across the stupid fucking common to the stupid fucking Big House kitchen to get a stupid fucking sandwich because their stupid fucking head medic is a stupid fucking idiot who never, not even once, practices what he preaches.
“I hate him,” Nico announces to nobody. Maybe the harpies. But they steer clear of him, because he used to be cool, and they’re smart creatures, even as they edge the constraints of his death aura and regard him warily.
He really shouldn’t be out this late, flaunting it in their faces.
Whatever. As long as the little kids don’t see and copy him.
He forces himself to soften his step as he approaches the door, wary for all his annoyance at waking Chiron — the harpies may be afraid of him, but the centaur most certainly is not. Not even when Nico threatened a real life zombie apocalypse if he had to clean the stables. (Which stunk. And the zombies in question were no help, because everything is the worst and sucks horribly, and even they were better than Solace, who sat on a nearby rock and laughed himself to tears every time he looked over.)
“I hate him for real,” Nico whispers, still kind of yelling a little.
There is no meal ready in the fridge, which confirms Nico’s theory. He digs around to make sure, shoving aside the Lucky Ranch Of 1998, tossing an empty yoghurt container over his shoulder, and elbowing aside a jar filled with nothing but brine and leftover cucumber seeds.
“Of course I remembered to pack a dinner, you worry too much,” he mocks, in a Texan accent as purposefully offensive as he can make it, “nyeh nyeh nyeh.” He barely manages not to slam the fridge doors shut. “Gods, I hate him to death.”
He stalks over to the pantry and fists a loaf of toast. He holds a butter knife as threateningly as he can manage, glaring at the peanut butter, and assembles a sandwich with his eyes screwed shut and his brain beaming a beacon of hate with enough force to hopefully taste.
“Hate,” he reiterates, then repeats it in four languages just to be sure.
He grabs the plate and stomps over to the infirmary, opening the door quietly because there are sleeping people and he is not a monster. He makes sure to bare his teeth.
Solace, however, does not even startle at the door, and grins brightly at the sound of him. Nico’s eyes ache from the strain.
“Neeks!” he calls, in a poor attempt at a whisper. Nico’s heart immediately softens.
“Absolutely fucking not,” he tells it.
Will pays his muttering no heed. Instead, he beelines for the sandwich, taking the plate in hand and beaming even brighter, somehow.
Spots dance in Nico’s vision.
“You made my favourite!” he exclaims over mouthfuls of peanut butter, which is disgusting. Nico is repulsed by him and his total disregard for manners and tact and etiquette and also Nico’s heart problems and reputation.
“I hate you and hope you choke,” Nico responds.
Will’s infernal eyebrows wiggle. He swallows, polishing off the last of the sandwich because he is a gross freak who eats things in two bites and is horrible, and scrunches his nose. His freckles hide in the folds of his tan skin, and it’s so awful that it makes Nico want to punch him. Gently.
Because Solace is bad at hand to hand, and Nico is not a monster.
“Thank you,” he says, and faster than Nico can follow leans forward and pecks a kiss to his cheek. Nico’s mouth opens. Will leans back and grins. Nico’s mouth closes. Will’s grin gets sharper.
Nico turns around and walks away.
“I really do appreciate it,” Will calls, cackling as quietly as he can manage.
Which is not at all quietly, because unlike Nico, Will is a monster and has no issue bothering his sleeping patients. Also, he wouldn’t know quiet and stealthy if it roundhouse kicked him in the face and stole his organs and will die immediately in combat if Nico isn’t there to protect him. Because he is stupid and Nico hates him.
And his stupid fucking melodic fucking laughter.
“I hate him,” Nico seethes to himself, and dashes back to his stupid fucking cabin.
Hazel laughs at his burning face until she chokes.